Star-Crossed ✔️

3

- 3 -

I desperately wished that I could write songs.

The creativity was there and I could think of a solid premise, but when it came to actually putting singable lyrics down onto paper, I was clueless. It probably intimidated me more than anything. That's why all my songs were trash pop written by other people that knew how to appeal to the charts.

Dustin wrote one of my songs. He was passionate about music, much more than anybody I'd ever met. I took pleasure in having him as a fan, since I wasn't worthy one bit.

"Write about ecstasy," Dustin suggested, popping a fish shaped snack into his mouth. "That would be a banger, easily."

I cringed. How much more typical could I get? I was already singing about the usual shit: being famous, losing myself, falling in love (whatever that meant). If I popped out with a song about drugs and twisted them to seem like they were about something else entirely, I'd be like everybody else.

We were en route to Sacramento where I had one show in three days. Then I wouldn't have another show for almost a week in LA. I lived in San Francisco, so we'd probably just go home for a little while until it was time to head to LA.

My phone started ringing cacophonously. It was Joey, but I didn't want to talk to him, so I declined it. I glanced at Dustin, who was balls deep in some stupid vampire series.

The bus was rumbling along. I looked out the tinted window, grazing my eyes along the endless fields of green. That's what it felt like half of America was made of, farmland and grass. The cities were always far between. I eyed a particularly plump cow before it was out of my sight.

A purple spiral notebook sat in front of me dauntingly, the page still blank. The pencil I was chewing the eraser of sat beside it, untouched.

My fame lacked authenticity. Every step I took, every word I sang, every line I spoke, was scripted by someone else. The only time I was by my accord was when I was blacking out with my best friend, and then I was labeled a bad boy with a drinking problem. I wanted so badly to be able to write my own fucking music, at the very least, so I could show the world something they needed to see.

Me. Not Theo Thorne. Me, the kid from Missouri whose mother had a dream.

"Why don't you write about what's-her-face?" Dustin said. I looked over. "Kelsi."

That made me cringe harder than his idea about writing a song for ecstasy. "Kelsi? Yeah, no thank you," I said, trying to rid my tongue of the taste her name left on my tongue. "I'd rather write a song about your mom."

"She'd love that, you know," he grinned. I rolled my eyes. "Look, when I wrote Leave it to Me, I just thought about you. I put myself in your shoes and forced myself to imagine all the pressure you're under and the words kind of just flowed. Just think of something you really want everyone to hear you say and start there."

If only it were that easy.

Joey called again, making me groan loudly. I could just throw my phone out the window. That would certainly get him to fuck right off. I declined the call again, deciding now was as good a time as any for a nap. I grabbed the half-full bottle of gin that was calling my name from the countertop and headed to my room, leaving my phone next to the empty notebook page.

"He's just gonna start calling me and I will not cover for you," Dustin called after me and I grunted in response.

True to his word, about ten minutes into watching a sitcom I'd seen a hundred times and sipping the gin, Dustin walked into my room, phone first. He had Joey on speakerphone and threw it at me before running away childishly. I sighed and greeted Joey gruffly.