Page 31 of Hot Mess
It meant whatever you wanted it to mean, and that was about it.
Destiny is bullshit.
I was pretty sure about that.
And the only reason I was even pondering all this shit and wondering about this Danny girl was because I was straight-up avoiding getting on with my life and dealing with real issues—like my band breaking up and my career potentially heading down the shitter.
Yeah. That was about it.
I was fucking terrified, if I was honest with myself, that my career was over.
Fuck.
Music was my life. There was literally nothing else I wanted to do with my life like I wanted to make music. But the thought of having to put together a new band from scratch, alone, felt like fucking torture.
Depressing torture.
My heart wasn’t in it, so that was one problem.
The other problem… Fuck if I knew. Maybe my biggest problem, these days, was that I couldn’t figure out what the fuck my problem was.
The fear of failure thing, yes. There was that.
But the breakup party was supposed to help with that. It was supposed to be a reset. Full system reboot, start fresh the next day. Or whenever the hangover ended.
I’d always sworn by my breakup parties. Had a lot of them over the years, and they always did the trick.
Until now.
A week ago, Summer had told me exactly what my problem was—the night of Zane and Maggie’s dry wedding reception, when she and I hung out and I wasn’t drunk for once, and we had a heart-to-heart about a bunch of stuff. According to Summer, I kept falling in love with the wrong people.
Interesting to hear that from her, since I probably fell in love with her the most.
But if the people I’d loved the most—Summer and Dylan—and the ones I’d started to fall for—Amber and Elle—were all wrong for me, then who was right?
Who the fuck knew.
Not me.
But stalking some random chick I’d made out with at a party, four fucking years ago? Not good.
Not fucking good at all.
I got up to leave, swearing a solemn oath to myself to stop stalking this Danny chick right here and now. Then I headed out of the cafe feeling like an asshole, and not just the usual, tongue-in-cheek sort of asshole my friends said I was. A legit asshole. Because who does this shit?
A hopeless romantic?
A hopeless idiot?
“Ohmygod…” The chick walking into the cafe as I walked out actually tripped a little when she saw my face.
Yeah; I got that reaction a lot.
“You’re Ashley Player,” she gushed.
“That’s me,” I said, slowing down a bit.
“Wow.” Her eyes went wide. “Did the Pushers really break up?”
