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The bus had finally gone quiet.
That almost never happened.
Usually, even after midnight, there was somebody laughing in the front lounge, somebody wandering around looking for a charger or somebody arguing with Cliff about what music they should play. The tour had made all of them accustomed to noise. There was always another rehearsal, another venue, another soundcheck, another city waiting outside the windows. Even sleep seemed to happen around the edges of everything else.
Tonight was different.
Everyone had finally gone to bed after the show. Sage had disappeared into her bunk hours ago, Fletch had fallen asleep almost immediately after complaining that his feet hurt and Cliff had somehow managed to fall asleep with one of his drumsticks still in his hand.
Rosie had tried to sleep.
She really had.
She’d pulled the curtain around her bunk, turned her pillow over to the cool side and closed her eyes.
It hadn’t worked.
Her thoughts wouldn’t settle.
She kept thinking about the show, then the next show, then the song she’d been working on, then her cello, then the phone call from her parents that she’d been putting off for days. Every time she thought she’d finally drifted off, another thought surfaced.
Eventually, she gave up.
She quietly climbed out of her bunk and made her way toward the lounge.
She stopped when she saw Desi already there.
He was sitting sideways on one of the couches, his guitar balanced across his lap. The only light came from the little lamp above the kitchenette and the passing headlights outside. His bleached hair was flattened on one side from sleeping, and he was wearing an old black tour shirt that had become so soft from being washed too many times that Rosie suspected he’d had it since before she’d known him.
He glanced up when she approached.
“You can’t sleep either?”
Rosie shook her head.
“I tried.”
“Me too.”
She looked at the guitar.
“Are you playing?”
“Trying to.”
He glanced down at the strings.
“It’s not really anything.”
Rosie smiled.
“You always say that right before playing something good.”
He gave her a tired grin.
“That’s because I don’t want the pressure.”
“From me?”
“Especially from you.”
She laughed quietly.
“That’s fair.”
She started to turn around.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to bed.”
“You just said you couldn’t sleep.”
“I can’t.”
“So why go back?”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Because apparently I’m supposed to.”
Desi shifted farther over on the couch.
“Sit down.”
Rosie hesitated.
“You’re not going to make fun of me?”
“I make fun of you when you’re awake.”
“That’s true.”
“So you might as well stay.”
She smiled and sat beside him.
The bus swayed gently as it moved down the highway.
Desi lowered his gaze to the guitar and started playing again.
This time, Rosie recognized the shape of the melody. It wasn’t one of their songs. It sounded unfinished, like he was still figuring out what it wanted to become.
She listened without interrupting.
After a while, he stopped.
“What?”
Rosie blinked.
“What?”
“You’ve been staring.”
“I was listening.”
“You were staring.”
She smiled.
“Maybe I was doing both.”
He laughed under his breath and started playing again.
“I’ve been messing with that for a few days.”
“It sounds nice.”
“It’s missing something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Rosie thought about it.
“Maybe it’s supposed to.”
He looked at her.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s helpful.”
She smiled.
“You asked.”
He shook his head, but there was a smile on his face.
She listened for another minute.
“Try leaving that part empty.”
He stopped.
“What part?”
“After the second chord.”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got too much happening there. You’re trying to make the melody do everything.”
He looked down at the guitar.
Then he played it again.
This time, he left the space.
Rosie smiled.
“There.”
He nodded.
“Yeah.”
They sat quietly while he played it a few more times.
Rosie watched his hands.
“You really like music.”
He looked at her.
“That’s a strange thing to say.”
“I know you like music. I mean you really like it.”
He smiled slightly.
“I guess.”
“You pick up every instrument you see.”
“That’s because they’re there.”
“You learned half the songs we’ve played in different instruments just because you were bored.”
“I wasn’t bored.”
“You absolutely were.”
He laughed.
“Okay, maybe I was.”
Rosie smiled.
“What was the first instrument you learned?”
He thought for a moment.
“Piano.”
“How old were you?”
“Little.”
“Did you like it?”
“I hated lessons.”
She laughed.
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want someone telling me what to play.”
“That sounds familiar.”
He looked at her.
“Exactly.”
She smiled.
“What did you actually want to play?”
“Everything.”
“Of course.”
He grinned.
“I’d hear a song and want to know how it worked. I’d hear a guitar and want to play guitar. Then I’d hear drums and want to play drums. My parents got sick of buying things.”
“Eleven instruments isn’t exactly reasonable.”
“Neither is owning twelve pairs of sunglasses.”
“I don’t own twelve pairs.”
“You own enough.”
“They’re different.”
“So are my instruments.”
She laughed.
“That’s completely different.”
“Sure.”
Rosie tucked her legs underneath herself.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you always want to play cello?”
She was quiet for a moment.
“Not really.”
Desi looked at her.
She shrugged.
“I started when I was little because everyone in my family played something. My parents thought cello suited me.”
“Did you like it?”
“I did.”
“That’s good.”
“I still do.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I just don’t think I ever got to decide what I wanted it to mean.”
Desi didn’t interrupt.
Rosie continued.
“My family has always been very serious about music. It wasn’t just something we did for fun. There were expectations. My grandparents played. My parents played. Everyone had a certain idea of what a musician was supposed to be.”
“And you didn’t fit that?”
“I did.”
She smiled faintly.
“That’s the problem.”
Desi looked at her.
“I was good at it. I practiced. I competed. I did everything they asked. So nobody understood when I wanted something different.”
“What did you want?”
Rosie looked toward the dark window.
“I wanted to play with people.”
Desi smiled.
She glanced at him.
“That sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
“I mean, I wanted to perform. I wanted to make things up. I wanted to play something without having to worry about whether it was technically perfect.”
“That doesn’t sound stupid.”
She smiled.
“It didn’t feel very brave at the time.”
“Why not?”
“Because coming here felt like the first time I’d done something my parents didn’t approve of.”
Desi was quiet.
Rosie leaned her head against the back of the couch.
“They’ve never really understood why I love this.”
“The band?”
“The music.”
She looked down.
“They think I’m throwing away everything they gave me.”
Desi’s fingers rested on the strings.
“What do you think?”
Rosie took a slow breath.
“I think I’m trying to figure out what belongs to me.”
He didn’t answer.
She continued, her voice quieter now.
“That’s the part I’m scared of.”
“What?”
“My parents.”
He looked at her.
Rosie stared at the floor.
“I’m scared they’ll never accept it. I keep thinking maybe they’ll eventually understand. Maybe they’ll see me perform and realize I’m happy. Maybe they’ll realize I didn’t throw away the cello. I just found something else.”
She swallowed.
“But what if they don’t?”
Desi didn’t immediately respond.
Rosie glanced at him.
He wasn’t looking at the guitar anymore.
He was looking at her.
“What if they never accept that this is what I want?” she asked. “What if they always think I chose wrong? I don’t know how you’re supposed to be okay with your parents being disappointed in you.”
Desi looked down for a moment.
Then he said, very quietly, “You know you don’t have to become who they wanted you to be.”
Rosie looked at him.
He didn’t add anything.
There was no long explanation.
No attempt to convince her that everything would work out.
He simply picked up his guitar again and rested his fingers against the strings.
Rosie looked toward the window.
“I know.”
The words came out softer than she’d intended.
Desi started playing again.
This time, neither of them spoke.
The melody filled the small space between them, quiet enough that it blended with the sound of the engine.
Rosie listened.
The tension she’d been carrying in her shoulders slowly began to loosen.
She shifted beneath the blanket.
A few minutes passed.
Then ten.
Desi kept playing.
Rosie watched the darkness outside until her eyes began to close.
She opened them again.
She didn’t want to fall asleep.
She wanted to keep listening.
But the steady movement of the bus made it difficult to stay awake, and Desi’s playing was becoming softer and slower.
Her head tilted.
She corrected it.
A few minutes later, it happened again.
This time she didn’t notice.
Her head settled gently against Desi’s shoulder.
His fingers stopped moving.
He looked down.
Rosie was asleep.
For a moment, he didn’t move at all.
Then he carefully shifted the guitar so it wouldn’t press against her, resting it against his other leg instead.
He looked at her again.
She’d fallen asleep with one hand curled loosely around the edge of the blanket. A strand of dark hair had fallen across her cheek.
Desi reached up, hesitated and then gently moved the strand away so it wouldn’t bother her.
Rosie stirred.
He froze.
She settled again.
He smiled.
Then he looked toward the front of the bus.
Everyone was still asleep.
The highway stretched endlessly ahead of them.
His shoulder was already becoming uncomfortable, but he didn’t move.
He could’ve shifted her carefully back against the couch.
He could’ve gone to his bunk.
He could’ve woken her.
Instead, he adjusted himself as best he could and stayed exactly where he was.
After a while, his guitar slipped lower against his leg.
He caught it before it made a sound.
Rosie didn’t wake.
Desi looked down at her again.
He smiled to himself.
Then he looked out the window.
The bus kept moving through the darkness.
Rosie slept against his shoulder.
And Desi stayed there for the rest of the drive, even after his arm went numb, even after his neck started hurting and even after the sky outside slowly changed from black to the faintest shade of blue.
He never woke her.
When the first morning light finally came through the windows, he was still sitting there, perfectly still, with Rosie asleep against him and his guitar resting quietly in his lap.