Page 21 of Hidden with a Rockstar
"But also—there's a part of it that I love. I like being needed. It's exhausting and I'm not sure who I am without it. So I suppose I'm burned out and I continue doing it since I'm unaware of how to stop.
I listened to the voice note twice. The second time I close my eyes and press my phone against my ear and the sound of her voice fills the hotel room in a way that makes me feel warm.
I listen to it on the tour bus, in the van between cities. Each time, the part aboutbeing burned outfeels so relatable.
I type out: I want to see you.
I delete it.
What are we?
I delete that as well.
Instead I type:
What did you eat for dinner?
The reply was immediate.
Roasted chicken and potatoes. Nothing fancy but it was exactly what I needed.
That sounds perfect.
It was.
The next month she tells me about a meeting where her boss asked why her billable hours had dropped. She had to choose between honesty and employment. She chose employment. She told him she was chasing up several missing receipts from the client.
I tell her about Jo's studio time booked without checking with Jeremy and Ana. About Sandy spiralling. About Rebecca calling during soundcheck and Jo taking the call and the musicians waiting because some things matter more than rehearsal.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" she asks in a voice note. "The band, I mean."
"Every day," I reply. "But I think they can’t survive without me."
"That's the trap," she says, and I can hear her on my kitchen step even though she's three hundred kilometres away. "That's the specific trap they build for people like us. We're too good at holding everything, so we're the only ones they'll let try."
"How do we get out of that?"
"I don't know." She said in a gloomy voice.
The Belladonnas break for two weeks—Jo and Rebecca disappear on a holiday nobody begrudges them—and in the gap a booking lands in my inbox that I read three times to be sure. A fill-in gig, one night of bass for a touring act whose regular player broke her wrist, and the venue is in Lena’s city.
I should be thinking about the setlist I’ll have to learn on a flight, or the money, or the fact that I’ve just said yes to a stranger’ssongs. Instead I think about a too-short couch and a pressure cooker of soup, and I text her before I can talk myself out of it.
Me:So, hypothetically — if a bassist were in your city for a night next week, would that bassist have somewhere to sleep?
Lena:Sure, the couch is yours. It’s been asking about you.
Me:Really?
Lena:Constantly. It’s needy. Also, there’s a burger place two blocks from me that I know you’ll love, and I’ve been WAITING for a reason to take someone.
Me:I suppose I’d have to come see the couch.
Lena:Mmhm. The couch. Sure. That’s what we’re calling it.
Me: Are you saying you miss me?
Lena:I’m saying the couch misses you. I’m merely its humble spokesperson.
