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It was done.
He dropped his phone in his lap and crossed his arms over his chest.
It was too cold. He should go back inside.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GOLD RUSH
SIX MONTHS LATER
ASA
Routine was one of things he was always going to loathe needing.
He wished he could be fine with no schedule, no plan, no system. But every time he tried to live wild and free, he ended up depressed.
And not a little depressed but a lot depressed.
Routine kept him—well, not exactlyhappybut not unhappy.
Routine kept him. End of sentence.
It had taken him years to understand that about himself. And just because he understood it didn’t mean he liked it.
So maybe it was good that his band and all of his hopes and dreams had imploded years ago. Because getting everything he wanted probably would have killed him.
How’s that for irony?
Six months ago, after the Zara Lorna, NMAs, CELEBX incident, he’d realized he needed just a little more in his routine to occupy his mind. Otherwise he found himself scrolling the internet endlessly reading everything about her that he could.
So, he’d muted her name and Black’s name on all his socials. Then, when he still couldn’t seem to stop checking, he’d deleted his socials.
He’d started rock climbing and bouldering with his friend Steinhoff. They used to do that when they were younger and he’d gotten away from it. Coming back to it at thirty was a harsh reminder that his body was aging and if he didn’t start using it, it was going to waste away.
He’d stopped playing at the Iggy. It was just too hard to go back to music even after the gossip sites had cooled down. Creating music, existing in that space had only ever led him to pain and chaos.
Hannah and Johnny had given him more managerial duties at the studio. They tried to gently nudge him into working with indie artists that needed some guidance but he kept dodging it.
He was the last person who should be giving advice.
But the jingles kept him busy. Sometimes he’d get a bonus if a client liked his work.
It wasn’t what he thought he’d be doing with his life. But he liked it enough to keep going.
He was currently on the shave part of his day.
Which was why he was having existential thoughts about routine. Looking at himself in the mirror often prompted an internal conversation.
Especially since he still wasn’t used to seeing himself with a beard.
It wasn’t a mountain man beard. It was short and thick; he had to trim it every day or it got out of control quickly.
But sometimes he’d see himself and think he looked way more grown-up than he felt.
Hopefully how he appeared would eventually take over how he felt.
The sounds of power tools and boots scraping on bare wooden floors in another part of the house had also been a prompt for his pragmatic conversation.
