"𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁
all it ever says is:
𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦."
- trista mateer, honeybee
when valerie forester heads south to visit her best friend in nashville, the last thing she expects when she departs is an...
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★ ★★
the next day, i laid in bed until one o'clock in the afternoon. a thin layer of sweat had made a home of my skin. my stomach churned with nausea whenever a wave of heat washed over my shoulders. and i couldn't help but grimace every now and then at the taste of bong water and stale weed lingering somewhere in my mouth.
my brain ran circles in my head. i hadn't given myself a moment to process the news that marin had laid on me last night—really process it—so i was caught in this loop of smoking a bowl, scrolling mindlessly through my phone, then peeking out my bedroom window to make sure my car hadn't been stolen. (it hadn't.) (yet.) i did that until quarter to two, when i decided i could no longer deal with the sensation of grime blanketing every inch of my body, and the sickness in my gut. i'd grown tolerant of my loop of distractions.
i took a hot shower. then a cold one. then i brushed my teeth over and over again until i couldn't taste anything but mint. after that, i sliced up an orange and bit into it before my mind could put up a fight, and soon enough the bitterness didn't faze me.
if there was one thing about me, it was that i could never look my problems in the eye. even if i knew it'd be good for me. even if i knew that those exact problems, and all the weight i carried on my shoulders because of them, would downsize tenfold the very second i turned to face them. all i had to do was stop running. but i was compulsive, and afraid, and restless, and i always had been. and i wouldn't know how to stop running even if i wanted to.
that was another thing: i wasn't sure if i did.
so i did everything in my power to avoid thinking.
i spent the next hour going through my luggage, sorting out the worn and unworn articles of clothing before giving up and tossing everything into one big pile to be washed. i blasted alice in chains on surround sound to drown out any morsel of silence that might be cowering in the nooks and crannies of my home. it was the best i could do. and it seemed to do the trick for a while. long enough for me to throw some clothes in the washing machine.
it was when i dug my hand into my messenger bag, prepared to find nothing but gum wrappers and old crumpled up receipts, that my mind finally managed to outdo the music.
jake stared up at me from the cover of the magazine in my hands. a white suit hugged his figure. his fingers clutched the neck of a red gibson.
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he was a rockstar. he was famous.
i couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't mentioned his profession. better yet, how i hadn't managed to put the pieces together myself. considering all the evidence that had fallen at my feet during the week — the way he walked the busy streets with his head down, the expensive instruments and equipment littering his beautiful condo, and the knowing look on that drive thru employee's face as jake rolled up with his hood over his head — i should have known. it should have been obvious. i considered the notion that he was vain enough to assume i already knew of his renown. or maybe he had hoped that i didn't. either way, i couldn't confidently say that it was important, that it mattered, because it didn't. he wasn't a rockstar to me, he was just jake. kind, humble jake.
