Page 59 of The Drummer

I can’t help but smile. “Yeah, a little. We back Luke up at the live shows.”

“What’s this one?” She holds up the notebook.

A wave of nostalgia washes through me.

“Oh, that’s actually the rough outline for ‘Fourth Chair.’”

While I remember where I was when inspiration struck for most of our songs, that one was special.

We were on a flight to Australia when someone recognized us. Well, recognizedLuke,like usual.The person gushed andgushed and gushed, while I sat right next to him. It wasn’t until the very end that they turned to me hesitantly and asked if I was in the band too. The way they clutched the paper they had him sign made it clear they only asked to check if they needed my signature too.

I said no. I was just going to visit my chiropractor in Sydney.

Luke and I laughed about it the rest of the trip, but somewhere along the line, in the sleep-deprived haze of an endless flight, the stereotypical interaction hit harder than it ever had before. I’ve lived in other people’s shadows my entire life.

“Wait, I think I know that one!” Callie says with way too much excitement. It’s hilarious how hard she tries to stroke our egos to make up for not knowing who we were in the beginning. “It’s about an orchestra or something.”

An orchestra. My god. So funny.

I shake my head. “It’s about realizing your dreams don’t always match reality and accepting what is. That the world owes you nothing and will kick you in the face if you live like you think it does.”

Her expression clouds with an emotion I can’t read before she turns back to the pages. I watch her finger drift over the words and notations. Chills run over my skin as if she’s touching me instead.

“You’re nothing but a fourth chair, baby,”she reads quietly.“Forget the lights, your day ain’t coming. Roses are red but they’re not for you, just remember they die for the first chair too.”

Her smile when she looks up warms me from the inside out. I’m not used to seeing admiration like that when Luke is within reach.

“I thought Luke was the lyric king,” she teases.

I shift on the cushion, not sure where this is supposed to go. I’ve never been here before. “He is. I just happen to have the orchestra background,” I deflect.

“I guess. But apparently, you weren’t very good,” she teases back, and all tension lifts.

Another grin seeps out. For her. For memories that should be painful, but are now just important. That’s what art does. Transforms the scars into something beautiful.

“At organized accompaniment? No. Not at all. My parents withdrew me from orchestra after a couple years, but I’m pretty sure the conductor didn’t give them a choice. No matter how good you are, you eventually have to fall in line. I guess I just didn’t always agree with the musical decisions of Strauss and Mozart.”

She has a first-chair laugh. We should recordthatand send it to the Label on Friday.

“So you switched to drums and became a rocker,” she concludes.

“Well, it wasn’t that easy of a transition, believe me, but ultimately, yes. My parents were not on board, I can assure you of that.” Understatement. “I was kid number seven, so according to the plan I was supposed to be a concert violinist.”

Her brows lift in supportive indignation. “Really? Then who was supposed to be the drummer in a disgustingly successful rock band?”

I smile back with a quick shrug. According to my father…

Yeah, never mind. That asshole doesn’t deserve even a passing thought in this special moment.

“Okay, your turn,” I say, bringing the conversation back to where it belongs.

She sucks in a breath. Her teeth sink into her lip.

Is she seriously going to back out?

“What? I showed you mine.”

“I know but…”

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