Page 4 of Saving the Rockstar

I collapsed back against the cushions dramatically. "I'd trade all this fame in a heartbeat for some genuine connection, self-acceptance and love," I lamented.

"Says the man with a million adoring fangirls and fanboys ready to throw themselves at his feet," Dylan quipped. "Talk about an embarrassment of riches."

Dylan’s ability to make me laugh in the face of stress and anxiety had been a godsend from our very first meeting as randomly assigned college roommates. While I'd been a neurotic mess, he'd been an unflappable smartass.

I thought back to one night a few months ago, right before a huge sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. I'd been pacing the green room, nearly sick with anxiety, catastrophizing about everything that could go wrong.What if I forgot the words? What if I tripped and fell off the stage and became a meme?

Dylan had taken one look at me, and wrapped a feather boa around my shoulders. He'd produced a flask fromgod knows whereand pushed it into my hand.

When I'd hesitated, he'd heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, if you won't do a shot, I guess you leave me no choice. I’ll have to distract you with a dance to express my deepest emotions."

Before I could protest, he'd leaped up on the couch and started gyrating wildly to nonexistent music, crooning off-key. "Oh, Asher, light of my life, fire of my loins, you are my sun, my moon, my starlit sky!" He stretched himself out before me on the floor.

By then I'd been laughing. clutching the edge of the couch for balance. That was Dylan in a nutshell. No matter how dark a place I found myself in, he could always drag me back to the light, even if he had to do it kicking and flailing ridiculously the whole way.

Our effortless camaraderie and creative synergy had begun that first night in the dorm, both of us bonding over our love for the same obscure bands. We'd stayed up until dawn, passing a guitar back and forth and scrawling fragments of lyrics on napkins, empty pizza boxes, any scrap of paper we could find.

That need to transform our sorrows and struggles into music had driven us ever since, even as we'd clawed our way up from grimy dive bars to sold-out stadiums.

I now turned to Dylan, who was sprawled on the couch thumbing through his phone. "Hey man, I never really thanked you, by the way."

"For what?" he asked distractedly, not taking his eyes from the screen. "My general awesomeness and unparalleled wit?"

"Well, yes, but more specifically, for keeping me sane through all of this. I know I take it too seriously sometimes, get too in my own head. If it weren't for you, I probably would've had a full-on breakdown from the pressure by now."

Dylan put down his phone and looked at me, his expression softening. "Aw, shucks, you're gonna make me blush. I didn't know you cared."

The sudden seriousness in his tone made my chest tighten. "Okay, now who's getting sappy? I think that's our cue to get out of here and go make some bad decisions at the after-party."

"Hell yes!" he crowed, jumping up from the couch. "First round of Jägerbombs is on me. Gotta give the people the rock star debauchery they demand."

In the limo, I collapsed onto the plush leather seat with a sigh, letting my head loll back against the headrest. Dylan slid in next to me and immediately started rummaging through the mini fridge.

"Dude, score!" he crowed, pulling out a bottle of Moët. "Shawn really hooked us up this time. This champagne costs more than my first car."

Dylan took a deep swig directly from the bottle before passing it to me.

I sagged against the seat, my head coming to rest on Dylan's shoulder as the limo merged onto the freeway.

"I ever tell you how much I appreciate you?" I mumbled, the words slightly slurred with exhaustion.

Dylan scoffed, but I could hear the grin in his voice. "Oh please, without me you'd be just another garden variety tortured musician, painting your feelings at 3 am. Face it buddy, I'm the wind beneath your emo wings."

I scoffed, digging an elbow into his ribs. "That so?"

"Well, since you asked so nicely," he said with an exaggerated hair flip, "let me paint you a picture."

He spread his hands out, framing an imaginary scene. "Interior. Shitty studio apartment, night. A figure sits hunched on a couch, forehead pressed to a notebook. It is none otherthan Asher Roth. Surrounded by crumpled sheets of paper, he mutters to himself, something about the hollowness of fame and the isolation of genius. Suddenly, the door bursts open to reveal - say it with me now - Dylan, the ruggedly handsome comic relief. With a well-timed quip and a goofy grin, he coaxes our hero out of his funk and into an impromptu dance party to 'Barbie Girl.' Fade to black on a high five and an awkwardly long platonic embrace. Credits roll to the sound of my laughter, a.k.a. the most beautiful sound in the world."

"You absolute assclown," I wheezed, clutching my stomach with laughter. "That is not even close to how it actually goes down and you know it."

"Damn, you're really not going to let me have my knight-in-shining-Armani moment, are you?" Dylan pouted.

I rolled my eyes and gently kicked his foot with my own. "You're right, how dare I damage your honor with the boring truth of you barging into the studio at 2 am, reeking of beer and screeching the chorus to 'Toxic' until I agree to get tacos with you."

Dylan took another swig of champagne and shrugged. "Not all heroes wear capes, Roth. Sometimes they wear the same boxers for three days and make very compelling arguments involving Britney and burritos."

I smiled ruefully into the middle distance, absently kneading the knots in my neck as neon signs blurred past the window.

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