My phone beeped in agreement. Staring out my apartment window, then back up my phone, I burst into laughter, thankfully breaking my lousy mood. How could I fancy myself a competent IT person when I hadn't backed up my phone in over two weeks?
Plugging it into the laptop on my coffee table, I skimmed through quickly to see if anything could be deleted. I hadn't updated any apps or music in a while. My email was all backed up at the office. My personal email was barely used at all.
Quickly scrolling through my photos, I deleted a bunch from last week. Sometimes it was easier to take a snapshot then write down the settings on certain gear.
Closing the folder, my thumb drifted to my oldest photo album. There were only three photos, all of my high school boyfriend. Through my father’s frantic phase of moving wherever the better job was, I’d taken digital copies of physical photos so that I could hide them online, and transfer them when I was finally allowed to have my own phone again.
Every time I upgraded phones, that folder came with me. I forbid myself to open it more than once a month. There was absolutely no sense dwelling in the past. And there was certainly no way I'd ever run into him again.
He must have forgotten all about me by now anyway. Well, perhaps not completely. I assume that men always remember their first kiss. Perhaps not with the same intense sentimentality as women. He was probably surrounded by women now, having the time of his life wherever he was.
I needed to focus on my carefully curated grown-up world. Leaving the past in the past was one way to ensure a better future. I was pretty sure I read that somewhere. Before I set my phone to back up, I sent Carrie a quick text. Last weekend I helped her completely reorganize her massive closet, so I felt alright about asking for a favor.
Me: Hey, I need cheering up. Lost in the mental swampland again. Kitten pics?
Carrie: Hold on…
A photo of her new calico appeared a moment later. The little fuzz monster was rolling on her back, grabbing at the phone with such an attitude that I actually wished I could channel that much sass. My immediate grin helped to temper my brain fog.
Carrie: If you need a phone call, can it wait half an hour? Finals of Love Rockers is on!
Me: Sure, thanks.
Carrie: Hey – put on the show right now. Maybe the excitement will energize you.
Me: Thanks, I’ll check it out.
Sometimes a bit of cheesy entertainment was a great way to cheer a girl up. Turning the TV on, I vaguely recalled that Love Rockers was the show that everyone at the station had been raving about for the past few weeks. It was a competition of singer-songwriters who focused on love songs.
Although I enjoyed a wide variety of music, and it did sound like an interesting show, I’d heard one contestant's name in passing that made my shoulders clench. The one word that would always bring a prickle to my eyes and throat. It was a common enough name that I shouldn’t be having that reaction anymore. But sometimes I was a bit sensitive.
I'd only watched a few of those competition shows though, and since everyone was raving about this one so much, I might as well give it a shot. Not wanting to bother binging from the begi
nning, I just turned it on in the middle of an episode.
There was a huge stage with a band set up, and celebrity judges sitting to the side on bizarre throne type structures. A hostess with glossy blonde hair and a skintight red sequined dress grinned at the camera.
“Wasn't Miranda fabulous, everyone? If you want her to be our ultimate Love Rocker, write down her code now! At the end of the show, the lines will be open for just ten minutes for you to text and vote for your favorite."
I tried not to roll my eyes at the screen while I set my phone to back up.
The show cut to a pre-recorded bit about the value of singers who were also songwriters. They said that many people could be trained to sing, but it was a special sort of person who had the gift of capturing the essence of love in a song.
I guess they had a point. Imagination and creativity were sort of a gift, but then there was the technical structure of the song itself. I knew how important it was to know the rules before you could break them. Then there was the entire psychology of the rising key, sudden tempo changes, and conveying energy with rhythm and flow. It was both an art and a science. Some people had the knack, and others didn't.
Red sequins flashed in front of the camera again, as the hostess practically bounced up and down with excitement. From the angle they were shooting, I could tell the camera person was obviously a fan of her barely contained breasts.
"Up next we have our final rocker of the night!" she squealed girlishly. The in-studio audience all screamed wildly.
As the camera panned across the first few rows filled with young women yelling and flailing, I giggled to myself. Obviously some sort of heartthrob was up next.
The lights dimmed as a lone figure strolled across the stage, plugging in his guitar and adjusting the microphone. There was just enough light from the sides to show that he was obviously tall and well built. It took only one glance from him to make all of the girls scream again.
It was hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like he was wearing a blazer. That felt like a punch to the gut. I remembered the words from years ago. "If someone's going out on stage, they should dress up a bit. So many of these bands wear grubby, beaten down clothing. It's a show. A performance. I think you owe it to the audience to present your best self, and look sharp.”
The hostess tiptoed in her impossible heels to greet him on stage. “Before you start,” she simpered, ”We just have a few audience questions. The song you’ll be performing tonight – was it written for anyone in particular?”
The lights came up and the camera finally zoomed in on his face. “Yeah, Holly. This song, like every love song I’ve ever written or ever will write, is for Trisha.”