Page 31 of Over the Edge

I wouldn’t be dragging all the people I cared about into a media circus. I could have my normal life with Quinn and Oliver. My parents would be satisfied and not stressed.

“Now what?” Garrett asks.

“Hmm?”

“What’s holding you back from going public now?”

Sharing how I got here is one thing. The rest? I doubt I’ll ever tell anyone because if I did I know they wouldn’t be able to look at me the same. “I told you I’d tell you how I got started, not the rest. Your turn.”

“I was always going to quit,” he explains. “The plan was once I got into law school I'd leave, even if the rest of the band kept going. That was the only reason I agreed to try in the first place.”

“Music was what? The equivalent to a gap year to you?” He had every right to make that choice for his life but I can’t grasp why he’s so disconnected from something that consumes me. Or maybe I’m jealous that he could walk away when I couldn’t.

“It was practical. Don’t sound shocked that I chose security.” A defensive edge sharpens his voice. “The band breaking up around the same time was a coincidence, really. I made the deal I’d quit when I was ready to go to law school with Wes. Drew and Jared didn’t know. I’d appreciate it if you keep it that way.”

I’ve had this feeling since I first saw him here. It’s like I’ve been reading my favorite book, one that I know front to back and could quote at the drop of a hat, but then I find that two of the pages are stuck together. I haven’t been able to pull them apart but I know whatever is there is integral to the story, like it will be a different story entirely if I can read them.

It was easy to assume Garrett quit because he thought he was above a career in music, that he had to prove that he was the most accomplished person in any room. Now I’m starting to question if that’s the truth or if that was just a simple explanation that he allowed everyone to believe.

I want to see between the pages, but I know if I pull too fast and ignore how delicate the paper is, it will tear and I will never know the truth.

“Do you miss it?” I ask.

“Yes. But even the best songs always end.”

12

Garrett

Hours later, we’ve migrated to the floor, surrounded by scattered notebook pages with old lyric ideas and the empty food containers we got delivered from the pub. The truth is, she has enough here for an album. A good album, but obviously she doesn’t see it that way. She doesn’t need me; she never really has. Not with the move and definitely not with this.

But I want her to need me here.

It’s been so long since I’ve talked about music like this—playing is one thing, creation is completely different. I want more of this electric hum in my veins even if it’s for a short while.

“No, this one,” I say, examining the lyrics on one of the pages. “It’s pretty much the same as ‘Better Not Say’.”

“So, you really have listened to my music?” she purrs and plants a hand near my thigh before leaning closer. The glint in her eye tells me that her sultry tone is as intentional as it is artificial.

“I was curious.” True, but I also like it. Her voice. Her words. There’s this breathy way she sings the wordwisteriathatscratches an itch in my brain that I’ve played over again just to get enough. “From how I see it, you write about things.”

“Ahh, opposed to writing about nothing and screaming into the void.” She nods.

“Yeah, but sometimes it feels like that doesn’t it?”

Putting music out there is a bit like hoping that the deepest parts of you are worth listening to. Screaming,tell me you feel this too. That I’m not alone.

“Yeah.” She looks around for something specific in the mess of paper. “If only I could find this one notebook I haven’t seen in ages. Not since,” she pauses and hurt pinches her face, “well, for a while. It has all this stuff I nearly put in my first album.”

“You'll be fine without it,” I promise driven by a sudden need to comfort her.

“I guess I have to be.” She sags, putting weight on the hand next to my leg, causing the tips of her fingers to brush against me. It’s so fucking insignificant, but being alone with her like this seems to heighten my awareness of the smallest things.

The way she rolls her shoulders when she thinks she’s messed up. How she bites at her lip when she’s particularly proud of something, but waiting for approval. She’s not just a pleasant yet sporadic notion anymore. All her parts are coming into excruciating focus. And I don’t want to look away.

I inch away as I put the paper down then start to make a stack out of the nearby pages to occupy myself.

“I think we should call it a day.” I pull my phone out and pretend to check the time. “See you tomorrow.”

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