Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
So I’ve put some distance between us in the most literal way I can.
My bike is back from the shop, and I took a long drive along the mainland coast—staying at cheap motels, driving when I get up, eating when I get hungry. It’s beautiful, calming. Lonely. I miss her. Which is weird since I only really just met her. But I know her. After weeks of hanging out, I know all sorts of Libby things.
I know that even though she makes the best damn biscuits in the world and perfect peach pie—food that will have me moaning in pleasure—Libby likes to snack on ramen noodles slathered in BBQ sauce and butter, which is some truly disgusting shit. I know that she loves Scooby-Doo cartoon movies and actually gets freaked out during the “spooky” scenes.
And she knows me. She knows that Britney Spears was my first concert, not The Strokes as the public believes—though how I wish that were true. She knows I hate beans, not because of the taste, but because I can’t stand biting into the nasty skins surrounding them.
We know each other. We can talk about anything, or nothing. It never gets old or boring. Libby is my resonance; when I’m in her vicinity, I’m suddenly amped up, with everything moving at a different frequency. And I don’t care if that’s sappy. It’s the truth.
I can’t stay away any longer. If all I can have of her is friendship, I’ll have to take it.
It takes me all day to get back home. When I turn down the long shared road toward our houses, the sky is fading to smoky blue shot with coral pink. My house sits dark in the shadows. Golden light streams from Libby’s window, hitting the lawn. Her silhouette moves past the kitchen window, and I imagine she’s cooking something awesome.
My bike nears the fork in the road, one way taking me to her, the other to my house. I want to go to Libby so badly it’s an actual, physical pain in my chest and gut. I want to sit in her kitchen that smells of comfort food, hear the slam-bang of her pots and pans as she talks about nothing in particular, and watch the efficient way she moves in her space.
I want that.
I turn toward my house instead. And it hurts.
After a shower, I grab a beer and slump in the big rocking chair on my porch. I find my cell sitting on the little side table. I left it behind on purpose. Five missed calls from Scottie, and a text: Jax is ready. Get your ass back to NYC.
Well, for once I’m not ready. I text him back so he’ll stop bugging me.
Tour doesn’t start for over a month. We have time.
His response is immediate.
Guys want to get back into it. They’re asking me to book a few earlier shows.
Fuck. Part of me is annoyed that they didn’t call me themselves. But I haven’t exactly been communicative. And we all know that the best way to get any of us to do something is to sic Scottie on our asses.
Rubbing my neck, I think of what to do. Libby is right; I can’t hide forever. But I’m not ready to leave. Not yet. I send Scottie a final text: I’ll call you in a few days. Then I turn off the phone.
The night is muggy, the beer icy. Over the hum of the cicadas comes the sound of a guitar. It’s an acoustic version of The Black Keys’ “You’re The One.” It must be a new recording because I haven’t heard it before.
Then I realize—it isn’t a recording. It’s live. Libby is playing that guitar. Of course it’s Libby, the girl raised by musicians, who writes songs of poetic beauty and hides them away like a dirty secret. Of course she’d hide this from me too.
I want to be irate, but her sound distracts me. The hairs on my forearms rise as I sit up. She’s good. Really good. Her style is easy and smooth, not the hard, tense drive of mine. More folk to my rock. But I appreciate the fuck out of it.
My fingers twitch with the desire to pick up my guitar. For the first time in months, I want to play. Fuck that, I need to play, be the rhythm to her lead, or the lead to her rhythm. Find out what she can do.
She eases into Sinead O’Connor’s “The Last Day of Our Acquaintance.” It’s an older song, not heard much anymore. But Rye developed a huge thing for O’Connor after he saw her “Nothing Compares 2 U” video during some ‘90s rockumentary, and it was all we could do to get him to turn off her music. I’m pretty sure at this point his dream girl has a shaved head.