Chapter Twenty-Five #3
Skye had taken her eyes off the crowd to just stare at Remi, at the intensity in his eyes and the rigidity of his posture. She could feel the sureness in his tone and the energy that enlivened him as he talked about music.
“People who like rock music, alternative, metal, whatever—we’re all outsiders to start with,” he said. “Beaten down, ignored, stepped on by everyone else for how we look or think or act. If we aren’t helping each other, what’s the point of coming together?”
He pursed his lips. “It’s like they all forgot concert etiquette.
What’s the point of coming to a concert anyway?
Let’s be honest, it’s not like the sound quality is better than sitting in your room listening on your headphones.
We go to concerts so we can get high on the feeling of being one cohesive group.
When your mind and body sync up with the people around you because everyone is moving together, singing the same words together.
It’s like a religious experience. It’s church for people who can’t get behind a vengeful god who makes rules that say who you are and who you love make you a sinner. ”
Skye took a deep breath and sighed it out. “I literally never wish Jillian was around, but damn do I wish she was filming that.”
Remi’s eyes slid over to her. “Sorry. I got on a soapbox, didn’t I?”
“I liked it,” Skye said. She might not have an emotional barometer for the differences between right and wrong, but she respected that Remi always stood for something.
That his passion manifested as rebellion against the humans who tried to dictate the way the rest of them should live.
Something only outsiders, outcasts, misfits could truly understand and appreciate.
Maybe that was why she was drawn to Remi and his band in the first place.
“My mom used to say that people only get in to music for one reason: either the fame or the music, and the people who are in it for the music are always way more interesting.”
Remi winced and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I don’t think she’d have liked me then.
I’m kind of obsessed with checking our social media followers.
I know it’s bad, but it’s like I can’t stop.
I don’t actually care about being famous, but it feels like I have to be worried about it or I won’t get to a place where I can care only about the music. ”
“Very few people ever get there,” Skye said.
“Being successful in any artistic field means you have to be equal parts ego-driven and creation-minded. Navigating the tightrope between self-absorption and knowing what you’re making is bigger than you is part of why not everyone can do what you do, Remi.
The people who are only in it for the fame actually have an easier time succeeding.
They create half-baked music, say their lines, write their boilerplate novels, mass produce their paintings—all the while they’re dead behind the eyes.
The struggle you’re having is proof that you care, that what you’re doing matters, and that’s what people will respond to.
Trust me. I’ve seen it. I’ve made a lot of bargains with people who only want the fame. ”
The corners of Remi’s eyes turned down, and he blew out a long breath. “Shit, Skye. That was—fuck. Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”
Skye lifted her chin. A warm pride spread through her chest. “You focus on the music, Remi. I’ll focus on the tour, okay?”
He grinned and nodded.
They stared at each other for a second, just smiling, and then some people got between them. Remi grabbed her hand and tugged her out of the flow of traffic.
As they walked toward the next stage, Remi didn’t drop her hand. Skye fought the butterflies rioting in her stomach.
They spent the day that way, walking to each stage, drinking beer, watching people body slam themselves into one another. They regrouped with Liam and Ollie midway through to eat at one of the stands and smoke weed. West had gone back to the hotel to get some rest.
No matter where Remi and Skye went, some part of them was always touching.
Remi’s hand around hers, or Skye leaning into his chest, or slipping their arms around one another.
She couldn’t believe how easy it was, how right it felt.
They talked about their favorite bands and the music they grew up listening to.
Skye shared the stories her mother had told her about making bargains with rock stars in the seventies and eighties, and Remi told her about Tilted Haze’s first gig when he and West were seniors in high school.
As the sky darkened, there were still plenty of shows to see, but they all drove back in the rental car to the hotel so they could rest up for tomorrow.
Remi reached a hand over from the steering wheel to fill in the spaces between her fingers with his long, tattooed ones.
Bittersweet music played on the radio, matching the confusing, unfamiliar sensations roiling in her stomach, but Skye cataloged the memory, burned it into her retinas because the tour would end soon enough and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever experience anything like this again.