Austin-2, Stella-fucked.
Paige spoke animatedly as we drove to a neighborhood on the edge of the city. Still stuck on the message I’d left Dylan, and the one I didn’t have coming, I didn’t bother asking where we were going as we headed into a house with a gallon of tequila and a bag full of mixers. I was introduced to some work friends that I didn’t bother to memorize the names of before I made myself comfortable on the couch in the living room of the spacious house. Everyone else was on the porch while I sat inside in my own little bubble of despair. I had no one in Austin but my sister, who had decided being five years older made her the matriarch of the relationship. I gave her that freedom because, honestly, I couldn’t have cared less. Still, Paige had been good to me, she made sure I slept comfortably on her couch and gave me the first margarita made in the kitchen that night, which I drank down easily.
Eyeing my surroundings, mismatched furniture, bookshelves filled with endless hardbacks, knickknacks, and a plethora of plants, I spotted a rack of magazines. I plucked out a Spin with a cover that read “Foo Fighter’s: The Secret Life of Dave Grohl” and started flipping through. Laughter and the smell of weed drifted from the partially opened patio door as I peeked over the top of the magazine. Everyone outside seemed to be in good spirits as they sat around a kaleidoscope tile-covered picnic table, drinking stout margaritas while they bullshitted. The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” filtered past the laughter, and even in my sour mood, I began to hum along. Halfway through the interview, I studied the snapshots of Dave Grohl and glanced back over through the open blinds to look at Reid.
Reid looked a little like Dave Grohl.
Or maybe Reid was trying to look a little like Dave Grohl.
The tequila told me that was hysterical, and I found my eyes drifting back to him as I laughed at the similarities.
Reid’s eyes found mine across the space, and I quickly averted mine. But I was too late.
The door slid open. “What are you laughing at?”
“I’m not laughing,” I said absently while I flipped another page.
“Okay.”
“Just reading about your twin,” I said with a grin, though I was sure he hadn’t heard due to the ice dispenser in the kitchen and wall between us. “What’s that?”
Tequila, or utter stupidity, had me speaking again. “You look a little like Dave Grohl.”
“He looks like me.”
“So, you hear that a lot?”
“Fucking daily. And we have a lot in common.”
“You’re in a band?”
A casted arm poked out of the kitchen with his reply. “Not today.”
“Yeah, that sucks. Sorry.”
I didn’t ask him what happened because I didn’t care. I couldn’t. I was trying my best minute by minute not to think about Dylan, and the humiliation that came with letting a guy like that take any sort of lead with me. I just wanted to be alone to sulk with my magazine. Picking up another, I began thumbing through and winced when I realized Reid stood expectantly at the edge of the couch with a fresh margarita in hand. No matter how pretty he was, I didn’t want his company.
“You planning on joining us?”
“Nope.” I turned the page, though I hadn’t read a word. “As of today, I’m done with being gender social, especially with the musical kind.”
“I wasn’t hitting on you.” My face burned slightly as I again peered over my magazine. He towered over me, and I squirmed a little under inquisitive hazel eyes, more on the green side than brown. He’d been blessed with a broad, Roman nose, and beautifully sculpted jaw. The darkened skin of the arm that wasn’t bandaged told me he’d been in the sun all summer. His hair had dried and shortened into onyx pieces that worked together to form the perfect, silky mess. He was heavily inked with a thick black band around the wrist I could see and solid and distinct patterns of tats that disappeared at his bicep under his T-shirt. Though he wore a white smile, he was dark from the tip of his head down to his black boots. He oozed confidence and had no issue staring me down to the point I felt completely uncomfortable.
Though my pride had just taken a lashing, I met his eyes with a dead stare. “I didn’t think you were hitting on me.”
“You totally thought I was,” he said as a dimple peeked out next to his bottom lip behind the stubble on his face. “But don’t worry, little sister,” he said with sarcastic assurance, “you’re safe.”
I rolled my eyes and looked back down at the Spin that covered my thighs.
Seconds later, the door slid closed. Minutes after that, I looked back out at the patio to see him conversing with Paige, positive she was telling Reid exactly why I was no longer dating musicians.
“Fuck you very much, Paige,” I sighed out as Reid again glanced back at me, his dark eyes covering me in mild indifference.
“Well, thank God I’m safe,” I said sarcastically as he watched me mouth the words. Slowly, a new smile appeared, one that told me he knew exactly what I’d said.
Word Up
Cameo
“Stella, go, baby, go!”
Mom?
Dazed from my afternoon nap, I looked around my sister’s empty bedroom. I’d woken up restless that morning after another night on her quicksand couch and I’d exhausted my list of things to do. Again, I cleaned her spotless, one-bedroom apartment that, at that point, could’ve passed a white glove inspection. On my laptop, I’d filled out twenty applications and watched four hours of reruns of VH1’s Behind the Music—my proverbial bible and the starting point of my obsession with the behind the scenes life of musicians. I loved the stories about those with the hardest struggles and their epic turning points.
With both Neil and Paige at work, I was forced to pace the complex in the nightmarish Texas heat outside the door until I found myself exhausted. I’d opted for a few hours on her mattress rather than the couch that swallowed me whole, so that I actually slept inside of it rather than on.
“Look at her go!” My mother’s voice was unmistakable as I shot up from bed, utterly confused. I could clearly hear my parents in my sister’s living room. When I emerged in a sleepy stupor, I was surprised to see Mom and Dad weren’t there. Instead, Paige sat on her couch laughing, with Reid next to her doing the same. Both their eyes were fixed on the TV.
“She’s got rhythm, that’s for sure!” my mother cooed with pride as realization dawned. Reid was the first to notice me standing in the hallway, and his eyes rolled over me before they moved back to the screen. I followed his stare and leapt toward my sister, who had the remote in her hands.
“Paige, what are you doing?”
“Your birthday video came,” she said, amused at my discomfort.
“I can see that,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why did you open it? Not cool.”
“God, you were cute,” she said, ignoring me as she lifted her chin toward the home movie. All eyes in the living room were on a miniature me, jamming on the kitchen floor of my parents’ house. I was sitting in a diaper, flailing chubby arms, and rocking away while Cameo’s “Word Up” blared through the surround sound Neil had just installed.
“My boo bear,” I heard my father chuckle. “Look at her go. She can really move.”
“Boo bear?” Reid asked.