and the stars will all come out

chapter eight! ☆

"OKAY," DAVE MUTTERED TO HIMSELF. "YOU'VE GOT THIS."

It was 6 AM and he had been up for the past three hours.

He was ashamed to even be here, but nonetheless, he was sprawled over the basement's couch, reading and re-reading the same sentences he'd written on the nearest scrap of paper. For a very short message, it had taken an awfully long time to write: the sky had lightened considerably to the point where there was now weak sunlight permeating the room, and countless scrunched-up balls of failed speeches were littering the coffee table and floor.

He actually had it written out now, which was a start - the only problem he had now was to memorize it.

"I know Nashville's kind of far, but I think it would be an adventure," Dave mumbled slowly. "We'd need to book a hotel room, which is a bit of a problem, but..."

He paused: he definitely didn't need to sound this pessimistic. Was this seriously the message he wanted to send to her?

"I know this is random, but I need to say I really enjoy spending time with you," Dave reread, squinting at his own handwriting even though it made him feel horribly old. "I think we're gonna have a fucking blast making this album. I can't lie: I think that would be because of you."

He paused, again, deep in thought.

"Worst she can say is no," he said to himself, glaring at the clock on a side table: it was approximately 6:06 AM. "Not that big of a deal. Worst she can say is no."

He was remembering Nate's reaction from the previous night, when he had told his fellow bandmates that he was sincerely considering taking Landry to Nashville: his eyebrows had furrowed in that quietly scrutinizing Nate way, and he'd locked eyes with him before asking, "Seriously?"

Dave knew he was asking a lot. It would take days to cross the several states leading into Tennessee, where they would struggle with an obnoxiously heavy soundboard, hot weather, and God knew what else.

Plus, if he asked her to go, he would be presented with a brand new plethora of problems: he wasn't sure if Landry would be able to even lift the soundboard, or if her schedule would allow her to go into Tennessee, or if she would consider him totally crazy and perverted for this, or...

Selfishly, the thing he was most worried about was if he could hide a certain side of him for that long.

It was a completely rational worry - because she'd have to realize at some point that people on the street knew who he was, right? His worst fear was there had to be at least one person in Nashville who wanted a picture or an autograph or something that gave away who he was, and then they would blow everything, and she'd never speak to him again. 

Of course, the easiest thing to do would've been just tell her, but he still hadn't done that. She'd be upset, undoubtedly, and he'd have to explain that at the time, it hadn't sounded so egregious to lie to her...

Ultimately, he was disgusted with himself.

Dave dropped the paper and buried his head in his hands. He felt exhausted, and in dire need of a cigarette, but there were other things that needed handling. Plus, there was no point in trying to cram sleep anyway.

He felt his heart sink into his stomach.

You know you're running out of time, right?

☆

"DO YOU ALWAYS CHAIN SMOKE WHEN YOU WRITE SONGS?" LANDRY ASKED CURIOUSLY ONE NIGHT.

"No," Dave mumbled through a recently lit cigarette: his eyes were trained on the fretboard of his guitar. His fingers were moving and he was strumming, softly, but it was impossible to hear with Taylor blasting the stereo as loudly as he could. Landry was sat directly next to him on the couch, and she couldn't even tell what was on Dave's mind.