21. lowercase
TWENTY-ONE
LOWERCASE
Cade
I didn’t think it was humanly possible to be as terrible at working a merch table as Ruby was—but you learn something new everyday.
Last night, she sold out of the tote bags. It sounds exciting—until you find out she didn’t sell them, she was putting every purchase in one, like some sort of free gift. Rather than getting sour with her, I’m going to laugh it off—it will make a pretty good “remember when” story for the band someday. I don’t know how big of a loss the bags were, but we very well could have hundreds of walking Tryhard billboards in Spokane now.
Other than the merch mishap, night one in Spokane was a success. We got into town in time to do a small acoustic set at a coffee shop before we had to be at the venue for soundcheck. We met a few groups of fans—some local to Spokane and others who drove in from the smaller, more rural towns of Eastern Washington. Even though it’s something I’ve always dreamed of, I never thought we would have people driving multiple hours to see us.
I shake my head as I walk up the grandiose front steps of the giant white house in front of me. What the hell am I doing? I reach the front door and before I can ring the doorbell, it swings open. Two blonde girls I’ve never seen before greet me, squealing. They grab me by the wrist and pull me inside their entryway.
“Um, I’m looking for—” Shoot, what are their names again? Think, Cade, think .
“Bree and Liv?” one of the blondes asks.
“Uh, yeah,” I confirm, although I’m still not convinced those are the names of the girls I met last night. After the show, I was bombarded by a group of sorority girls who came up from the college town we’re playing in tonight and they said they were driving out to all of our shows this weekend.
And that is how I, Cade Walsh, college dropout and wannabe rockstar, wound up here—standing in the middle of the “formal living room” of their sorority house. What can I say? A house tour sounded like a great way to spend my morning before our show at one of their beloved Greek Row bars tonight. Nobody else wanted to come with me, but I promised the girls I would come. I’ve been told there’s one thing you need to make a good tour great: questionable decisions that make unforgettable memories. And this notably rowdy college town is the perfect place to do just that.
My new friends Bree and Liv lead me up the grand staircase, pointing themselves out in the framed photos on the wall on the way.
“Man on second!” Liv unexpectedly shouts, making me almost trip on the last stair.
“Sorry about that, gotta give everyone a warning so that you don’t scare them, and so you don’t get flashed,” Bree explains. “We’ll probably only see our room, but it’s the best decorated one anyway, so you’re not missing out or anything,” she continues, leading us down a narrow hallway lined with colorful bulletin boards.
We reach the end of the hall and they push open the door decorated with photos of Bree, Liv, and the six other girls who share their room. My eyes immediately land on a cardboard cutout of Harry Styles in the back corner.
“I need a picture with that.” I chuckle and pass my phone to the girls.
Once I’m standing side by side with Harry, I have a better view of the rest of the walls of the room. They weren’t kidding when they said this is the best decorated room—this is a One Direction shrine. The walls are covered in teen magazine posters—even the lone bed in the room is covered in a freaky comforter with the band members’ faces on it. For a moment I wonder if I’m sleeping and this is all a product of my dreams. What are the odds I could convince the guys to do a full One Direction cover set tonight? I can at least get them to do one song.
The first thing I do when Bree passes my phone back to me to look at the photos is open up my texts with Halle. She needs to see this, she’s going to love it. I add the photo and when I see my unanswered texts lingering above the new message, my mind goes blank. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, I start to type, then erase, type, then erase a handful of times before closing out of our thread and shoving my phone back into my jean pocket. As much as she might think the photo is fun, I don’t think she wants to hear from me. I need to give her space.
“So, you all aren’t on Spring Break right now?” I ask them, hoping to start a conversation that will take my mind off Halle.
“Oh, we already had ours last week!” Liv answers. “You have friends on break right now or what?”
Her question leads my mind right back to Halle. Mission failed. “Yeah, something like that,” I mutter and start walking myself out of their room, ready to get on with the rest of the tour.
They lead me through a maze of long, narrow hallways, and more staircases than I could count. As we pass each room, they spout off fun facts about the history of the house, but I don’t pay enough attention to remember.
“I promise this is the last staircase,” Bree laughs out as we climb upward from the basement level. We reach the top and we’re back in the entryway, but I have no idea how we got here. Either the house has a confusing layout, or I was too busy thinking about something, or someone else. Or both.
“Are you sure we can’t get you anything? We could get you coffee or some breakfast from our kitchen if you want,” Liv offers.
“That’s alright, I spotted the coffee shop down the street and I don’t want to take up any more of your time either. I’ll see you both tonight, yeah?” They’ve been lovely, but I need to get out of here.
They eagerly assure me that I will be seeing them not just tonight, but tomorrow in Portland and the next night in Seattle, too. Maybe I should ask them if they want to work the merch table—they surely can’t be worse than Ruby.
Making my way down the front steps, I let out a deep breath after I hear the door click shut. Now how about that coffee? Some caffeine should pull me out of this grouchy mood I’ve fallen into this morning.
Walking through Greek Row alone, I imagine what this trip would be like if it went as planned—if Halle was here with me. A dull ache thrums through my chest as I picture us walking hand in hand to get our morning coffee, where we’d sit across from each other gushing over the previous night’s show. She’d show me whatever photos she managed to take whenever she had a chance and tell me stories about any memorable fans that bought merch, and I’d be the happiest man alive sitting across from her, watching her eyes light up as she recaps the night.
But, no. Instead, I’m alone. Counting my steps between cracks on the sidewalk to pull my mind off her. It doesn’t really work, the image of her feet falling next to mine, blonde hair in my peripheral, and the sweet sound of her laugh echoes in my mind.
But at least I’m trying.
I swing the coffee shop door open, and am instantly met with the scent of hot espresso and cinnamon, and the sound of indie rock playing softly through speakers lining the corners of the quaint space. If I was able to be at peace when left alone with my thoughts, I think I could spend hours here with no complaints.
The barista who takes my order is the most stereotypical looking barista I’ve ever seen. While I wait at the pickup counter for my drink, a few familiar faces waltz through the door. They don’t know how much they are going to spare me from wallowing in here alone.
I find a table big enough for Ruby, Beau, and Claire to sit with me, and plop myself into one of the wooden seats while they finish up ordering. Ruby joins, sitting across from me and tossing her (very fitting) ruby red purse on the seat next to her, all the flashy key chains she has on it jingle and clank when it meets the hard surface.
“Have you ever considered being quiet,” I spit out, harsher than I meant to.
She scoffs at me, then dishes it right back. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“I was only joking.” I offer a smug smile. “But since you mentioned it, can’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed if you didn’t sleep in the first place.” Just as I’m saying it, I notice Beau and Claire leaving. “You’re not leaving with them?” I point at the door.
She glances over her shoulder, and when she looks back at me, she laughs in my face. “What, don’t want to be stuck with me?”
“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” I reassure her. “You came with them, that’s all,” I add.
“That’s all?” She raises her eyebrows at me.
I shrug my shoulders and take a sip of my coffee, the sweetness sending a chill down my spine, reminding me that I’m drinking Halle’s usual.
“Thinking about her, aren’t you?”
“Every second.” I let out a deep breath, and lean back into my seat to get more comfortable. Ruby and I haven’t talked much before, but for some reason I feel like I can spill everything to her. “I just wish I knew what I did wrong, or what I could say to her to fix it. I know it sounds silly, but I keep waiting for her to show up to save the day and sell her merch, no offense. I’ve almost texted her about a hundred times, but can’t work up the courage to hit send. It’s never been this hard to talk to her. I want to give her the space she needs, but I also don’t want to go another day without saying anything. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking all of this. I should just text her.” I pause my emotional ramblings, mostly to catch my breath, but also so Ruby doesn’t think I’m crazy. “What would you do?” I nervously swirl the straw around my cup.
“Oh, trust me, you do not want relationship advice from me,” she jokes, then says, “but, I think texting her is a great start.”
Just what I needed to hear.
I hand my phone over to her, open to my messages with Halle so she can assess the damage—although, I’m sure she already knows what we’re working with. She stares blankly at the screen before getting up and gathering her stuff as if she’s leaving. Don’t tell me I’ve made her want to run away too.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” She stares back at me, a confused look on her face even though she’s the one being confusing.
“You look like you’re leaving.”
“ We’re leaving.” She turns on her heel, takes a few steps toward the door, then looks back at me over her shoulder. “Remember, Mr. Rockstar, I like to walk and talk.”
So demanding , I think as I hurry to get up and follow her. And there she goes with that nickname again. She makes it out the door before I get more than a few steps away from the table. What is her deal?
On my way out, my eyes land on a hanging basket filled with postcards next to the door. “Take me, I’m FREE,” the piece of paper taped onto the basket reads. I grab one, and my heart sinks thinking of Halle as I read the message on the print—“Greetings from Pullman, WA—wish you were here!” Ain’t that the truth . I bask in the mental agony of missing her for a moment, but then something clicks in my head, like someone turned the light on in there, showing me exactly what I need to do.
It’s Halle’s voice I’m hearing. Tote bags and handwritten notes, she’d say. Her voice is like honey, it’s so sweet and smooth; I’m so addicted to it, I hear it even when she’s not around. I reach in the basket for another one, just in case.
Postcards in hand, I swing the door open and run down the street until I catch up with Ruby.
“I can’t text her,” I tell her through short breaths, then slip the extra postcard into her hand.
At first she looks disappointed, but then I see her eyes widen and the corners of her lips lift to a smile as she comes to the same realization I had.