Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Ezra
The Hollow hums with its usual low-key energy.
Dim lights, a few regulars nursing their drinks, and the sound of the jukebox playing something old and soulful in the background.
I’m perched on a stool at the bar, nursing a beer that’s gotten warm. I don’t care. I’m not really here for the drink. I’m here to let my mind run wild.
Arlo’s behind the counter, polishing a glass as he watches me with some grand idea brewing.
He leans in a little closer, his gravelly tone cutting through the noise. “So, the band’s been on a bit of an extended hiatus, huh? That’s what’s going on?”
Arlo might be the only person in the world who hasn’t heard of Wild Reverie. He also hasn’t asked me a single question about my life. It’s only today that I started talking to him about it.
I glance up, my fingers fiddling with the beer bottle.
“Yeah, something along those lines. We’ve been recording, but I find myself…
adrift. It’s as though I’m wading through a dense fog, unable to discern the path ahead.
The words, the melody—they slip through my fingers.
It’s like they’re just out of reach, lingering on the edge of something beautiful, but never quite materializing. ”
Arlo raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “From the lyrics you showed me today, you write like poetry. You must be the heart of the band, man. I’m sure you can do it.”
I grunt softly, my chest tightening. “It’s not that simple. The words don’t feel like they belong to me anymore. They’re mere fragments, like broken shards of something whole.”
Urgh, all the happiness I had not so long ago zips away again.
I catch the blank look on Arlo’s face and roll my eyes.
“Look, I can’t just write for the sake of writing.
The words have to carry weight, they have to resonate.
When the music flows, it’s as if a dam breaks, and everything comes pouring through.
But when I’m trapped? Those gates are sealed tight, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t find the damn key to unlock them. ”
Arlo taps his finger against the bar thoughtfully, then chuckles.
“Yeah, alright. I get it. But that seems to be the thing with you, Ezra. You’re overthinking everything.
You’re too busy looking for the perfect words, the perfect song.
What if you just… let it flow? Sometimes the best stuff comes when you stop trying to force it. ”
I can’t help the small snort that escapes me. “Yeah, easy for you to say. You don’t have to live with them every day.”
His gaze sharpens, the smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Vaughn, you’re chasing perfection, and it’s killing your creativity. You’ve got to get out of your head for a bit, let go of the pressure. Just… sing for yourself. Whatever comes.”
I open my mouth to respond, but the sound of the door opening, a gust of cold air sweeping in, cuts me off. I turn, distracted for a moment, but then my attention snaps back to Arlo, who’s grinning wildly.
“Look,” he says, leaning in, “why don’t you and the boys do a live show here?
Just a little one, nothing too big. Get back on stage before the album drops.
You know, something to get you all out of your heads.
A little live music night. What if the energy from a real crowd helps you find what you’ve been searching for? ”
I let out a laugh, but it’s a little bitter. “A show? In this bar? Are you serious, Arlo? This is a small town. We’re not exactly a garage band anymore. We’ve got expectations.”
Arlo shrugs nonchalantly. “Yeah, maybe. But people here love you guys. They’d come out to see you play, even if you’re not at your peak. It’s raw. And sometimes that’s what people need, more than the polished version of everything.”
I mull it over for a second, my mind still clinging to the idea of everything being perfect.
But then it hits me. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps what I need is to strip it all down and get back to the basics.
“Live show…” I mutter to myself, testing the idea. “Could work. Could be just the thing to crack this dam… to break free of this damn block.”
Arlo’s grin widens. “There it is. I knew you’d come around.”
I roll my eyes, but a part of me is starting to warm to the idea. “Alright, alright. But don’t think it’s gonna be some easy gig. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. A sound check, a mic check, a new setlist. Hell, maybe even a new song or two.”
Arlo raises an eyebrow. “A new song, huh? You’ve been holding out on me?”
I pause, scratching the back of my neck. “I have a few things simmering, yes, but none of them have reached fruition. Not yet. I’ve been wrestling with them, searching for some thread to pull, something to give them shape. A little of this, a touch of that, but nothing that feels whole.”
He chuckles again, leaning back. “It’ll come, kid. It always does. You just gotta let the music guide you. You can’t keep forcing it.”
I sit back, my mind already starting to drift through the notes and lyrics I’ve been unable to fully put together. “Maybe… maybe I’ve been trying too hard. Maybe I need to sing what I’m feeling. No pressure. No expectations. Just… raw. Like you said.”
Arlo smirks, a bit too pleased with himself. “There you go. You’ll figure it out.”
I finish my beer, letting the idea of the live show marinate. The more I think about it, the more it could be a way to shake off the weight I’ve been carrying.
It’s been too long since I’ve felt the rush of playing live, felt the energy of a crowd, the pulse of the music syncing with my heart. It might just be the spark I need.
It takes me a minute to push past the mental clutter and head back to the retreat up in the mountains.
My thoughts hum with the idea, the faint melody of a song I can’t quite catch but can already feel taking shape. There’s something about the plan, a live show at The Hollow, that’s calling to me.
It’s a return to the beginning, a throwback to the messy, beautiful craziness of our early days. Back when Wild Reverie was just a spark, playing dive bars with nothing but our energy and the hope that it would catch fire.
We were young, hungry, and reckless in the best way.
I find Creed in the living room, stretching his long legs, deep in the zone of his regimented routine.
He’s the one who keeps the beat, not just for the band, but for his life. Everything is a rhythm to him, as if he’s trying to maintain control over something that’s always slipping away.
He’s relentless in his focus, eyes locked on the floor, his movements smooth and mechanical.
“Yo, Creed,” I call out, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Got an idea.”
Creed doesn’t look up right away, his concentration unwavering. He doesn’t even twitch. But I know he hears me.
After a beat, his head lifts, and his eyes flicker over, giving me the slightest acknowledgment. “What’s up?”
“We’re gonna play a live show,” I say. “Where’s Roman? Let’s talk about it.”
“Roman isn’t here. He left this morning, and I don’t know when he’s coming back to be honest.” Creed pauses, a twitch of a frown forms between his brows. “What do you mean by a show? Like, at a real venue?”
I nod, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips, not quite letting myself fully show the excitement that’s building in me. “The Hollow. Small crowd. Low-key. Just a warm-up gig, really. Get us back into the flow.”
Creed sits up a little straighter, his gaze sharpening. “The bar in town? That’s where we’re starting? We’ve played sold-out arenas, man.”
I push off the doorframe, closing the space between us, my voice dropping into a quieter, more intimate register.
“Imagine it as a return to our roots. A reclamation of that untamed spirit. No extravagant lights, no glaring screens. Just the music, and a crowd drawn by a genuine desire to be part of something real. Do you remember those early dive bar gigs? There was a rawness to it then… a palpable energy, an authenticity that made everything feel alive, Creed.”
His eyes narrow, searching for the hook in my words. “I don’t know, man. You really think it’ll work? I mean, we’re not exactly… fresh-faced kids anymore. I don’t want to come off as some has-beens.”
I laugh softly, the idea already taking root in my bones.
“Who said anything about being has-beens? We’re not chasing fame anymore.
What we’re after is something deeper, something truer.
And that doesn’t require a packed arena, only a crowd that’s there for the music, for the raw, unfiltered sound.
Let’s be honest, Creed. Those drums of yours are calling out for a chance to be heard again.
Let’s reignite the rhythm, the fire, the pulse we had back in those early days. ”
Creed’s silent for a moment, mulling over my words, trying to extract meaning from the tangled web of my flowery ramblings. His eyes flicker with indecision, but something shifts in him. I can see it. A slight shift, but enough. Finally, he exhales, nodding.
“Alright. I’m in,” he says, and the finality in his voice sends a strange thrill through me. “But I don’t know if Roman will agree.”
I grin, because we’ve crossed some invisible line together, one that leads back to where it all began. “Fair enough. I’ll handle him.”
Just as I’m about to speak again, there’s a soft, tentative knock at the door. It’s almost as if the universe knows I’m about to make another big decision, and it’s giving me a moment to pause.
Creed glances up, already standing with that purposeful stride of his. “That’s probably the chef.”
“Oh! I didn’t know we’d hired anyone yet.”
“Ivy knew someone, so it seemed right,” he shoots back with a shrug. “It’s someone with a connection to this town.”
I nod and follow him to the door, eager to meet this new cook who will make our lives a whole lot easier.