Page 50 of Wish You Knew
Didn’t want to let myself drown in the weight of rejection.
“No. Have you?”
Bas twisted his pint glass around, avoiding my gaze. “I think he’s back home now. He didn’t stay at the house for long after you’d left.”
“That’s not a surprise. He was only meant to be there for a week. The band were going into the studio when he got back.”.
“Yeah, he said something along those lines.” He fixed me with a stare. “What’s going on with you two? Are you together?”
“We’ve never been together,” I snapped. “At least, not in any kind of long-term relationship. It doesn’t suit either of us.”
“You’re a shit liar, Rosie Tatton.” The corner of Bas’s mouth curled up. “And, unfortunately, so is Scott.”
25
Scott
“Fuck’s sake, Declan. Play the chords softer, it doesn’t need to drown out the drums.” I stalked across the studio floor, tapping my fingers against my thighs.
Declan glared at me. “I was playing it softer.”
“Then try again.”
I stopped at the refreshments table, debating whether it was too early for a beer. Eleven o’clock said it wasn’t. The way the others were sending furious glances my way confirmed it was. Reluctantly, I poured myself a coffee, cheersing the guys with my mug and a sarcastic smile.
The shitty mood I’d been in started the minute Rosie had left. Knowing her departure was all my own doing made it worse. I hadn’t mustered up the courage to contact her, so I hadn’t apologised or put things right between us again yet.
If only I’d be honest with my feelings, instead of using alcohol to avoid them.
Bas had berated me for days, telling me what an idiot - and some other choice words - I’d been. He’d spotted the connection between us. One reason, he said, why he hadn’t made a move himself. Now there was no reason for him not to.
I rolled my head around, trying to stretch out my neck. The tension in my shoulders meant they were up near my ears.
The creativity which had been bursting out of me while I’d taken a break, had all but disappeared. All the songs I’d written were shit. Nothing but a bunch of word vomited meaningless passages.
Especially the one for Rosie.
We were trying to get the bare bones of the song down, but I picked holes in everything: Dec’s bridge, Mat’s bass line, Bobby’s timing. I couldn’t bring myself to sing it either. Every word burned.
“Seriously, Scott. Can you just piss off and let us get on with it?” suggested Mat. “Let us get the music sorted on our own, then you can see what we’ve done. Being a stubborn and grumpy bastard isn’t really helping.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. Part of me knew he was absolutely right. Giving them some space to work things out, like I usually would, made sense. But the stubborn and grumpy bastard in me rose his head. “Why? I’ll still hate whatever you’ve come up with, so I may as well stay around.”
Mat sank back in his chair and let out a hard breath. “You wanna try another song?”
“Might as well. This isn’t working.”
We flicked through the new material, and I selected a song which I knew would better suit my current mindset. An earthy, raw, punk driven set of lyrics needing driving riffs and hard-hitting rhythm sections.
I hummed the idea of the tune to Declan and Mat, while Bobby listened in, drumming a potential beat with his fingers.
The angry, belligerent nature of this particular song soothed my mood, channelling my negative energy in a better way. I screamed out one of the verses and my frustrations slipped from my body, leaving in their place not exactly a calm, but an acceptance of things I couldn’t control.
“You reckon you can replicate that on stage?” Mat raised an eyebrow, as he observed me coughing and panting with exertion.
“Of course.” I didn’t bat an eyelid. “Reckon the front row will be begging for it.”
He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t think you needed the audience anymore.”
