Page 5 of Thanks for Coming Along

Ronan turned his attention to his laptop while Sadie went on a tangent about her favorite Eden song, breaking down the lyrics while he started typing into the search bar:Edenmusician. 11,700,000 results. Okay,wow. If he googled his own name, he would probably have a fraction of those results. He did have an obnoxious Broadcast News Network profile page with his featured articles, news clips, and accolades, but nothing close to the amount of internet buzz that Eden had.

His eyes scanned the Google page. Eden Percy, Born: August 24th, (age 26 years), New York, New York. American singer-songwriter. Stage name is Eden. Then there were links to her songs, some of which he had heard, but most of them he had not. He had really enjoyed the songs he had listened to. He found her songs to be super catchy but also dense with emotion. They possessed a rare combination of catchiness and lyrical depth that he hadn't encountered in a long time. In a world where so much music felt superficial, Eden's songs were like a breath of fresh air, breathing life and emotion into every note and lyric.

As he sat in front of his computer, his eyes darted over the search results on his screen. The most recent article was from yesterday. It bore the headline "Quentin Ramos and Eden Percy Get Flirty on a Breakfast Date." Snapshots showed Eden and Quentin holding hands and laughing.

"The ocean wave is a metaphor for anxiety. Eden truly is a songwriting master," Sadie's voice startled him. He had been so engrossed in his internet search that he momentarily forgot she was still on the phone. Swiftly closing the article, he returned to the mountain of search results.

He kept scrolling and landed on her Instagram. 6.7M followers. His eyes widened. She was gorgeous, of course, but seeing her like this, knowing they'd be face-to-face soon, made his pulse quicken. The idea of being around her sparked a nervous energy he hadn’t felt in a long time. He clicked her latest post—her long brown hair perfectly tousled over her shoulder, long lean legs in the smallest skirt known to man. There was something mischievous about her, that little smirk on her lips like she knew a secret only she was in on. Sultry eyes, hooded with smokey makeup.

His phone let out a loud ping, causing him to startle, and his knee collided with the edge of his desk. Muttering a subdued curse, he grabbed his phone. He saw an email notification from Mr. Lopez with the subject lineEden Percy Documentary.With a slightly trembling thumb, he clicked on the notification.

Good afternoon Ronan,

Eden has accepted the contract with some revisions. She wants a full say in the final cut of the documentary that will be aired on BNN and also wants control of how the documentary will be filmed. I have attached a final copy of the contract if you're ready to move forward. Filming will start as soon as you sign. This project would be an excellent fit for you.

Jose Lopez

"Sadie… Eden has accepted the contract."Ronan spoke in a monotone voice, almost in disbelief. He heard a loud screech on the other side of the phone.

3

Ronan

He woke up the next morning exhausted. He had stayed up entirely too late, deep-diving into Eden's songs while reading all of her lyrics. He was wholly immersed in Eden's music. Her songs had captivated him, and he was astounded to discover that she not only sang them but also penned every lyric herself. As if that was not impressive enough, she played a significant role in producing her tracks, lending them an ethereal quality that steadily built into something remarkable. Her songs were raw, usually alternative with heavy guitars and drums. By the time he tried to get to sleep, it was past 3 AM, and the little sleep he got was fitful.

After carefully reviewing and signing the contract, he sent it to his lawyer for a final look. Mr. Lopez wasted no time in reaching out once the terms were settled. BNN was eager to get started with the filming process as soon as humanly possible. He was now facing a tight deadline. The project had to be completed by the end of October. Two months might sound like ample time, but it felt overwhelmingly short to Ronan when tasked with delving into every facet of someone's life. BNN was insistent, wanting to release the documentary around the same time as Eden's upcoming album. Eden's last show of the tour was scheduled for tonight, and Ronan was scheduled to meet her and her bandmates at the music venue before the performance.

Ronan tried to quell his nerves. He paced around his apartment until he was sure he was wearing footprints on the hardwood floors. He exercised, showered, and ate, and then he counted the tiles on the ceilings. He attempted to take some deep breaths, but his chest felt heavy with unease. Despite his efforts to focus on anything else, his mind inevitably drifted back to the accident, anxiety spreading from his chest through his limbs.

He was right back to the blaring heat of the desert, the ringing in his ears after the landmine had been denoted, a voice screaming...a voice he then realized was his own. He saw blood pooling on the sand so vividly that he felt like he was back in Yemen. His palms became clammy, and he paced while rubbing his hands over his pants. A cold sweat broke over his forehead, and his thoughts went further into a whirlwind. He walked over to the counter and grabbed a sour candy, something his therapist had suggested. The sharp tang helped pull him back to the present, snapping him out of his head. His breathing slowed, and the sweat on his skin started to cool as he took a few deep breaths.

Looking at the clock, he realized it was time to head to the Hollywood Palladium for Eden's concert. BNN wasn't joking about starting filming immediately. He had just signed the contract that morning, and they wanted him at Eden's final concert of her tour within the next few hours. Desperate to start working again, he was jumping at the chance. He felt ready to have something else to focus on besides himself and his nonstop thoughts.

Packing his backpack with his camera, he also grabbed his motorcycle helmet. As he left the apartment, he glanced at himself in the mirror. His button-up white linen shirt was cleanly pressed, and his black pants hugged his form tightly. Lacing his black boots, he rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Something about long-sleeved shirts made him feel trapped in his own body.

He absentmindedly rubbed the stubble on his jaw—he’d been so caught up in his nerves he’d forgotten to shave. Shrugging it off, he grabbed his black leather jacket and stepped outside to his pride and joy: his Ducati Streetfighter. Running his fingers along the sleek black body, he let out a small sigh of satisfaction. Restoring this bike had been his escape over the past few months. Every bolt tightened and every part replaced had been a way to ground himself, a labor of love that gave the bike—and himself—a fresh start. Paired with therapy, it had been his way through the storm after coming back to the U.S.

After witnessing his colleague's leg torn away by an explosive right in front of him, BNN mandated therapy for Ronan. He hadn’t needed the order to know he was struggling—he’d never felt so powerless in his life. The memory of that day in the desert played on a relentless loop in his mind, stealing his sleep and gnawing at his sanity. When his therapist diagnosed him with PTSD, it felt unreal. His body was intact, after all. Sure, he’d landed awkwardly during the blast and still felt twinges of pain, but the real damage was in his mind.

His therapist explained that the trauma was extreme, something his brain and body were still trying to process. He’d made progress in the months since—big strides, even—but every day still felt like a fight to keep moving forward.

Ronan pulled on his helmet, swiftly swung his leg over the sleek motorcycle, and then knocked back the kickstand. As he revved the engine, the bike roared to life, the powerful rumble echoing in the air. He immediately felt more relaxed, the engines roaring, tuning out his mind's busy thoughts. His racing heartbeat began to steady. The weight of his anxiety slowly lifted, carried away by the wind that caressed his arms. His mind returned to Eden, and he couldn't help but wonder what she would be like. Would she be a typical party girl? Only worried about money and status like some celebrities in Los Angeles? He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind. He didn't want to make assumptions about her, and there was no point in wondering when he was minutes away from meeting her.

Before he knew it, he was at the venue. He parked his bike and headed for the door. After displaying his credentials, he was brought backstage by the security guard to the green room. He hovered near the door and swore he could hear muffled music. He knocked without any answer and hesitated a few more seconds before he put his hand on the doorknob.

As he opened the door, he saw the flurry of movement. He first heard the distinct chords of "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" blasting in his ears. A tall, tattooed man was gyrating on a coffee table with sunglasses on while two other men were pretending to play invisible instruments, maybe a guitar and drums? A brunette, who was unmistakably Eden, was to his right, mouthing the words passionately while swaying her hips with her hands up. Their eyes connected, and he thought there would be some shock or some form of embarrassment across her face, but instead, she motioned with her fingers in a come hither gesture without missing a beat. Ronan's eyebrows raised involuntarily, and she shimmed closer to him, then jumped up and down while screaming, "Girls just wanna have fun!"

Then the interlude started, and the tattooed man started aggressively air-playing the xylophone while Eden yelled, "Get it, Beck!" at the display. Eden moved her arm in the air to the song's beat in a sprinkler motion. By the end of the song, everyone in the room was panting. Ronan was still motionless, standing at the door. Whatever he had expected, this wasn't anything close to it.

"You must be Ronan!" Eden approached him with a bright smile on her face, and he stopped breathing for a second. The sheer beauty of her presence felt almost overwhelming, like gazing directly at the sun. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he blinked, if she would be etched behind his eyelids, or if he continued staring, would she momentarily blind him.

"I hope you enjoyed the dance break. We couldn’t stop—it’s our pre-gig ritual, and stopping midway would be bad luck. Can’t risk that!" His throat was dry as sandpaper. He tried to swallow but failed, his nerves getting the better of him. The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d conducted interviews in war zones, dodging bullets and chaos, yet here he was, more rattled by a 5’6” brunette than he’d ever been in a combat zone.

"Yeah, the one time we didn't do it, my drumstick flew out of my hand and almost took out Eden's eyeball." The shirtless, tattooed man said as he gracefully flopped on the couch.

"The eyeball incident of 2019. Not pretty, I was a mere millimeter of head banging from losing my left eye." A shiver ran through her body at the memory. "Never again," she said, her eyes taking on a faraway look like she was reliving the incident.

"I'm Eden, by the way." She directed her eyes to Ronan, looking at him intently.

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