Living the Dream

Seven

     "One more game, come on!" Morgan challenges. 

     "Haven't you had enough? I'm only going to beat you again," I laugh, huffing and puffing after our fourth very heated game of tennis. We're at some park outside of Oklahoma City, just trying to get our exercise for the day in before sound check. 

     "I have a really good feeling I'm going to win this one!" Morgan smiles. 

     "In your dreams," I laugh. I want to tell him that I played tennis all four years of high school, but I think I'll save it for the truck ride back to base. 

     "Maybe if this sport wasn't for little girls, I would be good at it," Morgan says. 

     "Excuses, excuses. Just admit that you're terribly uncoordinated and we can end your misery now," I laugh. 

      "Sounds like you want me to quit," Morgan smirks. "Someone gettin' tired?"

      "No, it is literally just painful to watch you be so bad at this," I deadpan. 

      "Just serve the goddamn ball," Morgan rolls his eyes. 

     After I win yet again, we get in Morgan's truck to head back to the venue. 

     "That was such bullshit," Morgan says. "I am never playing tennis again."

      "Hey, you're the one who wanted to do something other than run today," I say. "Don't blame me for being better than you."

      "Yeah, well, next time we'll go to the batting cages and see if I can still pitch the way I used to."

     "I'd like that," I say. 

     "Yeah? I ain't touched a baseball in a hot minute," Morgan says. 

     "Yeah, why not? We could even just get some gloves and play catch outside the bus whenever you want," I say. 

     "I would really like that."

     "Do you ever wish your life would have gone down that route?" I ask. Morgan looks like he's mulling it over for a second. 

      "Well, I don't ever wish for much. I'm happy where I'm at," he says. He looks satisfied with his answer. 

      I wish I could be that content. I am constantly restless, wondering if I'm going down the right path. Morgan's career is much more established than mine, though. Maybe I just need to be patient. 

      When we get back to the bus, Morgan throws the truck in park and turns to look at me. "What would you think of sittin' down this mornin' and writin' a little with me?" He asks. 

      "Hell yeah," I say. "I got a few things I've been writin' in my notes that I want to get out."

      Morgan and I sit down on the couch with our guitars, some scratch paper, and two glasses of whiskey. Lately, I don't do much without a drink in my hand and neither does Morgan. 

      "Show me what you got," Morgan says. "Let's work with it."

      "Alright," I say, opening up my notes app on my phone. "I only have a couple lines of maybe a chorus right now." I strum a few chords, trying to hum the melody I had in mind before I sing the words. I can't explain why, but I feel nervous as I start to sing the words I've written. Morgan is my best friend, and I know that I can tell him anything, but music is so much more different than just saying the words out loud. There are more thoughts and emotion than any old regular conversation. 

      I strum my guitar a little longer and finally start to sing. "Tell me, how? How'd you get so far away? All we have left... are the memories of the love we've made... Are you sleeping with your own regrets? On your side of the bed..."