Page 18 of Hidden with a Rockstar
You don't know me.
I know enough. I know you feed sick strangers. I know you organize your books by colour. I know you can write about drumming technique in a way that makes people stop and listen. I know you care about things.
I read the message a few more times.
Why are you being kind to me?
Because you were nice to me first. And you didn't have to be.
By eleven I’ve drifted to the kitchen, phone propped against the salt shaker while I wash the one pan I own, doing the thing where you pretend you aren’t waiting for someone to text back. I rinse the same pan twice.
Me:Okay, your turn. Tell me about the gig.
The dots appear. Vanish. Appear again. I dry my hands like it’s a formal occasion.
And then it isn’t a text. The bubble comes through the wrong colour and the wrong shape, a little waveform sitting inside it, and I gasp out loud at the sight of a voice message.
Her voice fills the room, lower than I expect and rough at the edges from a long day. “Okay, so, the folk-pop band—they were terrified at soundcheck, all of them looking at me like I was going to grade them—” and she keeps going, forty seconds about the bass finally locking into the kick drum halfway through the second song.
I play it twice. The second time I close my eyes and don’t do a single other thing.
At 11:45, she sends:What did you eat for dinner?
Beef and brocolli stirfry. I overcooked the garlic but it was still good.
That brings out the flavour.
It was black, though.
Okay, you burnt it.
It was still delicious.
You're defending your own burnt garlic. I respect the commitment.
At 12:17 AM I open the group chat instead of going to sleep. Ravita and Marnie are still at it.
Marnie:Rhonda, the Belladonna’s bassist, has the vibe, and her tone. That is ALL I want to say and then I’ll stop.
Ravita:We are loyal in this chat, Marnie. Loyal.
Marnie:Lena. You have the best ears of any of us. Settle it. Is she good or is she GOOD.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I know exactly how good she is. I know she plays with her eyes half shut and texts back before I’ve finished a sentence and thinks pretzels are a moral failing. I could write four hundred words with sources.
Ravita: Did you forget that she’s the one that destroyed the limited edition mask?
Me: It's okay, I’m over it. The shop sent me a new one. She’s okay I guess.
Marnie:Just OKAY?? I’m logging off.
I put the phone face down before I say something with my whole chest.
I type a Riley gif to show my solidarity with Ravita. I close the app.
On the nightstand, my phone sits dark and warm with Rhonda's contact open underneath the group chat. I lie in my bed in my studio apartment with the streetlight making patterns on the ceiling and the lingering smell of the stirfry I had for dinner.
I think about a voice note at eleven PM and the sound of her breath between thoughts. I think about asking what she ate for dinner.
