PROLOGUE
Miles
Friday
They’re supposed to arrive at any moment. We’re about to start composing the instrumental part of a new song for the next album.
I get up and start walking around the studio.
We’ve been renting this place for a few years now, and in this big city, the space between these four walls feels very much like ours.
Finn, the drummer, bought the couch under the pretext that we needed something extremely comfortable, since we would eventually be spending whole afternoons here.
As time goes by, there are cushions of various shapes, blankets, and, from time to time, some slippers that appear and disappear.
On the shelves on the wall perpendicular to the extremely comfortable couch, there’s a plate with guitar picks, a cup filled with pencils and pens, and several used notebooks with musical notes and phrases that go from mind to paper when someone feels inspired.
I still have an old, thin, and frayed black notebook tucked somewhere among the others, one that could go unnoticed by anyone else, but that never lets my eyes pass it by, because my mind never forgot what’s written there on its pages, about a dancing blonde hair and a beaming smile.
For a second, I consider reaching for it, leafing through those words and emotions once attached to them. But I keep walking.
There are quite a lot of photographs scattered around. We officially decided to form a band five years ago, but we already have so many stories to tell that the memories seem to come alive in the pictures I look at. I smile. The three are like family to me.
“You’re here!” Finn enters the room with his two drumsticks in the air.
“Let’s go, guys.” Elliot comes in and sits down at the piano. He’s always the most pragmatic, quickest, and most punctual member of the band. Without him, there’s a good chance that a song that took us three months to write might have taken six.
All of us have our own jobs, and being in the band is our passion project on the side — our second job, our free time, and our extra money. It’s not always easy to align all the schedules, but we almost always accept the gigs we’re hired for.
Asher enters the studio, greets everyone with a high five, and glances at my guitar, holding up his. “I brought my old lady too! So yours wouldn’t feel outdated,” he says, sitting down on the couch with the guitar on his lap, and a mocking look on his face.
Asher is the one I’d known the longest. We met eight years ago in college and have been inseparable ever since.
There is no way life could feel boring, empty or lonely with these three in it.
They’re the guy friends I never had growing up.
The ones you’d call to debate how to ask a girl out when you’re learning to read women’s signals.
And the ones you’d meet after to sigh, because of her or for her.
The ones who’d listen to you and not leave your side until your mind is clear.
The ones who’d call you out when you’re wrong, not to mess with you, but because they’re looking out for you.
And I wish I had been wrong around them in my teenage years.
Elliot plays a chord and we decide to erase the last two. Rewriting the end of a song me and Asher wrote a few months ago.
The afternoon passed between chords and bars, laughter, disagreements, couch compliments, bags of nuts…
And new beginnings.