Page 17 of Oops Baby for the Rockstar
Yes, I’m being melodramatic. But that’s how it fucking feels, okay?
Rock stars aren’t known for their calm and equilibrium.
Rocco smacks his drum sticks together four times, then we launch into another of our most popular tracks. For a while, the music is enough to carry me, buoying me along on the beat, and I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation.
Then I start singing, and my throat stings in reproval. And it hits me all over again: that disastrous phone call; the pain and misery in Tamsin’s voice; the way she hung up and left me in that park, even lonelier than before with a throbbing toe from kicking that tree stump.
All day, the horror of that failed phone call has been slapping me in the face whenever I’ve tried to relax. Couldn’t eat without remembering and wanting to gag; couldn’t shower without groaning and resting my head on the tiled wall. Couldn’t find any scrap of relief, except for mid-afternoon when I saidscrew itand went out for a long, punishing run around the leafy park trails, arms pumping and face slicked with sweat, my bruised toe throbbing in my sneaker.
Now I’m onstage, with thousands of phones pointed at me. The whole world is watching, and meanwhile I’m a shell of a man. A certifiable wreck.
“Tamsin,” I blurt, when we reach the song I’ve been dedicating to her each night. “I…”
But what is there to say? I had my second chance this morning, and I crashed and burned. After a certain point, if a woman doesn’t want me back, I need to respect that. Even if she’sitfor me.
“I…”
The crowd whistles and cheers, waving their lit-up phones in the air. They know to expect this by now; they’ve seen my heartfelt dedications in clips online. People areexcitedfor this part of the show every night, like it’s all part of the theatricality. Since I started calling out to Tamsin this way, our ticket resale prices have gone astronomical.
Too bad for them that there’s nothing more to say.
“I’ll always love you,” I grit out eventually, and the crowd goes wild. They don’t realize that this is it: the last time I’ll make this scene. I’m not gonna pester the woman I love. “Goodbye.”
My last word is swallowed up by the whoops and screams, but my band mates hear it. Now they glance at each other,reallyworried, and Zeke shrugs.
Coughing to clear my torn throat, I grip the microphone stand and wait for the opening chords.
* * *
“Great show,” a familiar voice says as I stomp offstage after our final song, about to follow the guys through the stacks of flight cases to our makeshift dressing area on the grass. My chest thumps dully, and I turn to face Photographer Patty. The guys go ahead, not noticing that I’ve stopped.
Patty smiles at me, and there’s so much sympathy in her expression that I want to howl and punch the nearest tower of cases. Instead, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and grunt.
“Kept forgetting the lyrics,” I mutter, though she probably heard as much for herself. The tour photographers have seen dozens of our shows each by now, and could probably all sing our songs by heart. “Couldn’t focus.”
Patty nods, sliding something out of the back pocket of her jeans. A folded piece of paper.
“I don’t blame you. But buckle up, Jett Santana, because focusing on anything is about to get a whole lot harder.”
She holds out the piece of paper to me. I stare down at it, nonplussed.
“It’s a letter,” Patty says after a brief pause, since I’m acting like a dumbass who never saw paper before. “From Tamsin.”
I snatch the letter so fast, the page crumples. “Thanks,” I choke out.
“Read it somewhere private,” Patty calls, but I’m already striding away into the darkness of the backstage area, weaving between walls of black flight cases and towers of silver boxesof sound equipment. They gleam in the moonlight, and I turn instinctively toward the deeper, velvety shadows. The letter is clutched tight in my hand.
Further back from the stage, trucks are being lined up, backing into position to get loaded. They beep shrilly as they reverse, and crew members in high vis vests guide them closer then hold up a hand to tell them when to stop. I veer left, away from the chaos, because folks are already hitching ramps onto the trucks and throwing the doors wide open. I’ve watched these crews work before, and they’ll have the whole stage torn apart and loaded onto the trucks in the blink of an eye. Like a shoal of piranhas stripping a carcass in twenty seconds flat.
I donotwant to be in the way while they work. What I need is a quiet spot with decent light.
The answer comes as I shoulder my way through the waiting crew, all of them tugging on work gloves and swinging their arms around to limber up.
The truck headlights. The bright light pooling on the grass, over at the end of the vehicles where nothing is happening. Perfect.
“‘Scuse me.” Head up, my glare fixed on that pale pool of light, I squeeze my way through the crew to the front of the trucks. “Coming through.”
There’s a tiny squeak behind me, but when I glance back, no one’s looking my way. The crew all surge forward as one, swarming toward the stage and the empty cases piled everywhere to start packing up. The sound of hammers on metal rings through the night.
