Chapter 9 #3
“I do. I also play guitar, keyboard, and violin. Well, with any skill, anyway. I dabble in a bunch of others, but those are my main ones.”
“Then you probably sing, too.” She says it like having another talent would be downright offensive.
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, a little. We back Luke up at the live shows.”
“What’s this one?” She holds up the notebook.
A wave of nostalgia washes through me.
“Oh, that’s actually the rough outline for ‘Fourth Chair.’”
While I remember where I was when inspiration struck for most of our songs, that one was special.
We were on a flight to Australia when someone recognized us.
Well, recognized Luke, like usual . The person gushed and gushed and gushed, while I sat right next to him.
It wasn’t until the very end that they turned to me hesitantly and asked if I was in the band too.
The way they clutched the paper they had him sign made it clear they only asked to check if they needed my signature too.
I said no. I was just going to visit my chiropractor in Sydney.
Luke and I laughed about it the rest of the trip, but somewhere along the line, in the sleep-deprived haze of an endless flight, the stereotypical interaction hit harder than it ever had before. I’ve lived in other people’s shadows my entire life.
“Wait, I think I know that one!” Callie says with way too much excitement. It’s hilarious how hard she tries to stroke our egos to make up for not knowing who we were in the beginning. “It’s about an orchestra or something.”
An orchestra. My god. So funny.
I shake my head. “It’s about realizing your dreams don’t always match reality and accepting what is. That the world owes you nothing and will kick you in the face if you live like you think it does.”
Her expression clouds with an emotion I can’t read before she turns back to the pages. I watch her finger drift over the words and notations. Chills run over my skin as if she’s touching me instead.
“ You’re nothing but a fourth chair, baby,” she reads quietly. “Forget the lights, your day ain’t coming. Roses are red but they’re not for you, just remember they die for the first chair too.”
Her smile when she looks up warms me from the inside out. I’m not used to seeing admiration like that when Luke is within reach.
“I thought Luke was the lyric king,” she teases.
I shift on the cushion, not sure where this is supposed to go. I’ve never been here before. “He is. I just happen to have the orchestra background,” I deflect .
“I guess. But apparently, you weren’t very good,” she teases back, and all tension lifts.
Another grin seeps out. For her. For memories that should be painful, but are now just important. That’s what art does. Transforms the scars into something beautiful.
“At organized accompaniment? No. Not at all. My parents withdrew me from orchestra after a couple years, but I’m pretty sure the conductor didn’t give them a choice.
No matter how good you are, you eventually have to fall in line.
I guess I just didn’t always agree with the musical decisions of Strauss and Mozart. ”
She has a first-chair laugh. We should record that and send it to the Label on Friday.
“So you switched to drums and became a rocker,” she concludes.
“Well, it wasn’t that easy of a transition, believe me, but ultimately, yes. My parents were not on board, I can assure you of that.” Understatement. “I was kid number seven, so according to the plan I was supposed to be a concert violinist.”
Her brows lift in supportive indignation. “Really? Then who was supposed to be the drummer in a disgustingly successful rock band?”
I smile back with a quick shrug. According to my father…
Yeah, never mind. That asshole doesn’t deserve even a passing thought in this special moment.
“Okay, your turn,” I say, bringing the conversation back to where it belongs.
She sucks in a breath. Her teeth sink into her lip.
Is she seriously going to back out?
“What? I showed you mine.”
“I know but…”
“Callie.” I blast her with a challenging look, making it clear I’m not backing down .
After a short standoff, she huffs in resignation. “Fine. Give me a minute.”
I’ll give her an hour if she finally opens up and admits to herself the truth about what she is.
“I’m not a writer.”
No, what she meant is I don’t have the accolades and validation of other people.
Guess what. It’s all bullshit. Sure it feels good for a split second, but it doesn’t last. No amount of awards and charts can drown out the screams of self-doubt when they take over.
If anything, the higher you climb, the harder it is.
How do you top the last success? How do you please people who thrive on finding the flaws in others?
It’s a lot easier to surpass expectations when there are none.
Once the bar is set, it’s impossible to jump over it.
I twist back at the sound of shuffling, but it’s not Callie returning with her notebook.
Luke hesitates as if he’s not sure if he should keep moving forward or scurry back into hiding. I swear, he’s become the world’s prettiest, most talented cockroach.
“You can stay, you know,” I say dryly. “I promise not to make you cuddle or talk about your feelings.”
His lips twitch in the slightest arc. “Damn. That’s the whole reason I came out here.”
I smirk, relieved when he circles the couch to drop a few feet from me.
“What are you doing anyway?” he asks.
“Actually—”
“Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh…” Callie shouts from the hallway.
Luke’s eyes widen, and I bite back a snort at what he must think is about to happen.
“Promise not to laugh at what?” he calls back when she steps into view .
She freezes. A terrified look spreads over her face.
Uh-oh.
“Um, nothing…” she mumbles before retreating back down the hall.
I ignore Luke’s utter confusion. We can deal with that in a minute.
“Callie!” I yell after her. “Where are you going? It’s fine! Come back!”
Nope. Nothing.
Well, shit.
“What the hell is going on,” Luke asks, passing a look from the empty space behind us to the well-worn notebook on the table.
“She was going to show me some of her stuff,” I say, more than a little disappointed. I’m dying to know what’s in her head when all the barriers are down.
“Yeah, she writes poetry.” His gaze locks on my journal. “I see you got the bible out. You let her see it?”
I nod and fall back to the cushion with a sigh. “I was hoping if I showed her, she’d open up.”
“I bet it’s good.”
“I bet it is too.”
He snickers. “Guess I’m not her favorite anymore. She never wanted to show me anything.”
My stomach twists with a torrent of mixed emotions. Somehow that makes this situation better and worse at the same time.
Footsteps draw our attention, and Callie reemerges with a terribly executed fake smile plastered to her face.
“Sorry, guys! Just realized I had grabbed the wrong book. Got it now.” She holds up her notebook, and we pretend that wasn’t a flat-out lie. I’m just relieved she’s changed her mind about sharing with us.
“You’re back,” she says to Luke as she joins us on the couch .
His easy smile jars me for a second. No one gets those anymore. “You know me. Just have to pout for a while, then I’m good.”
He waves toward the notebook she’s clutching to her chest.
“So Casey says you’re finally going to let us see some of this mysterious poetry. Gotta say I’m jealous that I couldn’t get a look after a month, and this loser got in after a day, but whatever. Let’s see it.”
She passes another deer-in-the-headlights look between us before staring down at her journal.
With tentative fingers, she pages through it slowly. Her other hand has the cover in a vise grip. For several seconds, I’m afraid she’s going to change her mind and flee again.
“I told Casey this is my private book. Ideas mainly. I clean them up and do the actual writing on my computer.” It comes out like an apology, which only annoys me. No one should ever apologize for their private art.
Besides, it’s not like Luke and I don’t understand the creative process. Does she think we poop out chart-topping hits? No. Every masterpiece was once a brain fart.
But I try to be sympathetic at how hard this must be for her. If you’ve never shared your work before, handing it over to be critiqued by Luke Craven and Casey Barrett of Night Shifts Black is probably not your first choice for a debut.
The thing is, we’re not what she thinks. We’re people too. Artists who worked our asses off to get where we are and who have the ability to meet other artists where they’re at. In some ways it’s easier for us because we’ve been there.
She stops on a specific page. Her jaw clenches as she skims the words, and I can almost see the moment she decides to let us in.
She looks up and scans us in another quick evaluation. I’m more than a little surprised when she chooses to hand the notebook to me instead of Luke. I thought for sure now that he was back in the picture, I’d be taking my place as Fourth Chair again.
I take the journal and reverently stare down at the words.
My breath catches. No fucking way.
Fractured images crash in again.
“This isn’t you, Luke!”
“You don’t think I know the monster I see in the mirror every damn day?!”
“Exactly! That ‘monster’ you’re seeing isn’t you! It’s a distortion! A lie your brain is telling you. Just like Elena ? — ”
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t you dare go there. Not now. Not ever.”
I smother the rest of the memory when my throat closes up. The more I read, the more my heart twists into my stomach.
Every word. Every image. God, it’s exactly what I was trying to explain to Luke that day, but couldn’t. I couldn’t find the words in that moment, but this woman—this virtual stranger—found them hundreds of miles away.
“Holy shit,” I breathe out.
I skim her face in amazement before landing my focus on Luke. Maybe he’ll finally hear what I’ve been trying to say if it comes from her. If it comes like this.
“Listen to this,” I say.