intimacy—things that guys just don’t do if they are looking for a quick and easy lay?
It was impossible to truly see the good in someone when the only thing you hears about them was the bad, and I so desperately wanted to see the good. Should I take heed of the warnings and be glad I dodged a bullet, or take the risk to act on my feelings?
CHAPTER 8— NATE
I had to admit, I’d had fun last night. It was fun induced by alcohol and superfans, sure, but I’d still enjoyed soaking up their worshiping praise and crying with laughter at Mikey as he collected his women. I’d been free, unconcerned. Anna had been forgotten, replaced by the easy thrills that came with being in a band. Free booze, gorgeous woman and exclusive access to anywhere. I’d kissed a few simpering fans, more for the effect on them than sexual pleasure. It gave me faint amusement that a kiss from me, some dork with a guitar, could turn well respected, grown women into gigging wrecks.
The hollow feeling started to creep back as I stretched out on my hotel bed. That seeping dissatisfaction I couldn’t escape from. Momentarily, I wondered if I was depressed, if I needed to be on some sort of medication to help with my mood. I rubbed my hands over my face realizing that was probably a bit dramatic. Drugs wouldn’t make me less miserable, it was my state of mind I needed to change, and last night had proved that. It had been like our first tour—no girlfriends, no responsibility—reveling in the attention rather than trying to avoid it. I’d felt young again, fresh and ready for life. So what was with the hole in the pit of my stomach now, the persistent sense of unfulfillment?
With a sudden spark of inspiration, I jumped out of bed and opened my laptop on the desk across the room. Misery was a perfect muse, so I decided to use it. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I typed out lyrics to a new song, not thinking about what I wrote, just allowing the words to stream out of my head and onto the monitor. After a couple of hours, I sat back to read it through. It was possibly the best thing I’d written in well over a year and I finally felt something I’d not had for that whole time—pride.
People used to tell me to write about the hurt following my break up with Becky but I wasn’t able to. It was too raw, too personal. You can’t write about something well when you are tripping over thick branches of emotion. It becomes heavy and meaningless to everyone else. But when nothing happens, when you are caught in an abyss of apathetic despair, well, from my writing, it certainly seemed as though it worked for me. I shot off the lyrics to Mikey and Jon before getting up from my hunched position over the table. I was ravenous, and picked up my cell to see if the guys wanted to get a bite to eat somewhere.
I was surprised to see the little envelope icon. I’d been so engrossed in my work that I hadn’t heard my message tone. My surprise deepened when I saw who it was from.
Looks like you’ve been having fun. Did you mean any of what you said, about me being different, how you couldn’t stop thinking about me? I just have to know.
The brightness I’d had after writing the song turned to black like someone had flicked off a switch. Women were impossible. Impulsively, I slammed out a reply.
If I remember correctly, you were the one who said that we couldn’t do this and after Saturday that would be it. You wanted me to drop it and I did. So now who doesn’t mean what they say?
I was fuming. Fuming that I’d let myself nearly fall for a girl who had brushed me aside so easily, who hadn’t been able to fight for what she wanted. And fuming because I was still the one accused of being an asshole when all I’d done was what she had goddamn well asked me to.
A couple of minutes went by, and then my phone rang. I sighed as I picked up.
“For God’s sake, Anna. It was you who wanted to leave
It was impossible to truly see the good in someone when the only thing you hears about them was the bad, and I so desperately wanted to see the good. Should I take heed of the warnings and be glad I dodged a bullet, or take the risk to act on my feelings?
CHAPTER 8— NATE
I had to admit, I’d had fun last night. It was fun induced by alcohol and superfans, sure, but I’d still enjoyed soaking up their worshiping praise and crying with laughter at Mikey as he collected his women. I’d been free, unconcerned. Anna had been forgotten, replaced by the easy thrills that came with being in a band. Free booze, gorgeous woman and exclusive access to anywhere. I’d kissed a few simpering fans, more for the effect on them than sexual pleasure. It gave me faint amusement that a kiss from me, some dork with a guitar, could turn well respected, grown women into gigging wrecks.
The hollow feeling started to creep back as I stretched out on my hotel bed. That seeping dissatisfaction I couldn’t escape from. Momentarily, I wondered if I was depressed, if I needed to be on some sort of medication to help with my mood. I rubbed my hands over my face realizing that was probably a bit dramatic. Drugs wouldn’t make me less miserable, it was my state of mind I needed to change, and last night had proved that. It had been like our first tour—no girlfriends, no responsibility—reveling in the attention rather than trying to avoid it. I’d felt young again, fresh and ready for life. So what was with the hole in the pit of my stomach now, the persistent sense of unfulfillment?
With a sudden spark of inspiration, I jumped out of bed and opened my laptop on the desk across the room. Misery was a perfect muse, so I decided to use it. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I typed out lyrics to a new song, not thinking about what I wrote, just allowing the words to stream out of my head and onto the monitor. After a couple of hours, I sat back to read it through. It was possibly the best thing I’d written in well over a year and I finally felt something I’d not had for that whole time—pride.
People used to tell me to write about the hurt following my break up with Becky but I wasn’t able to. It was too raw, too personal. You can’t write about something well when you are tripping over thick branches of emotion. It becomes heavy and meaningless to everyone else. But when nothing happens, when you are caught in an abyss of apathetic despair, well, from my writing, it certainly seemed as though it worked for me. I shot off the lyrics to Mikey and Jon before getting up from my hunched position over the table. I was ravenous, and picked up my cell to see if the guys wanted to get a bite to eat somewhere.
I was surprised to see the little envelope icon. I’d been so engrossed in my work that I hadn’t heard my message tone. My surprise deepened when I saw who it was from.
Looks like you’ve been having fun. Did you mean any of what you said, about me being different, how you couldn’t stop thinking about me? I just have to know.
The brightness I’d had after writing the song turned to black like someone had flicked off a switch. Women were impossible. Impulsively, I slammed out a reply.
If I remember correctly, you were the one who said that we couldn’t do this and after Saturday that would be it. You wanted me to drop it and I did. So now who doesn’t mean what they say?
I was fuming. Fuming that I’d let myself nearly fall for a girl who had brushed me aside so easily, who hadn’t been able to fight for what she wanted. And fuming because I was still the one accused of being an asshole when all I’d done was what she had goddamn well asked me to.
A couple of minutes went by, and then my phone rang. I sighed as I picked up.
“For God’s sake, Anna. It was you who wanted to leave
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