Page 93 of A Tragic Melody

“Probably too late for that, but it will help sell your story to the boss man.”

“What if I don’t want to sell that story anymore?” She peeks over at me. “What if I want to keep you around?”

“We both know that isn’t possible.”

“Yeah, but it would be nice if it was, right?”

“It would be very nice.”

“Well, I’ll see you out there.” She leans forward, pressing her lips against my cheek. The gesture takes us both by surprise. It felt almost automatic, and it felt right…but it still makes us both freeze for a moment. “I…”

“Yeah.” I nod.

She slips out of my bunk, and I settle back for a moment. Things between Tuesday and I have gone from complicated, to bad, to good, to complicated quite a few times now. The whiplash is intense. There are moments I want to never see her again, but when she is gone, the loss feels huge. Then there are moments I just want to hold her close, but her presence feels suffocating.

The mixture of emotions makes her dangerous. I could easily see myself getting lost in her tragedy when I’m barely surviving my own. I’d sink down to rock bottom just to keep her company there. It would be one thing if I thought I could pick her up from the bottom floor she has made a home in, but I can’t. She refuses to leave, even if she was allowed to, but she has been glued there. Trapped by the powers to be, and too helpless to escape. If I could break her free, things would be different, but I’m not strong enough to save myself, let alone her.

So whatever we feel for each other has nowhere to go. It’s a dying flame. A shooting star, but a dying wish. It’s best to not acknowledge our feelings, to tiptoe around them so when this tour is over, we can part without ever having to address a love that never came to be.

We have a two-day bus ride to the next show. I take to writing new music on the couch while Tuesday dances around to music. She is high as a fucking kite. I think it’s easier for us both if she stays high, to be honest. As long as it isn’t meth, it’s probably safer for her to enjoy herself that way. It keeps us from doing something that will only end up hurting more down the road.

I watch her dance from the corner of my eye as I scribble away ideas and song lyrics. I plan on leaving her this notebook, since all the material in it is written with her in mind.

It all fits her vocal range, her style, her vibe—it fits her. So I’ll gladly hand it over to her when we part. She deserves it, and I’d feel better knowing my legacy is in her hands when this is all over. I can live knowing she is playing my music, not some shitty band.

“What are you writing?” she asks, spinning around to face me. Her hips twist as she sinks halfway to the ground, then twirls herself back up. “My eyes are up here.” She giggles.

“Music.” She rolls her eyes. “Song ideas. Some music notes, ideas, but right now I’m mostly writing down lyrics.”

“About me?”

“For you,” I correct.

“For me?” She tilts her head to the side as she sways. “What do you mean for me?”

“For you to have if you ever need new music.”

“I like to write my own.” She smiles. “But I would consider, maybe, possibly recording one or two of your creations.”

“It’s an honor to even have you consider it.” I smile at her.

“Don’t your hands ever get tired? You are always strumming on the guitar or writing music.”

“I push through the pain.” I shrug.

“How heroic.” She rolls her eyes with a small smile on her face.

She closes her eyes, mouthing the words to the song playing as she dances.

I take a pause in writing to watch. I shouldn’t, but what’s another memory of her to burn into my mind? I’m not going to have much when this ends, might as well collect what I can.

“Hey!” the bus driver yells back. “Turn the music down, we are getting pulled over.”

“Pulled over?” Tuesday groans, turning down the music. “Lame.”

“Tuesday,” I say firmly. She turns to look at me. I haven’t used her full name in a while, and she clearly doesn’t like it. “Where are your drugs right now?”

“On the table,” she says. “Why? Do you want some?” She smirks.