CHAPTER SEVEN #2
Heidi: That just sounds crazy, Ramona.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, heart pounding with an annoyance I can’t ignore anymore. I could explain myself again. I could try to justify why this is the right thing for me.
But I don’t want to. Instead, I let the frustration fuel my response.
Me: Well, I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Heidi.
A pause. Text bubble floating up and down several times. Then—
Heidi: What the hell. I’m just worried about you, sorry for fucking caring.
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. It’s always the same story with her; she gets to be passive-aggressive, but the moment I push back, I’m the bad guy.
Me: I’m an adult, I don’t need you to worry about me. Why can’t you just be happy for me?
Heidi: Noted. Have fun.
Me: Appreciate it!
I hit send, my smirk mirroring the energy of the message.
I tried—really tried—to get her to be happy for me. But I’m done convincing her.
I set my phone down with a satisfied sigh, staring out the small window as the highway stretches endlessly ahead.
This is my adventure, my life. And I refuse to let anyone—even Heidi—take that away from me.
I emerge from my room, surprisingly feeling lighter. I’m sure that’s not the last I’ll hear from Heidi, but I have no energy for her negativity right now.
As I make my way past the four bunks lined down the middle of the bus, my foot snags on the strap of a duffel bag abandoned in the walkway. I stumble with full, dramatic flailing, but manage to catch myself before I full on face-plant, gripping the edge of a bunk.
The motion tugs the curtain open just enough to reveal Cody staring back at me, hand slapped over his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tries (and fails) to stifle a laugh.
I untangle my traitorous foot while Cody snorts into his palm like a gremlin. I scoop up the offending bag, shove it into the bunk with him, hard enough to make a point, and keep moving down the aisle while his giggles linger behind me.
When I finally drop into the seat at the table, Grady glances up from his notebook. He gives me a soft, knowing smile, the kind that says he absolutely saw everything before quietly going back to his drawing.
The high from the Lexington show still clings to me.
I have never felt anything quite like it before—like I have found the thing I am meant to be doing.
One show. That is all it took for me to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’m not built for the corporate world.
I thrive in the chaos, in the fast pace, in the unrelenting energy of it all.
This is where I belong.
It is the same reason I spent the last few years working at The Riot Room, even though my nine-to-five drained me dry.
Something about that place, the music, the people—it was like oxygen to me.
If I could have made enough money to survive on just that, I would have walked away from my desk job without hesitation.
But reality isn’t so kind, and as much as I want to pretend this summer tour will never end, I know it will. The thought of going back to that life, the one I don’t want, settles in my stomach like a stone. But maybe—just maybe—this is the beginning of something else. Something bigger. A way out.
I can only hope.
For now, the only thing ahead of me is the packed East Coast leg of the tour.
Baltimore is next, followed by Philly and then Boston.
I have never been to Baltimore, and though I doubted we’d have much time to explore before the show, I am still excited to catch even a glimpse of the city.
If nothing else, I am determined to squeeze in some clam chowder in Boston and a proper Philly cheesesteak.
I won’t lie… eating my way through different cities will definitely be one of my favorite parts of all this.
I haven’t had a real conversation with Elias since the brewery—if you can even call that a conversation.
Since then, all I have gotten are those stoic glances, like he is studying me but refusing to engage.
And yet, he has been helpful in these small ways.
Like helping me pull the last t-shirt down from the merch display after the Lexington set.
I had watched him move, unable to stop myself. He carries himself with an ease that’s impossible to turn away from. Even though I have yet to see a real smile from him, I have a feeling that when I do, it might just ruin me.
It has become my new life’s goal to see it.
I already know his teeth aren’t perfectly straight, but the slight imperfections only make him more striking.
They aren’t crooked in a way that needs fixing—just charmingly unique, adding to his allure.
And they are white. Painfully white. The small glimpses I’ve caught tell me he takes care of them.
Elias has that grungy, tortured-artist aesthetic, but he is far from unkempt.
He doesn’t drink, as far as I can tell. He doesn’t smoke.
He hasn’t touched any of the sugary snacks I’d brought on the bus.
And when I had sat next to him earlier, I caught a whiff of his cologne—woodsy, clean, intoxicating.
Cedar and something else. Masculine, but not overpowering.
I can’t say the same for the rest of the band.
They are exactly what you’d expect from guys living on a tour bus—no one had bothered to shower after the show, except for Elias. The others had collapsed into their bunks, sweat and all, marinating in the aftermath of their set.
I wrinkle my nose as I hear someone finally step into the shower. Hopefully, the rest of them will follow. Otherwise, this bus is going to become unbearable, fast.
Still, it is miles better than the suffocating monotony of my corporate cell.
The steady hum of the bus on the highway lulls me into a false sense of comfort from my seat at the table until I feel a wave of nausea creeping in.
My stomach twists, my head swims, and I curse myself for forgetting about my occasional motion sickness.
And in the whirlwind, I hadn’t packed my Dramamine.
Damn it.
We have a long drive ahead of us, and I know we won’t be stopping anytime soon.
I swallow hard, willing the nausea away, but the bus’s movement only makes it worse.
The only things that help other than the meds are if I’m driving or riding in the front seat—and since there’s no way I will be driving this behemoth of a vehicle, my only other option is to join Elias up front.
I push myself up and make my way to the front, sliding the partition aside. Elias is focused, hands gripping the steering wheel in a way that looks both casual and controlled. Soft music plays from the speakers—classic rock, from what I can make out.
“Do you mind if I sit up here for a bit?” I ask cautiously. “I get carsick sometimes, and I forgot my meds.”
He glances at me briefly, then nods toward the seat beside him.
Relief washes over me as I sink into the seat, buckling myself in. “Thanks. I won’t bother you, I just need some air.”
He doesn’t respond, just keeps his eyes on the road as I crack the window open. The cool summer morning air brushes against my face, soothing and fresh. I close my eyes and take deep breaths, focusing on the sensation, willing my stomach to settle.
We sit in silence for a while. Not the awkward kind, just an easy, natural quiet. His posture never changes, his right hand resting casually atop the steering wheel, his left elbow resting on the open window.
And despite his dark, brooding presence—Shadow Daddy Energy, as Cody had so lovingly teased. I feel… at ease beside him.
After about ten minutes, the nausea begins to fade. I exhale slowly and reach for my seatbelt.
“Thank you. I feel a lot better now, so I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You’re free to stay,” he says, voice smooth.
I hesitate. “Are you sure? I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me.” His eyes remain on the road, his tone neutral, but something about it feels sincere.
I glance at the radio, recognizing the melody of Lyin’ Eyes by The Eagles. Smiling, I turn the volume up just slightly.
“You’ve got good taste in music,” I say.
Elias doesn’t react, but his shoulders relax just slightly.
Taking a risk, I quietly sing along, my voice blending with Glenn Frey’s, always my favorite Eagle. It isn’t much, just a low hum of the lyrics, but I notice his fingers keeping time, a subtle acknowledgment.
Then, to my surprise, he speaks again.
“You have a nice voice.”
I flick my eyes toward him, caught off guard.
“Oh… thank you. I’m no professional. Not like you.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious.
He dips his head slightly, like he is both grateful and uncomfortable with the compliment.
“How long have you been singing?” I ask.
“Since I was young.” His voice is even, but distant.
“That’s cool. Were your parents singers too?”
Then I feel the air shift.
I see the tension in his shoulders before I even register my mistake. Shit. I have pushed too far, too fast. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, he finally says,
“My mom was.”
Was. Not is.
A lump forms in my throat. I don’t know if his sadness means they had been close or if it was complicated. Either way, I don’t pry.
Instead, I lean back, and let the music fill the silence between us.