Chapter 2
The notification arrived like a digital middle finger to my already fragile emotional state.
*Mickey Montgomery has followed you.* "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," I muttered to my empty apartment, staring at my phone screen with that awful wash of a pounding heart, sadness and shame.
Of course he'd already heard. The music industry gossip mill moved faster than bad news in a small town, and apparently my professional humiliation was today's hot topic.
I followed him back with the reluctant efficiency of someone ripping off a Band-Aid, deliberately avoiding looking at his profile more than I had to.
The last thing I needed was photographic evidence of how the years had treated him.
For all I knew, he could be married with a mortgage and a minivan.
Or covered in face tattoos. Or dead, though Lacy probably would have mentioned that in one of her juicy, periodic "guess what I just learned" gossip texts.
The smart thing would be to put my phone away and pretend this wasn't happening.
Instead, I found myself spiraling into the kind of nostalgic masochism that made for excellent songwriting material but terrible life choices.
Mickey in college had been like mainlining pure sunlight.
He had this way of grinning that started at the corners of his mouth and spread until it reached his eyes, transforming his entire face into something holy, godlike.
He'd sneak into my anthropology lectures with contraband Snickers bars and sit in the back row, making faces at me until the professor would glare in our direction.
He got me into every house party, introduced me to musicians who actually took me seriously, taught me guitar chords on his battered acoustic until my fingertips were raw and my heart was completely opened to him.
He looked at me; cranky, feisty, perpetually late, existing on a diet of coffee and weed, and loved me, at least as a friend.
I was with my high school boyfriend all through college so Mickey and I couldn't be anything more than friends.
The memory that surfaced was particularly cruel in its specificity: freshman year, winter semester when everything still felt like playing dress up in someone else's life.
Mickey chasing me across the quad, breath visible in the cold air, pressing an AirPod into my ear so he could share some band he'd discovered.
The way he looked at me like I was the most fascinating person in a world full of boring people, like my opinions on obscure indie bands were matters of life and death.
That version of Mickey had made me feel invincible.
Wilder. Like I could be exactly who I was without apology.
Which made what happened later so much worse.
My phone buzzed with an email notification, providing a merciful distraction from my spiral into emotional self-harm.
The subject line made my stomach clench: "Welcome to The Band Summer Tour - Important Information.
" Wood Martinez, The Band's manager, had sent what appeared to be a short book disguised as a welcome packet.
I skimmed through the usual tour logistics; show times, technical requirements, the kind of professional details that made touring feel less like an adventure and more like a logistical headache.
Then one line jumped off the screen like it was highlighted in neon: "Opening act will reside in main talent quarters for duration of tour.
" I read it three times, hoping the words would rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.
They didn't. "Are you fucking serious?" I said to my empty apartment, which offered no response except the judgmental hum of my ancient refrigerator.
Before my better judgment could intervene, I was opening my text messages, scrolling to a conversation thread I hadn't touched in four years.
Mickey's name sat there like a loaded gun, our last exchange a stilted "happy birthday" from him and my equally stilted "thanks" in response the spring after college.
My fingers moved before my brain could catch up: **Me:** Are you fucking kidding me with this bus situation?
**Me:** You're really going to make us bunk up for three months?
The response came faster than I expected, like he'd been waiting for this exact conversation.
**Mickey:** Well hello to you too, sunshine.
Miss me much? **Me:** Give me my own bus, Mick.
**Mickey:** That's not how touring works and you know it.
Besides, sharing builds character. **Me:** I have plenty of character, thanks.
Most of it specifically designed to avoid spending extended periods trapped in small spaces with you.
**Mickey:** Ouch. Four years and you're still holding grudges?
That's not very rock and roll of you. I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
He was baiting me, the same way he used to when we'd argue about whose turn it was to buy coffee or whether The Strokes were overrated.
The casual tone of his texts was both comfortably familiar and grating.
I was increasingly furious at the way he could pretend that what happened between us was just some minor disagreement instead of the complete destruction of the most important friendship I'd ever had.
**Me:** This isn't a grudge. This is self-preservation.
**Mickey:** Three months, Aria. Then you never have to see me again if you don't want.
Think you can manage that? I threw my phone onto the couch before I could type something I'd regret, watching it bounce once against the cushions like my last vestige of professional dignity.
Three months. Ninety days trapped on a tour bus with Mickey Montgomery and whatever version of himself he'd become in the years since college.
The same Mickey who'd once made me feel like I could conquer the world, right before he'd proven exactly how wrong I was about everything.
This was going to be a very long summer.