Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I went to bed feeling irritated, but when I woke up Saturday morning and found the trash can full of unopened snacks, I felt a twinge of guilt, which is ridiculous. I couldn’t have known he planned that for me. And if he wanted to hang out, he could have—oh, I don’t know—asked me?
The next few days go by without any more Jesse sightings. I try to casually ask Lo where he’s been during my shift at Blackbear Sunday, but she laughs and says it’s better that she doesn’t ask. At first, I was glad I didn’t have to face him, but when Thursday rolls around, and he still hasn’t shown his face, the disappointment sets in. I find myself wondering where he disappears to. And why isn’t he in school? Why is he so hot and cold with me? But mostly, why the hell do I care?
“Albert.” Dylan snaps his fingers in front of my face.
“Sorry.” I shake thoughts of Jesse from my head. “What were we talking about?”
“The show,” he reminds me, tuning his guitar while we sit at his kitchen table.
“Right. So, there’s this new venue called The Lamppost. I went with this guy from school Friday, and you guys have to try it out. The place is massive. You remember Victor from The Cold Snap?” I ask, and he nods.
The Cold Snap was a hole-in-the-wall venue in town that Victor owned. I don’t know what happened, but it’s a sandwich shop now. “He owns it. Turns out, he doesn’t have the first clue as to how to throw an event.”
“Shocker,” Dylan says, full of sarcasm.
“He gave me his card—”
“He has a card?” Dylan laughs, his beer bottle halting at his lips.
“I know.” I smile. “Anyway. He wants my help with the next one. And naturally, I thought about you.”
“Sounds fun.”
I nod. “I have a good feeling about it. You in?”
Dylan nods. “Our schedule’s not exactly full. Can we play your song? You can sing it with me.”
I shoot him a look as if he proposed kidnapping the president. There’s a better chance of me doing just that than getting up on a stage and singing, no matter how small the crowd. “You’re high. That’s not happening.”
Outside of singing to whatever my dad plays—played—on guitar, and the occasional song with Dylan for fun, I’m no singer. It’s not what I want to do. Songwriting? Maybe. Owning my own venue, or even producing music? Definitely. I always thought I’d do it with my dad. The plan was to open our own place together when I graduated college—hence the music business major—but now, everything seems like one giant question mark.
“When’s the last time you wrote, anyway?”
“Not in a while.” I used to write in my journal daily, and not just lyrics. My every thought, frustration, hope, and dream. Since my dad died, I haven’t written a word. Writing about it means thinking about it, and thinking about it means feeling it.
“It’ll happen,” Dylan says, reading my thoughts. I bite down on my lip, swallowing hard.
I reach for his beer, taking a swig before pasting a smile onto my face. “So,” I say, slapping the table, “let me hear what you’ve been working on.”
The front door swings open, and we both swivel our heads around at the sound. Hunter, the bassist for their band The Liars, walks in wearing only a pair of basketball shorts and a backwards hat. He’s six-foot-four—I know this, because somehow, it always ends up being the topic of discussion—and has to be at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Between his ginormous frame, his tattoos, and his beard, chicks cling to him like cellophane. Caleb, the drummer, is right behind him, clothed and a few inches shorter, but never lacking in the female department with his blond hair and blue eyes. Total boy band material. That face was made to grace the bedroom walls of teenage girls everywhere.
Caleb has a girl riding piggyback and another few pour in behind him.
Hunter smacks a girl’s ass, and she twirls around. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” She giggles.
“Nah, she died,” he says, sporting his best puppy dog eyes, bottom lip jutting out.
The girl gasps, her smile dropping. “I’m so sorry. How did it happen?”
“Plane crash.”
“Oh my God…”
“Help me forget?” Hunter pulls her to his front and kisses her. Hard.
Dylan looks over to me, raising a brow, knowing that’s a load of shit. Hunter’s ex is alive and well. “I guess we’re partying.”
“Can’t.” I pout. “I have class tomorrow.”
“Allie!” Hunter shouts after he comes up for air, like he hasn’t seen me in years. “What’s up?” he asks, dipping down to hug me in the chair where I sit. I laugh, circling my arms around his neck, and he takes the opportunity to lift me up, spinning me around. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood around Hunter.