Page 18 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
It’s been thirty-seven minutes since Miranda moved up our tutoring time.
Thirty-seven minutes since Ryder called methat girl.
I arrange my materials on the scuffed and chipped tabletop with obsessive precision. My copy of ‘What We Carry’ sits perfectly aligned with my stack of worksheets. They’re lined up neatly beside my notebook and gel-ink pen, everything at exact right angles. Like if I make everything perfect enough, it will somehow undo the disaster in the music room.
Voices echo from the hallway, tugging me further into my anxiety spiral. The library doors burst open with enough force to make me jump.
Ryder strolls in with Chase and Brooks flanking him. All three have their instruments with them. Chase carrying his bass case, Brooks with his drumsticks in hand, and Ryder with his guitar strapped across his shoulder.
They’re continuing their practice.
Here.
“I’m telling you, that bridge progression is sick,” Brooks says, dropping into one of the leather chairs like he owns the place. “Way better than the original arrangement.”
“Yeah, we could’ve really sunk into it before someone destroyed our practice space,” Chase adds pointedly, his eyes flicking to me for just a second before looking away.
My face burns, and I straighten my pen against my notebook like it’ll help.
“The showcase is going to be insane if we can nail that bridge live,” Brooks continues, completely ignoring my presence. “Chase, your dad’s bringing executives from distribution, right?”
“That’s the plan,” Chase says, his voice tight. “Assuming we can actually get our practice sessions sorted before then.”
Ryder hasn’t looked at me once. He sits on the edge of the mahogany desk, right on top of my carefully arrangedworksheets, and pulls out his phone. His guitar rests against a table leg.
“Hamilton,” Chase says, setting his bass case against a bookshelf with a loud thud. “When are you gonna get your equipment sorted? We can’t come back to rehearse here if this stuff isn’t figured out.”
“I dunno, man. I didn’t budget to buy new gear,” Ryder replies flatly, still staring at his phone.
“Don’t forget, Chase,” Brooks leans back in his chair, balancing on two legs. “Ryder’s not from around here. He needs to send home for money.”
Chase and Brooks snigger at each other. That is until Ryder lifts his head, silencing the pair.
Chase clears his throat. “Dude, just get it done. Okay? Because if Dad thinks we’re not taking this seriously, if he thinks we’re messing around with broken equipment because some girl can’t watch where she’s going—“
“He won’t,” Ryder interrupts sharply. “Miranda will fix it. That’s what she does.”
Fix it?
Fix me?
Am I the problem that needs solving?
I clear my throat softly, hoping to remind them why we’re here.
Nothing.
They continue talking about the showcase like I’m invisible. Like I’m just another piece of furniture in this dusty library.
“The setlist needs work too,” Brooks says, still balancing his chair precariously. “We can’t open with a slow song. We need something that grabs attention immediately.”
“‘Fractured’ isn’t slow,” Ryder argues, finally setting down his phone. “It builds. That’s the whole point.”
“Builds too slow,” Brooks counters. “You need to hook people in the first thirty seconds. Executives don’t have patience.”
“My dad especially,” Chase adds. “He’s bringing suits who’ve never heard us play before. First impressions matter.”
Ryder slouches, setting his palms behind him on the tabletop. “Then what do you suggest?”
