Page 45 of The Duet

“Only if you bring more drinks.” I have descended deep into a beer-drenched well of self-pity.

Billie signals the bartender before sitting down. “So?” she says. “It’s all over before it even began?”

“If you’ve come here to gloat, can you do it another time, please? Like in three weeks or so? Or three months? Or, here’s a thought, how about never?”

Billie exchanges a glance with Dave. “I haven’t come to gloat. Give me some credit.” She asks the bartender for some water as well.

“Fuck this tour.” With as much drama as I usually reserve for the stage, I huff out some air. “It’s just a fucking duet. We were only ever meant to sing that wretched song together. We won’t be doing that anymore, either.”

“You won’t? Damn,” Dave says. “Pity.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Billie sounds as though she’s totally on top of things.

The bartender comes over to bring our order. I ignore the water and grab another beer. “One bender. One night of reckless excess. One grueling morning of hangovers and self-loathing, then I’ll be good as gold again.” I hold up my bottle. “Be my friends and drink with me tonight.”

“You got it, Lana.” Dave clinks his bottle against mine.

“Sure thing.” Billie follows suit.

“I guess now is not a good time to tell you that script you gave me is the bomb,” Dave says.

“Nope.” I tip the bottle to my mouth and swallow greedily. “Who would want to make a movie out of this, anyway? Who wants to watch this on a big screen?”

“Lana Lynch’s heart being broken by a twenty-something?” Billie says. “Only about a few million people.”

“Heartbroken?” I scoff. “Are you out of your mind? Cleo didn’t break my heart.” I blow some air through my nostrils. “You know what broke my heart? When my wife died right in front of my eyes. That broke my heart into a million pieces. In so many pieces that it still hasn’t mended. That it will never mend. So don’t talk to me about heartbreak, okay?”

“Oh, Lana, please. Not that old song and dance again,” Billie says.

I might be beyond tipsy, but I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Being a member of The Lady Kings equals respecting my ongoing grief. It’s an unwritten rule of the band.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you loved Joan and the two of you were an epic twosome. But Joan died ten years ago. Don’t pretend that what you’re feeling right now is about her. It’s not. Cleo’s not nothing. She’s not just some girl you had a fling with. At least have the guts to admit that.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m Billie, your guitarist,” she says matter-of-factly. “You can always call me for a much-needed dose of truth.”

I chuckle because what else am I going to do? I glance at Dave. “Can you believe this chick?”

Dave just shrugs.

“Lana,” Billie’s not giving it a rest. “It’s okay to admit you have feelings for Cleo. It’s not like it’s not obvious.”

I roll my eyes. I’ve had about enough of this. I’m ready for this wretched day to be over already, but I still need to get blind drunk—I still need to forget what happened.

“That club you went to last night,” I say, ignoring what Billie just said. “Was it good?”

“Oh, yeah.”

It must have been spectacular if it kept Cleo from joining me in my room.

“Maybe we should go,” I offer.

“Lana, sweetie, it’s late. You just played a show. You’re going to crash soon. Frankly, I’m pretty beat myself,” Billie says. “We’re not going clubbing tonight.”

“How about you, Dave?”

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