Page 23 of My Lovely Tragedy
I jerk my head up, eyes wide as I bring my hand against my chest. “I’m offended,” I mock.
Brooklyn stares at me, eyes darting across my face before locking on my irises. I swallow down the urge to turn away, letting him see for a split second before I blink, shattering the moment.
I let my hand slide off my chest, a smirk tugging at the edges of my lips that Brooklyn catches moments after he shakes himself back into the conversation. “Ha-ha, very funny.”
“Thank you.”
He rolls his eyes, the color completely disappearing into the back of his head, eyelashes scraping his thick eyebrows. My mouth goes dry, and I’m forced to clear my throat.
I swallow again, tugging at the collar of my shirt.
“How old are you?” I ask, encouraging his change of subject for a little while longer—only to learn what he is willing to give.
“Twenty-seven.”
I hum. “And how long have you been in your band?” I toss the vegetables on a baking sheet and spread them around for even baking. I feel Brooklyn watching me, but I don’t comment on it.
I’m simply more cognizant of my every move. The way my fingers look as I arrange the vegetables. The way my overgrown curls flop over my forehead, a few in particular catching on my glasses.Howmy glasses keep sliding down the bridge of my nose.
The age of my skin, no longer completely elastic and vibrant with youth. Tired lines and crow’s feet. Gray hairs muddled with dark brown, a highlight amongst the dark.
I have never felt my mortality quite this strongly.
It’s a humbling feeling.
“Since I was twenty. We got a lucky break, really. We were playing at this dive in some city I can’t even remember the name of when the fucking drummer of Shattered Lines came up to us after our set.” He sighs heavily.
“Everything after that is a blur. We hopped on tour with them, just like that. Playing the same five songs we had written over and over. After that tour and all the visibility we got, it didn’t take long for offers to start rolling in. And Benji is the brains behind it all, so we let him take the reins. He understands all the legality bullshit, whereas when I look at it, my fucking eyes cross.”
I huff out a breath of laughter but don’t comment in fear my voice will break the spell. I pat the slices of eggplant dry of any moisture so the breading will adhere as Brooklyn continues without pause.
“After we signed with Shattered Lines’ label, we worked on our first album, Linear Disaster. It honestly didn’t take me long to work on the songs. I’d already had shit from years back that just never had the right music for it. And the guys found their vibe almost instantly. It was like being in the studio, surrounded by therealityof it all just slid every piece into place.
“We didn’t struggle finding motivation. Shit was flowing hard andfast.We got the album done and recorded in a month.” My hands have stopped moving, hovering in mid-air at the reverence in Brooklyn’s voice. The smile stretching his pale pink lips is raw and genuine—the first I have seen from him.
It’s enough to flip my stomach and send my thoughts screeching to a halt.
All I see is him.
All I feel is him.
All there is…is him.
Silence lapses; time is lost. Everything that is not him ceases to have meaning.
Brooklyn’s Adam’s apple bobs, lips parted in preparation, but I’m still unsettled when he shatters the atmospheric chemistry. “That tour was the best time of my life. We were finally living the dream that we long since accepted was onlyevergoing to be a dream. Even still, when I think back on it, it was so far beyond inconceivable. But it happened.”
His demeanor shifts in the blink of an eye. Lively exhilaration of fond memories die into something melancholic, riddled with a weighted heaviness. “Creating the next album was nearly as incredible, even if it did take more time because we were working between shows and other collabs. But that tour—I just didn’t have it in me. I wastired.But I still gave it my all because I saw how much the guys needed it. How they thrived.
“It kept me going. But fast forward two more fucking rotations of the same cycle, and here I am. Four albums in seven years. At least twice as many tours. Festivals. Even more collaborations. You name it. And they always fucking want me. Thevoice of the band,” he mutters in a haughty tone. “Except I’m fucking not. I just write and sing the songs. The passion lies with the others. It died in me a long time ago.”
The sound of the oven door closing makes Brooklyn jolt in his seat. His back shoots ramrod straight, and his fingers tighten on his now-cold cup of tea. “But anyway, that’s why I’m here,” he mumbles the answer to my long-since asked question.
My lips curl inward as I rinse the soap suds off and dry them before facing him again. I lean my hip against the counter, facing the oven with my eyes locked on the timer. Giving Brooklyn my presence, but not my “undivided attention”, which he most certainly has, but he needn’t know that.
“Because you have lost your passion?”
“Because I’m burnt out and so fucking tired.”
