What If I Can't Forget You?

{2}

No. Fucking. Way.

It had been ten minutes since Jesse dropped the news, and I was still in shock. Oh my God, I'm psychic.

I focused on my phone in my hand.
And now, the love of my life will call me, who also happens to be a supermodel. I thought.

Okay, so I'm not psychic. But that was awesome. I quickly googled the show and found two tickets for Jesse and I. Thank God they're not sold out yet. I bought them immediately. I don't have an exorbitant amount of money in my bank account. After all, I'm a waiter and a student.

Well, there goes all my tip money from the past few months. Worth it.

I glanced at the clock. 9:08. I had a class at 10:30. I sighed, running my hand through my long, black hair and walking to the bathroom for a shower.

Afterward, I pulled on an Of Mice And Men black tee shirt and some jeans and converse. I flipped my wet hair to the side, smoothing it down a little. It was still messy, but I didn't care.

I grabbed my wallet and my phone and left for class. Now I had something to look forward to this week. I walked peacefully in the warm morning air of Las Vegas. There was a gentle breeze and the Palm trees swayed gently.

I was approaching the Beam music center. I study music because, well, it's really all I'm interested in. And I'm really good at it. I'd been Professor Kendrick's favorite since day one. I'm always the example for the class. Listen to Ian's guitar solo. Ian, why don't you show the class what you wrote? Ian, teach my class for me today, why don't you?

It was about 10 when I walked inside. I always like to get here early, just to fool around a bit on my guitar. I opened the locker that I kept my electric guitar in. It was black, and probably my most favorite thing in the world. I saved up money for two years to buy it.

I walked into one of the sound studios, sitting down and plugging it into an amp. I played some easy chords to warm up my fingers, and launched into the opening riff of A Match Into Water. No way I could play it as well as Tony Perry, but I was good.

It felt so good to play guitar. I let myself melt into the notes, closing my eyes, my fingers dancing expertly over the strings. I forgot the world when I played. I forgot home, I forgot harsh words, I forgot that I didn't belong.

Then the door smacked open, and my moment of peace was gone.

"Hey Davis." He said. "Time's up." Travis Parks strode in. This guy was about as dumb as a big rock, and about the size of one too. He had hated my guts since day one, when Professor nonverbally dubbed me her favorite.

"I've been in here five minutes, Travis." I said, quietly. Usually I gave in to whatever Travis demanded, because honestly, he could probably smash my skull in as easy as he could click a pen. But this was my favorite part of the day, and I didn't feel like putting up with his shit right now.

"I said," he yanked me out of my chair by my shirt. "Time's. Up." I rolled my eyes as I unplugged my guitar and started out. He shoved me with his shoulder as he passed and sat down with his acoustic guitar, struggling to play simple chords that I could do in my sleep.

"I could help you with that," I said, turning as I was leaving. "The chords, I mean."

He stared at me with such an evil glare that I got uncomfortable and left. Well, I tried.

I trudged through the week like that, motivated only by sweet thoughts of Friday.