Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
I don’t say anything or even look at Hendrix. I’m not about to play his dumb game. I do look at Dana and give her a pointed look. She needs to tell this guy how she feels, once and for all, so we can have some damn peace. I’m not about to spend months on the road with these two pussyfooting around their feelings. I have those problems on my own.
Excusing myself, I brush past everyone who is standing around, afraid to say or do anything because of Hendrix’s attitude. Right now, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but I won’t put up with it.
Downstairs, I make myself a cup of espresso and go sit by the driver. I’d rather talk to him, since the guy probably doesn’t know shit about my life, than deal with my bandmates right now.
EIGHT
The tour feels longer this time. It’s as if the road continues to stretch out in front of us, with no end in sight. I’ve lost count of how many days I’ve sat at the front of the bus, getting to know Canson, the bus driver, listening to him tell me about his life while the air shimmers in front of us, making it look like the road has disappeared. I know it’s all an optical illusion because the shimmer moves, keeping the same distance no matter how many miles we travel.
So many miles. Each one passing in a blur and keeping time from moving faster than at a snail’s pace. I feel like I’m stuck in a loop: wake up, play my guitar, take a nap, play my guitar, drink coffee and more coffee, play my guitar, take another nap, perform.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
The days drag with no end in sight. We’re in the desert, where it’s hotter than anything I’ve ever experienced. The sign for Phoenix brings back a flush of memories.
The woman who gave birth to me lives here, along with her daughter. Neither of whom needs any other classification, unless it’s something derogatory I can’t bring myself to say.
I don’t want to be here. What if they’re at the show? At the meet-and-greet? Then what? My sister isn’t here to protect me, not that I need her to, but I do need her expertise and professionalism if I have to confront those two people. I should’ve reminded Elle of this when I saw the city and state on the tour list.
Will Nola be with them? Was our relationship nothing but a joke to her? Was I nothing but a financial means to satisfy some sick, twisted agenda? She was friends with the daughter. I didn’t know this until I’d already fallen for Nola. I’ll never understand why I didn’t think this was a red flag and stay far away from her.
But I didn’t and now look at me. I’m wearing her engagement ring around my neck and carrying around this scrap of paper, unfolding it so often that the creases are starting to tear and the ink is fading. The words are etched in my mind but seeing her handwriting and her first name there—not the nickname she desperately wanted to be called when she came to Los Angeles—has an air of finality to it. I won’t believe it. Not when she told me to call her when I got to town.
No, I refuse to believe those thoughts. Nola loved me.
Loves.
Again, with the finality of everything. Why isn’t she home, in the house we picked together, dancing around in one of my T-shirts with her headphones on? The questions run through my head repeatedly, but I’ve yet to find any feasible answers.
Ajay stands in the narrow hall, hollering for me. I could ignore him, but then he’ll just continue. It’s a habit he’s picked up from his adorable son. Cute, but annoying.
“What?” I yell back.
“Come up to the lounge.”
I groan, not wanting to leave my comfy spot in the leather chair. It’s almost like it’s mine. Mostly because everyone else has seen me sitting in it, and no one wants to challenge me for it.
Upstairs is a different story. It’s a free-for-all.
“I’ll be back, Canson.”
He gives me a wave and turns the dial of his radio back up. Ajay waits for me at the end of the hall, with a shit-eating grin on his face. I’m surprised his wife and kids aren’t on the tour with us, but also happy they’re not because toddlers are out of control. My little brother is proof. Ollie is a walking, talking hurricane, leaving a path of destruction in his wake. Until he wants love, and then he's a cuddly little boy who has no idea how lucky he is that our mom was in the hospital, loving him when his own mother couldn’t.
After the first of the year, he’ll officially be ours. No more surprise visits from the state or my parents wondering if each time the phone rings or a letter appears, it’s Ollie’s biological parents wanting him back. The state likes to reunite foster kids with their parents, which I understand, but Oliver is ours and has been since he was weeks old.