91
Lillian
Monochrome Stoplight greets us like we’re already friends. Liv James hugs me and I’m sure she can feel my heart hammering. With her boots, she’s tall like Cyprus. Tall like the perfect height to hug you. Even the way she opened the door was perfect. And the texture of her speaking voice has this unbelievable timbre.
Before I can bury Monochrome Stoplight in questions about themselves, they start asking about us. How’d we get the band name, how long we’ve been together, our band history, our everyday lives.
Quinn’s got someone laughing and Liv James and Cyprus are standing with their heads together comparing something on their phones, probably promoting up a storm. Their guitarist says she wants to see my pedal setup and I start going on about the new pedal Sasha got me.
The side door opens. That should be them coming back.
“Sasha,”
I say over my shoulder.
“Veyda wants to know where the hell you found that pedal. She’s been looking everywhere.”
But it’s Emelia. She looks the way she looked before we broke up. She’s carrying bad news, and she’s scared how I’ll take it.
“One second,”
I say, even though I’ve never been in a conversation I wanted to stay in more. I’m keeping everything smooth, being a professional opener.
Emelia doesn’t even wait for me to reach her or talk in hushed tones.
“Sasha’s gone,”
she says. Now I see Sasha’s phone in her hand.
“They said it was time, and they were crying, and they asked me to sing for them. They’re gone.”