Page 142 of All Twerk, No Play

Climbing into bed, Jurisprudence’s soft fur and rhythmic purr were the only things holding me together. She’d been unusually affectionate, like she could sense that whatever shards remained of my heart after leaving Cruz were crushed when Dad stormed out. Not that there was much left to hurt—my chest felt like a hollow abyss, her forlorn howl echoing through the empty cavity.

I reached for my phone, scrolling through the texts he sent me every night without fail, focusing on last night’s, which I’d read twenty times today:

Cruz

Hey baby, hope you had a good Tuesday. Not much to report here—just changing light bulbs and missing you. Nothing

The band is playing tomorrow in Albany, so my text might be late. I’ll be thinking of you during every song.

Sweet dreams, Tori. I love you.

Seeking solace, I turned on his YouTube channel. Above the familiar short videos, an announcement bar directed me to a livestream, and I tapped without hesitation.

The screen displayed a new venue, larger than their usual home at Donnelly’s. Stacy sang out front, Scott beside her on guitar, Rodriguez on the bass. I strained to see past them, heart pounding until I spotted Cruz behind the drum kit. An ache settled in my chest, each beat of his bass drum pounding the rhythm of my longing.

Convincing myself that ignoring his messages was the right choice was a daily battle, but seeing him immersed in what he loved reinforced that he was strong enough to handle it. Someday his songs would stop. Or maybe I could stop reading his texts, maybe even block his number. Dad was right about me needing to move on, wasn’t he?

The camera panned out, showing the audience. Soon, one of those adoring fans would catch his attention, some pretty girl who could stand in the front row of every show. The livestream viewer count continued to climb—thousands of people watching his band play. Comments gushed over his hotness, speculating over when he would sing and what song he would choose.

A woman in the crowd yelled, “I love you, Cruz!” and it felt like a dagger. Some anonymous woman could express her undying love for him … yet I’d had him every night and still hadn’t been able to tell him. And I was unraveling in his absence.

Garbled chanting began, growing in intensity: “We want Cruz, we want Cruz.” Stacy made an excuse about his sore throat, but the crowd grew more restless. Rodriguez stepped behind the kit, arms lifted in apology, and I squinted to make out his pinched expression. He untied his bun to smooth it back, a habit when he was frustrated, then nodded gruffly.

Jurisprudence pawed my hand away, and I realized I’d unwittingly gripped her fur. My throat itched, ready to scream at that audience for pressuring him to sing. I wanted to climb onto that stage and throw out my arms to protect him, to tell them all to fuck off because only he should decide how to play.

Alex’s admonition rang in my mind:You should have asked him instead of choosing for him.

The cheers escalated as the band stepped off the stage, leaving Cruz alone. He took a shuddering breath, then rose from the drum kit and picked up his Scott’s acoustic. The audience erupted as the comments filled with fire, heart and eggplant emojis.

My pulse quickened. Would he mention me? Was it selfish to hope for?

If he didn’t, was it a sign he was moving on? And if that was what I truly wanted, why did it make my stomach churn with nausea?

He lifted the guitar strap and looked out above the audience, searching for something only he could see. I expected a smile at one of the adoring fans, some flicker of charisma … but his normally soulful eyes looked vacant.

Tears blurred my vision as he closed his eyes and released his turmoil, lamenting how lonely his apartment felt—maybe his whole life. The cold silence of the bedroom seemed to press in on me as his voice, raw and heavy with emotion, harmonized with my own emptiness.

He’d seemed optimistic in his videos, but his raw heartbreak showcased the magnitude of my mistake. I’d been trying to protect him from the media swarm and the lonely nights … but I’d only brought him pain. I’d thought he’d move on, but he was in as much agony as I was.

What had I done?

"Corduroy," Pearl Jam

Cruz

“Greatshowtonight,”Rodriguezsaid with a sweaty pat on my shoulder as we walked off stage. The green room was buzzing with energy, staff moving around us, congratulating me like I should be celebrating.

“Bullshit,” I muttered, because we both knew how shitty I’d played. Ignoring his pitying look, I slumped onto the worn-out couch. The room smelled like old sweat and stale beer, the distant hum of the crowd outside barely filtering in through the door. My hands flexed against my thighs, still wired from the set.

Tonight had been a huge mistake.

Rodriguez had been trying to book a gig at The Sparrow for months. Yesterday they called with a last-minute opening for a headlining time slot with the stipulation that I sit in with the band. I agreed, as long as I could stay behind the drum kit—maybe drumming would tire me out enough that I could catch a few hours of sleep instead of staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was making a fool of myself with these stupid videos. It wasn’t until Rodriguez’s van pulled into the alley to unload equipment that I saw a poster with my face photoshopped in the front, the rest of the band behind me.

The Sparrow wasn’t like Donnelly’s, where we were packed in tight with familiar faces and cheap drinks. This venue had a dedicated green room, a professional sound team, and a staff that moved like a well-oiled machine. The stage lights were blinding, the crowd bigger than anything we’d ever pulled. I tried to keep my head down and focus on the rhythm. As the cymbals crashed and the snare crackled, I finally loosened up, releasing my grief to lose myself in the music.

Then the cheering started. I brushed the sweat off my forehead, palms so clammy that the drumsticks slid out of my grip. There was nothing the band could do—the people demanded me.

I stepped up to that mic and my mind went blank. Not a single song came to mind. I’d grown this audience by singing to Victoria, yet when I looked out at the crowd, all I felt was her absence, the darkness gnawing me from the inside out. This dream—a crowd of people chanting my name, begging me to sing—was turning into a nightmare.

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