Page 48 of Out of the Blue

Before we can get carried away—or even remove any piece of clothing—he disengages from me. “As much as I’d love to finish this now, I have to get to practice. Come with?”

Shaking my head to clear it, I find my footing. “Yeah.” I run my fingers down his chest. “But only if you promise to pick this up right where we left off.”

He kisses my ear. “You got it, babe.”

* * *

While the band practices, I post some photos on their social media. Below a close-up of Dwight pounding on the drums, I write, “Super excited to rock the Bank of New Hampshire Pavilion. Who will I see tomorrow night?”

Next, I turn my attention to the issue of Maurice’s eyesight. Per Mr. Hewitt’s comments, I rework the blog post about it for the remainder of the rehearsal. Happy with what I wrote, I hook up to the printer in the room and grab the pages. When they finish rehearsing, I’ll ask Maurice if he’s good with it.

Smiling at all my accomplishments—if only Big Rolls could see me now—I listen to the end of the rehearsal. TLR sounds better by the day. This tour schedule has been very good for them.

While they pack up, I go to Maurice and give him my proposed blog. He reads it and inhales. “Yeah. This is good. I like the part about how episcleritis doesn’t affect vision at all. I only have a few changes.”

“Great.” I collect the paper from him and make notes on what he wants changed.

“Hey.” Trent snags my attention away from the revisions I’m making. “Meet us at the restaurant downstairs when you’re done here.” He kisses me and disappears with his band.

Smiling, I finish editing the post and reread it another few times to make sure everything’s good. Satisfied, I shoot it over to Mr. Hewitt for his final approval. As I’m gathering my stuff, he calls to give me the green light. With pleasure, I load it up together with an awesome shot I took of Maurice last night. Take that,First Rumors.

Finished, I bound down to meet up with everyone in the restaurant. I approach the hostess stand and ask for their table. She checks and tells me they’re not there. Not believing her, I ask if I can do a quick run-through of the dining room. She shrugs and lets me enter.

After my sweep confirms the hostess’s conclusion TLR isn’t here, I leave the restaurant and trudge into the hall.You knew he’d abandon you at the first chance, like everyone else. Instead of texting Trent, I allow this thought to play on repeat.

The hotel’s shop snags my attention, and I wander in. Nothing else to do, anyway. I pick up and put down various items—shot glasses, visors, flip flops. Why am I here? A bunch of journals catch my attention and, against my better judgment, I glance through the selection. Didn’t one of my searches about writer’s block say to scribble down prose if you’re trying to write poetry? Maybe this could work for Trent. Without thought, I plunk down ten dollars for a journal urging “Reach for the Stars.”

As I wander through the lobby, I glance into the bar. And stop. Inside, everyone I’ve been trying to find raises their glasses in a toast. They probably decided to have a drink before going to the restaurant. Trent didn’t abandon me. Right?

Leaving all my stuff in a corner, I approach the group. Trent extends his arms toward me. “Oh my God. I told you to meet us at the restaurant, but we got a little sidetracked.”

Joey holds up his glass and everyone raises their drinks to the ceiling. “Glad you could make it, Cordelia,” he says.

I have two choices. I could yell at them for their irresponsible behavior, or I could go with the flow. I choose the latter. After all, Trent obviously didn’t do this deliberately to hurt me. And he apologized.

A simple mix-up. No biggie.

Our promise to be patient with each other reasserts itself. I wave. “I’m here now.”

Trent turns to the bartender and orders me a seltzer and vodka with lime. When I take a sip, I relax. Yeah, simple misunderstanding is all. Nothing to get worked up over. He’s nothing like the other men who’ve been in my life. I hope.

He kisses me with an apology on his lips, and I stuff my stupid fears aside.

When Trent and Maurice get into a debate over the best green room they’ve been in so far, Dwight pulls me away. “You’re so good for him,” he announces.

I murmur, “Think so?”

“Heck yeah. When his mother was killed, he lost all of hisjoie de vivre. Now that you’re in his life, he’s regaining it.” He pauses, drumming a beat on his thigh. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s still guarded and a bit jumpy. But you’ve made a big difference in him.”

My palms turn clammy. How can I be responsible for any real change in Trent? Rubbing them on my thighs, I tell myself he’s misreading the situation. Yet Trent’s making inroads in my life. Maybe I am helping him out as well? I busy myself by tracing the patterns on the carpet with my foot. “Thanks.”

Dwight briefly touches my forearm. “I’ve been meaning to talk with you for a while now. I’ve been best friends with Trent since we were kids, and I’ve seen the signs. Ever since his mom, well, you know, he’s been wary of the stage. I think you’re helping him to calm down and enjoy performing again. I wanted to say thank you. And please keep it up. If TLR is chosen to be Hunte’s opening band for the rest of the tour, it would change all of our lives.” He grabs my hand. “And I do meanall.”

I so want to be worthy of Dwight’s praise. Ihavehelped him with the stage fright his bandmates obviously recognized, despite how well he thought he was hiding it. I do deserve some credit for this. “I appreciate it, Dwight. I’ve given him some exercises to help overcome his jitters, and it seems to be helping.”

His dark brown eyes crinkle at the corners, underlying his good nature. “Keep up the good work.”

If only he’ll stick around long enough.

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