“I’d love to.” she answers, a full smile on her face.
“Really?” I ask, disbelief apparent. She nods, the smile holding on her face.
“Cool, we have an extra night in Austin so we're getting a hotel room. Or rooms I should say, you’ll have your own.” I’m rambling. Why am I rambling?
“Perfect,” she replies.
“I also wanted to thank you for what you did for me earlier. You didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it more than you know.” Sincerity laces my tone, as I hold her stare.
“You would have done the same for me,” she says. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“How you can go days or hours without thinking about the weight of the grief and then all of a sudden you’re drowning? And it doesn’t have to be some big thing like their face right in front of you, it could be something small, like finding a guitar pick or an old sweatshirt that throws you out to sea.” Her eyes hold mine, and I nod my head agreeing with her. The door to the bus opens, breaking the moment as Boston appears at the top step with a cheesy smile on his face.
“You guys wanna come out and play a bit?” He asks, holding the almost empty bottle of tequila and his bass.
I look to Bristol as she nods, “hell yeah.” She hops up from the couch and takes the open bottle from Boston’s hand. The glass rim hits her lips, and as she takes a long pull, I watch her, mesmerized. She pulls the bottle away from her mouth and ticks and shivers from the taste. She hands the bottle to me, and I follow suit, taking a long drink of the clear liquid.
“Let’s go!” Boston says as he exits the bus, his massive form disappearing as I try to swallow the saliva that pooled in my mouth from the shot.
Hours later, we’re all sitting in a circle with some of the best rock bands in the world. Bristol is making conversation with a drummer from another band who only has one arm; they’re talking shop about the struggles and sound differences of each type of kit. The guys we met in LA are playing a Led Zepplin song, pretty ballsy considering the guys who actually perform the song are sitting about fifteen feet away. Every band has played a song that has meant something to them through this journey, and I was humbled as hell to have two of our songs played.
“Rhyit, will you play something for us?” The guy with the top hat we met in LA asks. He has a strange stage name, Stab or something like that. I nod, grabbing the electric guitar from his grasp. Everyone in the circle stops their conversation when they see the guitar in my hand, the amount of respect they’re showing me right now means more than they’ll ever know.
“This one isn’t out yet, it’s one I’m working on, so don’t be judgy bitches, okay?” I laugh as my fingers find the right chords.
“Goodbyes aren’t supposed to be easy,
I know this much is true.
I didn’t think it would be so damn hard saying goodbye to you.
I know they say it’ll get easier as the time passes by,
but I’d kill for one more day with you by my side.” I sigh, as the crowd goes completely silent.
“I know you’re in a better place, I know there were a lot of things that you couldn’t take,
but please know that down here, there isn’t a soul who could fill this space” I strum lightly on the guitar as the chorus plays out in my head.
“So this is my last goodbye, I won’t say that this is the last time I’m going to cry.
I’m sorry I didn’t see the writing on the wall right in front of me,” I stop, the words clogging in my throat.
“I wanted you to grow old, I wanted you to thrive, I wanted to see you at the altar with your someday wife. I wanted you to see just how much you meant to me.” Bristol sings lowly, her voice carrying so much sadness that several members of the group sigh loudly. Those aren't the words I wrote, they’re hers. I look over to her, and she smiles sadly at me.
“Without you, this life doesn’t seem as vibrant, the lusters almost gone.
This isn’t my last goodbye, this is just my longest I’ll see you at home.” Boston sings, surprising all of us, his voice a deep rumble compared to Bristol’s softness. Sniffling brings me back to the moment, I look up from the guitar to see almost every member of the circle in various stages of crying.
“That’s fucking beautiful, man,” one of the guys across from me says, his voice choked up. The rest of the group nods their heads, and the tone of the evening just became somber. That wasn’t my intention so when someone else reaches for the guitar, I let it go willingly. The blonde haired man sighs loudly as he starts in about roses and thorns and a lost love. The song reminds me of Pistol with heartbreak instead of love. As he sings, I find Bristol, her eyes already trained on mine, the glassiness of them showing how much she’s had to drink, but there’s sadness there too. What are you hiding? What’s all the secrecy for? The lyrics that she sang point towards a form of guilt, but guilt for what?
Chapter 24 Bristol
The walk back to the bus from the group is silent, all three of us lost in our thoughts as the sun starts to break through the horizon. I think about the song, and how we each brought something different to it, the stunned silence of the group and the emotion that it holds.
“I think we should add those lyrics to the song,” I say as we approach the bus, “it added so much to it, I can record it with you if you want.”