Page 67 of Down Beat
R:How did you learn our song so fast?
I reread the message after I’ve sent it and mentally slap myself for how cold and blunt it comes across.
R: I never told you how fucking awesome it sounded.
There. At least now she knows I’m asking not because I doubt her talent, but because I really was impressed.
It takes half an hour before she replies. Half an hour where I sit and replay the last few weeks through my head. If I’d looked hard enough, the signs were there that I was due to crash again. I’d hit a high. We stepped off that plane for our impromptu layover and I thought I was a fucking god among men.
I’d reached mania. And what follows mania? The slide.
T: I learn by ear.
Her reply is short, and most definitely not sweet. Can’t blame her, though, when I’ve been radio silent for the better part of a week.
R: I apologize for being a complete asshole.
T: I’m legit framing this message.
Emery glances over as I chuckle at her reply, concern in his eyes. I ignore the justification behind that, and settle in to talk to Tabby-cat.
R: Don’t tell me you’re surprised that the spoilt rock star would be such a jackass?
T: To quote my mother (shoot me now) I’m not angry, just disappointed.
Fair enough.
R: How long does it take you to learn by ear?
It’s a skill I’m not that great at. Toby can pick things up, but it takes him a week before he can play start to finish without any errors. There’s no way in hell she would have already been learning our work. Too much of a coincidence.
T: Depends on the piece. Your music was quite basic once I broke it down.
R: Ouch.
T: I said basic, not shit.
R: Better.
T: Why? Are you trying to learn something?
Would she teach me? I chew the end of my thumb as the bus slows for the city limits. Thank fuck this torture ride is almost over. I mean, I love these guys, but the tension lately has been off the charts.
R: Nope. Just curious. You decent?
T: Would it stop you if I wasn’t?
I barely have time to read her reply before she dials through. Best part of my fucking day seeing that face when I hit Accept. I honestly thought she’d tell me to get fucked when I finally sent a reply.
“I got the tattoo when I was nineteen.” I hit her with the details straight out of the gate.
Her eyes soften, yet she shows no emotion with her mouth as she softly nods. “Okay.”
“I, um, read it somewhere. Can’t remember where now. But it struck a chord, you know? I’d had a rough patch with my mental health and it helped me accept who I am better.”
She pulls in a carefully measured breath before asking, “Do you mind if I ask what you’re diagnosed with?”
I cast my eye over her tousled hair, as though she’s repeatedly run her fingers through it. Her eyes are tired, and yet she looks fucking beautiful out in the natural light, seemingly somewhere open like a park.