Chapter 4 Olive
Chapter four
Olive
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My heart is beating at an erratic pace with no sign of slowing. The ringing in my ears is evidence of the impending panic I feel trying to rise its way to the surface.
If I focus hard enough, I swear I can hear the sound of the galloping in my chest. If I take a step closer to the microphone in front of me, everyone else in the room will be able to hear it, too.
But when I open my eyes, I’m caught off guard by the blinding spotlight shining on me. And when I blink enough times to regain my focus, I realize that nobody else is in here with me.
Nobody else can hear just how anxious I am.
It’s just me, twenty thousand empty seats and…"Alright, give me one song, and we’ll be all set to go," Iggy says.
It’s just me and my sound guy, Iggy.
I nod. "One song. Got it."
I shake away the nerves, swallow the panic, and begin to pluck at the strings of my guitar, hearing the beginning of a song I wrote in my bedroom come to life.
Chills lace my skin, and tears attempt to emerge. But they’re not ones of sadness, they’re ones of pride.
Because while I’m absolutely terrified of what I know is about to come, I’m so proud of myself for coming this far.
My voice rings in my ears, and I take one earpiece out to hear how it would sound to the crowd.
Crisp. Loud. Raw.
Once the song ends, I sigh a breath of relief knowing I gave it the best I could, hoping my best is enough.
But when Iggy has no comment, I freeze in the center of the stage, waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Until my impatience wins out. "How did that sound?" I feel pathetic for even asking the question, but I have a constant need for validation. "Was it okay?" I fidget with the neck of my guitar, careful not to look in Iggy’s direction.
"You know, for someone so adamant that love isn’t real," he says, then clears his throat. I have a feeling I’m about to be grateful that only I can hear him. "You sure do sing a lot about heartbreak. I don’t think you’re as stone-cold as you make yourself out to be."
I can hear the smile in his voice, the sarcasm seeping through every single word he’d just said, but it doesn’t mean his words don’t slice through my core and rattle me from the inside out.
"You didn’t answer my question," I tease to deflect.
"You sounded great."
"Thank you," I say with a soft smile, my heartbeat calming.
Removing my other earpiece, I let them fall down my shoulders as I walk off the side of the stage to where my manager, Josie, is waiting for me.
"Good sound check, Olive."
I nod and smile at her, too. She isn’t paid to compliment me, she’s paid to make sure I don’t screw up. So I know when she tells me I did good, she’s being honest.
"Thanks, Josie," I say, trying to ignore the ache growing in my temples. The one that is screaming at me for not having enough water and sleep, making my brain feel like it’s swimming in a cloud of fog.
But with a job as demanding as this one is proving to be, it’s almost impossible to prioritize your health, no matter how badly your body begs for it.
Way different to the teaching job I had my entire adult life.
I keep telling myself I just need to give it time, that I’ll figure it all out. But how can I figure it out, without knowing what I’m dealing with?
Logically, I know it’s a learning curve, one that I haven’t yet mastered, but now I’m beginning to wonder if time is on my side, or if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. If accepting the offer to go on this tour will end up being a mistake, or the greatest thing I’ve ever done.
"Remember what the label said." My managers words re-open a wound that never fully healed.
"To not be boring? Let my fans see the vulnerable parts of me?
And what was the last one again?" I ask sarcastically. She’s just the messenger and not the person at fault, but it rubs me the wrong way when she constantly likes to remind me of all the ways I need to change just to impress an old man in a suit.
"Oh yeah. They want me to remember that sex is what sells.
" Whatever that means. "In case you couldn’t tell, Josie, I don’t exactly ooze sex appeal.
" I chuckle to myself, though she doesn’t seem to enjoy my humor.
She scrunches up her nose when she takes in my outfit.
Old, black leggings with a hole in the thigh, a Rolling Stones t-shirt with a giant stain from a chocolate lava cake that I heated up and spilled all over myself, and my hair is in what I like to call The Pineapple Bun.
I don’t know when I became such a mess, but apparently, today wasn’t the best time to showcase it.
"You can, with the right stylist. Or, we change your sound. "
I purse my lips together with a tight nod, and take my guitar off my shoulder, before placing it down onto its stand.
"I’m not writing an entire catalogue of new music just to please the label, when the collection of songs I have right now works just fine with pleasing my fans." I shudder.
The word sounds so foreign to me. Like anybody would love my music enough to call themselves a fan.
People like Akira Rain have fans. And with a voice like hers, it’s no wonder they all stuck around when they did.
She released one song when she was younger. Then another, then another. Three of the biggest hits ever to be played on the radio by a teenager, then suddenly…nothing.
Radio silence.
The girl everyone expected to be a superstar dropped off the face of the earth, and nobody knew why.
But then one day, she was back with a vengeance.
Smash hit, after smash hit, no one could deny her talent or success anymore.
"You have this tour to show the label why they should sign you for your album.
If not, you may as well bid farewell to your singing career, and hello to the washed-up music teacher.
" She turns her back to me, her black suit jacket without a wrinkle in sight, her natural blonde hair slicked back and fused to her scalp.
She says music teacher like it wasn’t the best job I’d ever had. As though leaving it behind didn’t feel like I was abandoning a part of my heart, along with the town I miss so much.
You’ve been gone two days, the bird on my shoulder likes to remind me. But how do I leave a place that’s always been my home, not knowing if or when I’ll return?
"You have a bunch of interviews lined up for the next few days, Olive. Don’t book anything unless you get the okay from me. Got it?" She turns, facing me, her tall, thin frame towering over mine, and I nod as though I’m terrified of her, cowering away from authority. "Good."
She continues talking and walking ahead of me, her voice growing so distant that my eyes wander on their own.
Making a mental note of my surroundings, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I swallow hard when I see the Grangewood Creek area code appearing on the screen, followed by a number that isn’t saved in my phone.
That alone is enough to tell me that this is a conversation I was expecting today, but not ready for. I veer left toward my dressing room, watching as Josie carries on talking to herself, not noticing my absence. I close my door quietly, lock it, clearing my throat before I answer.
"Hello?" I croak out.
"Ms. Herring?" A female voice greets me, but it’s familiar. I’ve spoken to her on multiple occasions by now, in person, and on the phone.
"Hi, Annie." I don’t ask how she is, I can’t bring myself to say much else.
"I have Doctor Minton on the line for you. Transferring you now." I hear a quiet beep, then silence, then elevator music, and then the deep tones of Doctor Minton’s voice humming through my ear.
"Olive, glad we got a hold of you. I know how busy your schedule must be right now." He laughs, trying to lighten the mood, but I don’t care to be amused. I just want him to tell me, no bullshit.
"Is it what you thought it might be?" I ask him straight out, not at all wanting to beat around the bush. I want him to give it to me like he would any other patient. I’m not a child, I don’t need coddling, I just need to know the facts so we can figure out the next steps.
"Olive—"
"Is it…what you…thought it…might be?" I ask, my tone is harsher than I intended. He’s been our family doctor since I was a kid, so he knows us all well. He’s trying to lessen the blow, but he should know better.
When I went in to see him originally, I thought it was just a minor cold.
He could prescribe me some antibiotics, and I could get on with my day.
But then I mentioned that I had a strange feeling in my feet, and his eyebrows pinched together, and asked if there was any history in my family of a particular chronic illness.
One I’d heard about in passing, but never felt the need to do research on. When I said no, he almost sighed in relief, but my mind kept wandering back to that particular moment.
I sit down on the leather couch in my room and stand back up almost instantly. I don’t know how to be.
I don’t know what to do.
I pace as I listen to him tell me that my MRI results came back.
That I’m not dying—at least not yet—but I am sick, and can never be cured.
I listen to him tell me that there are many, many treatment options for me, and that medicine has come a long way in the last twenty years, but it doesn’t lessen the blow.
Not even a little bit.
"Olive?" Doctor Minton says, after relaying all the information and getting not even a single word out of me. "People with—"
"Don’t say it. I don’t need to hear it again." I shake my head, wiping the free-flowing tears off my cheeks, thankful that my door has a lock on it and that I’m alone where nobody can see me break.
"Sorry." He clears his throat. "I just need you to know that this isn’t a death sentence, okay? Many people who have…it, go on to lead normal lives. You can have a normal life."
Normal life.
How am I supposed to live one of those now?
How am I supposed to go on tour for the next few months, be away from my family unit, while dealing with this by myself?
I cannot tell them, not yet, anyway.
Doctor Minton goes on to explain in detail all of my treatment options.
Tablets, infusions, injections.
All the side effects that come with everything, and he has my full attention. I can’t afford for him not to.
I don’t have the time to sit and read through every bit of information, only to make the wrong choice.
I need to take in every word, because this is going to be something I deal with on my own.
I can’t have my family worrying about me while I’m so far away, and I can’t have them thinking I’m struggling and homesick on day one.
Knowing Roxanne Herring like I know I do, she’ll beg me to come home so she can wait on me, hand and foot.
But I’m twenty-eight years old.
It’s time I live the life I was given.
And that means doing it the way I now know I need to.
Privately, in the public eye.
I end the call once I know everything I need to know, throwing myself face down onto the couch, when I hear Akira’s signature knock on my door.
It was a little tradition we’d created together on our last tour, and I guess it stuck.
I need a friend right now, but I don’t know if I want one.
It’s a hard line to draw, but I unlock the door for her, and she makes her way in, automatically comfortable in a space that isn’t hers.
My eyes find her lips, and I want her to take it all away.
Even though I told myself what happened on the last night of the tour could never happen again, I want the distraction.
"Is everything okay?" She smiles up at me, her dark green eyes softening when they find mine, and I shake away the thought of her and I crossing that line again.
If it happens more than once, it’ll confuse her, and I appreciate her friendship too much to do that to her.
"Everything is fine."