Chapter 42

Jane called. Emmett called. I ignored them both, unsure what to say.

I wondered what they'd thought of me just disappearing out of nowhere. Had they heard what happened between Edward and me? About Carlisle busting in and finding us? Had I turned into some new gossip living on people's lips in the green room like so many others until the next hour when everyone went about their business and forgot?

I itched to call them back, to find out what was being said, how was Edward acting, did he seem angry, sad, shaken, sullen and had he mentioned me at all? That last part is why I didn't, because I knew he hadn't.

I didn't want it confirmed, I guess.

My suitcase arrived at the door exactly twelve days after I left the bus. I wondered what took Uncle Carlisle so long and thought about him having to pick through my things in Edward's sex-filled bedroom. Remnants of what we did for three days lingering in the air and in every bit of clothing that probably smelled of Edward and me and all we did.

I guess that was better though than having Edward pack my bags, tossing my stuff in with a confused look on his face like he didn't know who it belonged to. Part of me was afraid to open the bag, scared I'd find some other girls' underwear tossed in because it was found under the bed or dresser and no one knew whose it was.

The radio was off, just in case. The TV too. I couldn't take the chance that he'd be there, playing and singing his heart out, knowing that I should be just to the right of the stage, watching. Knowing I should be in the back, fixing napkins and opening beer.

It sure as shit wasn't the first time I'd thought of what it would've been like after our stolen three days when the band came back, when Carlisle came back, and the tour would resume.

Would I be on that bus, in my little bunk as Edward passed me and brushed my hand or thigh in secret code?

Would I be sitting next to him on his bench, his arm slung around me casually while people just sat staring at us in disbelief until they got used to the idea of us together?

Or would I be on bus three, more miserable than I was right now?

Much to my parents' dismay, the fall semester started without me. I got a job in a crummy coffee shop just so I could escape the looks I got from my parents day in and day out. My choice angered my father which led to many one-sided conversations between us that spelled out all I was throwing away. My mother, however, was just happy I was out of my room.

The calls from Jane and Emmett faded. The one call I got from Uncle Carlisle went by without me answering, and I never got another. I knew he'd talked to my dad once or twice. My father never let on what the conversations were about, but his voice was raised in the living room, and I'd heard mention of a college I wasn't attending. There were no more calls after that so I assumed Carlisle was over it and didn't want the hassle of me anymore. I couldn't bear to think he thought of me like he thought of all the bimbos that preceded me and all that had undoubtedly come after.

But that's basically what I was, wasn't I? I'd fallen for the fiery charm of the dragon like so many others. I was no different than the girl who'd bragged she'd sucked him off backstage during a drum solo.

On a random Tuesday, when I was rubbing coffee rings from a farmhouse-style table, I heard the unmistakable first notes of "Feast of Many" over the coffee shop speakers and my body froze mid-swipe. It was the first time I'd heard their actual music besides what I hummed in my memories, and I ran to turn the station off. A couple of 'hey's' from other staff rang out, but I didn't care. I could not listen to that.

Not there.

Not in that sucking black hole of a shitty job when just two months ago, I was swinging from the rafters on top of the world.

I loved my time on the road. Loved being in the hotels and watching the lighting crew, the sound checks. I even loved being the girl that fetched water and made sure there were no cashews in the nut bowl. It was all so exciting. Different from the excitement he brought. My life in those moments made me feel important, like I was doing something extraordinary. Something no one else I knew had the opportunity to do.

What a fucking mistake I'd made.

I wanted that back, the feel of the road and the energy it gave me. Green rooms and buses and the back stages of venues you couldn't remember the name of. The high of a show gone well and the euphoria of being a part of it.

Carlisle had been my way in, but it didn't mean he chose my way out. About a week after that revelation ignited, I started searching online for any job listings at local venues. Working the ticket counter at a small theater or bar had to be better than wallowing and cleaning coffee spills. My excitement at the idea led me to watching clips of bands appearing around town, which led me to watching endless hours of YouTube concert footage of bands I used to love and those that were new to me. I wanted that feeling back I'd gotten at the coffee shop. The one where there was a bigger picture than a fuckfest and a few butterflies. The love of music.

I watched the crews as they scrambled out to change instruments. I watched drummers accept sticks from a roadie in the middle of a solo after one had escaped their grasp. Poured over any images of people standing in the wings, waiting to do whatever it was they did. All the faceless blobs were me; I was that girl on the side with a shiny crew tag around her neck.

Until it actually was me.

A clip popped up automatically after one of The Killers ended. I couldn't stop it.

There I was, bopping along, my face unrecognizable through the distance and the grainy footage, but there was no doubt it was me.

And then it began.

Notes of Baby Baby Baby. I watched in horror as someone captured the only time that song had ever been played live as far as I knew. My stomach clenched and I couldn't peel my eyes from the pixelated figure that was frozen in place on the sidelines, standing next to an equally blurry but unmistakable Emmett.

I watched it eight times before the tears returned, and I curled up in a ball on my bedroom floor, equal parts sad about him and mad that I still fucking felt that way.