Layla

After I studied music at Belmont, my goal was to be a singer-songwriter, but I don’t help Garrett write these songs. He doesn’t want the help. We don’t have the same appreciation for music, so I just write songs for myself and hoard them for a future day when I’ll be confident enough to release a solo album.

The band has gotten more popular over the last few years, and even though we’re in more demand, which results in better pay, my rate as the bass player hasn’t increased. I’ve thought about bringing it up to the rest of the band, but I’m not sure it’s worth it, and they need the money more than I do. Not to mention, if I approach them, they might actually offer me an official spot in the band, and to be honest, I hate this music so much I’m embarrassed I’m even standing up here.

Every show eats away at my soul. A nibble here, a nibble there. I’m afraid if I keep doing this much longer, there won’t be anything left of me but a body.

I’m honestly not sure what keeps me here. I never intended for this to be a permanent thing when I joined, but for whatever reason, I can’t seem to get my ass in gear to step out on my own. My father died when I was eighteen, and as a result of his death, money has never been an issue. He left my mother and me a sizeable life insurance policy, along with an internet installation company that runs itself and employees who prefer I don’t step in and change up years of practices that have been successful. Instead, my mother and I stay at a distance and live off the income.

It’s definitely something I’m grateful for, but it’s not something I’m proud of. If people knew how little was required of me in this life, I wouldn’t be respected. Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed with the band. It’s a lot of travel, a lot of work, a lot of late nights. But the self-torture makes me feel I at least deserve a portion of what sits in my bank account.

I stand in my designated spot on the stage and watch the girl as I play, wondering if she’s drunk or high, or if there’s a chance she’s out there dancing the way she is to poke fun at just how much this band sucks. Whatever the reason for her flailing around like a dehydrated fish, I’m thankful for it. It’s the most entertaining thing to happen during a show in a while. I even catch myself smiling at one point—something I haven’t done in God knows how long. And to think I was dreading coming here.

Maybe it’s the atmosphere—the privacy of the venue mixed with the aftermath of a wedding. Maybe it’s the fact that no one is paying us any attention and 90 percent of the wedding party has left. Maybe it’s the grass in the girl’s hair and the green stains all over her dress from the three times she’s taken a tumble during this song. Or maybe it’s the six-month dry spell I’ve forced myself to endure since breaking up with my ex.

Maybe it’s a combination of all those things that is making this girl my entire focus tonight. It’s not surprising because even with makeup smeared down her cheeks and a couple of her curls matted to her forehead from sweat, she’s the prettiest girl out here. Which makes it even stranger that no one is paying her any attention. The few remaining guests are gathered around the pool with the newly married couple while we play our last song for the night.

My terrible dancer is the only one still listening when we finally finish and then start packing up.

I hear the girl screaming encore as I walk to the back of the stage and put my guitar in the case. I close it in a hurry, hoping to hell I can find her once we get all the instruments loaded into the van.

The four of us have booked two rooms here at the bed and breakfast for the night. It’s an eleven-hour drive back to Nashville, and none of us wanted to hit that at midnight.

The groom approaches Garrett as he’s closing the doors to the van and invites us all over for a drink. Normally, I’d decline, but I’m kind of hoping the bad dancer stuck around. She was entertaining. And I liked the fact that she never mouthed a single lyric. I don’t know that I could be attracted to a girl who actually likes Garrett’s music.

I find her in the pool, floating on her back, still wearing the cream-colored bridesmaid dress with the grass stains all over it.

She’s the only one in the pool, so after I grab a beer, I walk over to the deep end, kick off my shoes, and stick my legs in the water, jeans and all.