Page 15 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories

“You’re quieter than normal.”

Shrugging, I pick up the mug of coffee and sip it. “Can’t sleep with Michael snoring on top of me.”

“Hey!” Michael balks, tossing his straw wrapper at my head. “I don’t snore.”

In unison, we all say, “You do.” Jorge tacks on, “You got the apneas, bro.”

Michael huffs, turning his attention towards the door. “Snoring doesn’t mean sleep apnea.”

“It does when you stop breathing,” Kelly chirps. And then she acts out his snore for us, dramatically gasping for air. “You know people die from that.”

He grumbles under his breath, blond hair stuffed under his backward hat. “It’s not sleep apnea.”

I pull out my phone, find the video I took last night, and press play. It’s dark, the bunk above me barely visible, but his snores and choking noises are clear as day. “Fuckin’ creeper,” he growls, lunging over Devon to reach me, but I squish into Kelly.

Terry laughs at our antics. He’s almost fifty but still acts like he’s our age. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he tells Michael with an almost fatherly tone. “I have a CPAP.”

“It’s not fucking apnea. Move.” He shoves at Jorge, who is giggling like a little girl.

We watch him blush and hurry to the bathroom to hide. It’s all good fun; he won’t take it personally for too long. Everyone is too afraid to roast me because I’ve been touchy. But it feels good to joke around. The server shows up a few minutes later with our food, and we all dig in. Michael comes back not long after. I shovel my eggs and hash browns, saving the bacon for last. Everyone resumes their chatter, discussing the show and what we will do with our time before it.

I don’t add much to the conversation because my thoughts keep drifting. It might sound lame, but I miss my cat. He’s become something of an emotional support animal for me. I fire off a text to my sister while I’m chewing my food, demanding another picture of him and reminding her not to overfeed him or else he’ll hurl everywhere. Suddenly, the talking abruptly stops. I lift my eyes, fork halfway to my mouth when I see what’s caught everyone’s attention.

Jorge scowls, Michael gives me a look that sayskeep it cool, and Devon and Kelly scoot closer to me. Terry twists his head to get a better look since his back faces the door. I love how protective they are of me, but right now, I feel suffocated—childish. I’m not that big of a ticking time bomb that I can’t ignore Headhunter…and Eli.

Not bothering to acknowledge the group of them sliding into the booth across from us, I keep my eyes on my plate and continue eating.

“Thereareother diners,” Kelly mumbles under her breath.

“It’s awkward, but they are like your coworkers currently. It’s better to keep things civil,” Terry says, all wise ‘n shit.

He’s not wrong. It’s not unheard of for drama to be why bands are dropped from tours. Not that it happens often because tickets are already bought, time slots reserved for the venues, and every other expense factored into what we do. But it can happen, and if anyone would be kicked due to some bullshit, it’d be us. Eli might not be part of the band, but he’s with one.

I’m not hungry anymore, but I keep eating, the eggs tasting like dirt. I hide in my hair, and the familiar sensation of being watched comes from all angles.

The lighthearted breakfast takes a nosedive, and everyone is tense and quiet. I hate it—and I hate that it’s because ofme.My phone buzzes in my lap, and a sliver of relief bursts in my chest. I grab it, anticipating a picture of my baby, when I see a text from an unfamiliar number.

Still save the bacon for last?

I slam my phone down on the table and grind my teeth.

Devon stares at the side of my head while I aggressively grab my coffee and chug the rest. Three consecutive buzzes rattle the table as my phone goes off. Unable to resist, I glance across the diner, Eli already waiting for it—my stomach summersaults when our eyes clash. Leon is none the wiser, arm wrapped around his shoulder, thoroughly invested in his conversation with their bassist. Bile rushes up my throat when Eli cocks his head a little, then turns, taking Leon’s jaw within his fingers, and kisses him.

“What a fucking toolbag,” Jorge growls, voice low.

“I’m going to wait on the bus,” I announce.

“Don’t let him do this to you,” Devon says, grabbing my wrist. “It doesn’t matter.”

But itdoes.

It matters. It hurts. It’s fucking killing me.

“I’m going to go wait on the bus,” I repeat, voice harder and louder.

Everyone shuffles out of the booth so I can get out. So this is what he’s going to do now.

Flaunt his new relationship, dig the knife deeper, and watch me bleed out. I thought him ghosting me was terrible. I thought I already lived through the worst of a broken heart. I was wrong. He wants to make sure that any trace of love inside me dies. Why? Who the hell knows with him? All I do know is that ignoring him isn’t going to work.

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