that’s settled on me.
It’s not pretty. After I filed my Indie Day story Friday—including a few lines about Tyler’s guest appearance—I hightailed it out of my newsroom and into my pajamas, with a bottle of Absolut and a remote control to keep me company.
When Neil came home late that night I was wicked drunk and crying over Sweet Home Alabama . The chick flick, not the song. Neil announced that I had six days to move out because his roommate Violet is coming home on Thursday.
More tears. More shots. More of the hopelessness that pooled like lead in my gut.
“Stella?” Beryl’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“Nothing yet. You want to come with me to yoga?” That’s my escape, a few times a week, when I can just breathe and move my body and things feel like they fall in order.
Instead of doing yoga this weekend, I was running all over Manhattan after Craigslist ads for shared housing, each of them too good to be true.
I am so screwed on Thursday. But on Wednesday? I’m wide open.
“I thought you might want to come to a last-minute show for Tattoo Thief,” Beryl says, and my breath catches at the band’s name. Images of Tyler invade my brain: working the bass on stage, his tapered fingers reaching across the fretboard to hit the chords, his arms glowing with sweat under the stage lights.
Considering that homeless trumps he loves me not , Tyler isn’t even at the top of my list of Things That Suck.
I’ve paused too long before answering so Beryl continues. “It’s just a small gig they picked up at Rockwood Music Hall. They’re going to play ‘Wilderness’ and do a bunch of their older stuff acoustic. What do you think?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to face Tyler again, especially after his latest rejection. He’ll probably think I’m stalking him. But Heath’s breathing down my neck for another story and my relationship with Beryl is so fragile that I don’t feel like I can say no.
“Sure. Thanks for inviting me.” I could take off as soon as the set’s over to avoid Tyler.
“Great.” I hear relief in Beryl’s voice. Maybe she’s as nervous about inviting me as I am about accepting. “Stella? Did something happen with you and Tyler?”
“What did you hear?” Instantly, I’m on alert.
“Tyler didn’t say anything except he ran into you at the Indie Day concert. But he was funny about it, like there was more to the story. What happened?”
I shake my head. There’s no good way to tell her, especially after she’d warned me not to hurt him. But I didn’t hurt him—he hurt me with each rejection. “Let’s talk about it later. I got knocked down and Tyler helped me up, but then things got weird. But I promise I won’t make it weird at the show.”
Beryl pauses and I can tell she’s debating whether to press me for more. Instead, she promises to leave a ticket for me at will-call.
***
I arrive at the club a few minutes before show time and my ticket makes the beefy guy at the door do a second take. He points me to a corridor and I find Beryl in a handful of seats tucked behind the stage curtains.
“You’re just in time. I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
I give Beryl a side-hug and sit, relating the subway snafu that delayed me. I recognize Dave’s girlfriend, Kristina, but she either doesn’t see me or ignores me.
Three heavily made-up girls with boobs spilling over their low-cut tops fill the other chairs. Compared to their getups, I look like I could teach Sunday school.
I incline my head slightly toward them, giving Beryl a questioning look. She shakes her head. Now is not the time.
The music shifts and the backstage lights dim. The members of Tattoo Thief take their places in center stage behind the closed curtains and I’m relieved to be out of Tyler’s sightline. He fingers his instrument, fine-tunes a string, and shoves his hands in his hair to push it off his forehead.
When the curtains part and light floods the stage, the busty
It’s not pretty. After I filed my Indie Day story Friday—including a few lines about Tyler’s guest appearance—I hightailed it out of my newsroom and into my pajamas, with a bottle of Absolut and a remote control to keep me company.
When Neil came home late that night I was wicked drunk and crying over Sweet Home Alabama . The chick flick, not the song. Neil announced that I had six days to move out because his roommate Violet is coming home on Thursday.
More tears. More shots. More of the hopelessness that pooled like lead in my gut.
“Stella?” Beryl’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“Nothing yet. You want to come with me to yoga?” That’s my escape, a few times a week, when I can just breathe and move my body and things feel like they fall in order.
Instead of doing yoga this weekend, I was running all over Manhattan after Craigslist ads for shared housing, each of them too good to be true.
I am so screwed on Thursday. But on Wednesday? I’m wide open.
“I thought you might want to come to a last-minute show for Tattoo Thief,” Beryl says, and my breath catches at the band’s name. Images of Tyler invade my brain: working the bass on stage, his tapered fingers reaching across the fretboard to hit the chords, his arms glowing with sweat under the stage lights.
Considering that homeless trumps he loves me not , Tyler isn’t even at the top of my list of Things That Suck.
I’ve paused too long before answering so Beryl continues. “It’s just a small gig they picked up at Rockwood Music Hall. They’re going to play ‘Wilderness’ and do a bunch of their older stuff acoustic. What do you think?”
I hesitate. I don’t want to face Tyler again, especially after his latest rejection. He’ll probably think I’m stalking him. But Heath’s breathing down my neck for another story and my relationship with Beryl is so fragile that I don’t feel like I can say no.
“Sure. Thanks for inviting me.” I could take off as soon as the set’s over to avoid Tyler.
“Great.” I hear relief in Beryl’s voice. Maybe she’s as nervous about inviting me as I am about accepting. “Stella? Did something happen with you and Tyler?”
“What did you hear?” Instantly, I’m on alert.
“Tyler didn’t say anything except he ran into you at the Indie Day concert. But he was funny about it, like there was more to the story. What happened?”
I shake my head. There’s no good way to tell her, especially after she’d warned me not to hurt him. But I didn’t hurt him—he hurt me with each rejection. “Let’s talk about it later. I got knocked down and Tyler helped me up, but then things got weird. But I promise I won’t make it weird at the show.”
Beryl pauses and I can tell she’s debating whether to press me for more. Instead, she promises to leave a ticket for me at will-call.
***
I arrive at the club a few minutes before show time and my ticket makes the beefy guy at the door do a second take. He points me to a corridor and I find Beryl in a handful of seats tucked behind the stage curtains.
“You’re just in time. I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
I give Beryl a side-hug and sit, relating the subway snafu that delayed me. I recognize Dave’s girlfriend, Kristina, but she either doesn’t see me or ignores me.
Three heavily made-up girls with boobs spilling over their low-cut tops fill the other chairs. Compared to their getups, I look like I could teach Sunday school.
I incline my head slightly toward them, giving Beryl a questioning look. She shakes her head. Now is not the time.
The music shifts and the backstage lights dim. The members of Tattoo Thief take their places in center stage behind the closed curtains and I’m relieved to be out of Tyler’s sightline. He fingers his instrument, fine-tunes a string, and shoves his hands in his hair to push it off his forehead.
When the curtains part and light floods the stage, the busty
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