Page 48 of Playing the Backbeat

His voice low, still unable to meet my stare, he says, “Nothing’s been decided. I have to think of my future. You understand.” Without waiting for a response, he flees from the office like a coward.

“Fuck,” I mutter into my palm, before banging my fist on the desk. I relax into my chair, closing my eyes, letting disappointment wash over me.

Maybe Dee and I can be unemployed together. I know in my gut she’d never continue to work here when she realizes what’s happened. I’m sure as fuck not going to stay in any capacity, I’m not going to watch this beautiful building be decimated and rebranded as a restaurant. Not when the walls have held so many stories, so many songs, so many nights of community.

Ed isn’t a musician. I knew that when I took this job. But I thought he loved the history of this place. Turns out everything has a price tag. The thought is fucking depressing as I picture this worn, gritty hall transforming into something unrecognizable. Something trendy to an entirely different crowd for entirely different reasons. Instead of coming to the Bridge tofeelsomething…people will come here for cheap amusement, status, and a forgettable experience.

I bury the dread as it bubbles up, or at least I try to. I go about my normal concert day responsibilities. Check in with the bar staff and the tech teams as they work through sound checks with the bands performing tonight.

Then I get the fuck out of there before I start screaming louder than the crowd.

Chapter twenty-one

Dylan

“Fuck,” I yell, throwing the roll of paper towels to the floor before gripping my hair.

“Dylan?” Dee’s hesitant voice makes its way to me.

Holy shit. When did she get home?

“In here,” I say, my voice sounding monotone. I’m so fuckingtiredof this, and it’s bleeding into every inch of me. All the fight I usually put into keeping the intrusive thoughts at bay has washed away and it’s hitting me hard as fuck right now.

I hear the soft padding of her feet as she makes her way down the hall and pauses at the entryway of the laundry room.

“I thought I heard something,” she says hesitantly.

Braving my fears, I turn my head to face her over my shoulder, unable to force my body to follow, already anticipating her reprimand. But her face is soft with worry, eyes tracing up and down my body, looking for harm. But the damage is completely undetectable on the outside, until it spills over like a pot of water boiling, steam filling every crevasse of the room around me.

“Just an off day.” Even I can hear the detached edge in my tone.

Dee hears it too, her back straightening and an eyebrow lifting as her hair brushes over her shoulder. She trimmed it herself last night, the fresh cut giving new life to the strands. She had me check the back to make sure it was even. Focusing on that moment allows me a minute to think about anything other than my swirling thoughts, threatening to pull me under with no reprieve.

She steps inside the laundry room—more of a closet, really—only a few feet of space between us before she laces her hands behind her back and leans against the doorframe.

“Tell me about it then.” It’s not a demand, but an invitation. Her voice lacks her usual assertiveness. That sureness.She softened it for me.

No, she’s just taking pity on a guy obviously losing his shit.

“Today’s a bad day for…well, I mentioned before how my mental health always takes a dive when I’m stressed or worried or…”

“Overwhelmed?” she supplies.

I close my eyes as shame washes over me.

“Dylan, breathe.” Her hand lands on my chest, the solid pressure startling me at first but then grounding me. “I’m with you. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It doesn’t feel right.” I grimace at the admission. “It just doesn’t fuckingfeelright. So, I have to do it again, and again, and again…until it does.”

I wait for her to laugh, maybe make a snarky comment. But she studies me, expression curious, but not mocking.

“When did it start?”

“What part of it?” I huff in exasperation. “Today or the beginning?”

“Whichever part you want to talk about.”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve always been an anxious person. Even as a kid, I had these perfectionistic tendencies. My parents weren’t sure what to think when I couldn’t seem to step away from my homework because it had to beperfect. And when it wasn’t, I’d be devastated. It felt like failing. I ended up creating these…rituals. They helped to…”