Page 19 of Poetry By Dead Men
"If it’s too much, I’ll get you a hotel room," he finishes for me. “Do this with me, Beth.”
I exhale. "No women on the tour bus." I guess I’m listing my conditions now, and while that one isn’t fair for me to ask, it’s necessary. I’ve seen the way women fall over him and have no interest seeing him partake in that particular benefit of being a rockstar.
Bobby clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "Agreed. No men for you either."
"I’m engaged," I spit, but he holds up a hand.
"I'm talking about Harrison."
I consider this for a moment. I was the wronged party in our relationship, but it doesn’t change the fact that, at least for a while, Bobby and I really were in love. I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear me having sex with my fiancé any more than I want to hear him hooking up withsome random groupie. So, I nod. If Harrison wants to come see me, we'll book a hotel for the night.
"Anything else?" he asks.
"Do I have to go to your shows?"
"That’s part of it, yes. You’ll have backstage access, of course."
"Then I have one more condition," I say.
"Name it," he meets my eyes, and there’s a glint of victory there. He knows he's won.
"If I come on tour with you," I say, enunciating every word carefully so there’s no mistaking what I'm saying, "and that’s still abigif, then you’re taking that damn song out of your set list.”
THEN
October 2016
Break your life down into bullet points
A dot for all that you’ve achieved
Are you better off if they’re things that shine?
Even if they make you bleed?
—An excerpt from "The Application," written and performed by Robert Beckett
There's someone else sitting in my seat today—Molly’s little brother, and by extension, mine—Michael.
“Hey kiddo!” I ruffle his hair, but he doesn’t look up from the notebook Bobby’s holding open between them.
"Bobby needs a word that rhymes with application," Michael says, his eyes scrunched in concentration as he stares at Bobby’s notebook like it’s the most important task he’s ever been given.
"You’re writing a song about applications?" I say, narrowing my eyes at Bobby and grabbing the coffee waiting for me on the table.
Bobby nods. "Not aboutanyapplication. About a girl who won’t send in her NYU application.”
“It's averysad song,” Michael adds.
“He’s right. Very sad. I think it'll be my first big hit."
I snatch the paper from Bobby’s hands, ready to call his bluff, but the song is there—line after line of black ink.
“Wait. You'reactuallywriting a song called The Application?”
He snatches the page back from me. “You’re missing the subtext. It’s not about the piece of paper. The girl in the song is amazing. Talented and smart and beautiful,” Bobby says, looking up at me—lookingthroughme—and I wonder if that’s really how he feels. “But she’s afraid to go after what she wants.”
Bobby’s searching my face, and I somehow both love and hate how he seems to see straight into the deepest parts of me. The ones I try my best to hide. "I’m going to send it. Tomorrow. I think," I say, trying to convince the blood to stop rushing to my cheeks.
