1. Declan

ONE

DECLAN

Sometimes I wonder why I'm even here, why in this universe of eight billion people I feel fucking alone. I am fucking alone. It's not that I don't have friends; my bandmates are my friends and family. But at the end of the day, after I leave practice, or the latest sold-out concert, or one of dozens of parties, I'm fucking alone.

Mentally shaking myself out of the doldrums, I focus on the here and now. God knows I'll need my wits about me in a minute.

Los Angeles stretches out in front of me as I absentmindedly strum my guitar. While I sit here on my deck, millions of life stories are being played out right before my eyes—some glamorous, some mundane, some tragic. As I so often like to do when I'm here looking out at this expansive view of the city, I imagine everything that could possibly be happening at this moment.

The familiar bubblegum pop music blasting from the driveway pulls me back from thinking about other people's lives—now it's time to focus on my own. This isn't going to be fun. I'd hoped to have a few days back from Orion Skye's NYC gig before I had to see Erin again, but it seems I'm out of luck. I lay my guitar down as she appears on the deck, looking beautiful in a pink strapless dress that clings to her curves. She's not making this easy for me.

"Hello, stranger," she says as she joins me on the swing chair. "How was the show?"

I turn to her and force a smile. "‘Twas alright."

"Great." With eyes sparkling and gleaming, her grin widens. "So, I know you're probably tired, but there's a new bar opening in West Hollywood tonight, and I thought we could go."

"Yeah." Clearing the rock that's lodged in my throat, I press on. "Look, Erin, about that?—"

"I know, I know." She waves her hand dismissively. "You don't like me using your name to get onto guest lists. But this bar looks super cool. Just this once, can we?—"

"We need to end this." I have no choice but to interrupt Erin, just cut to the chase, and hearing that she's taken advantage of my name yet again actually makes it easier to get those words out.

Her mouth gapes open as my words sink in. "You're breaking up with me?"

"It isn't working out, Erin. I tried, but we're not on the same page about…" I shrug my shoulders. "...well, about anything, really—except for a love of The Smiths and Scottish whiskeys."

She throws her hands in the air. "Seriously, Dec? Seriously ?" Glaring at me, she continues, "I love you! Isn't that enough?"

I look her straight in the eyes. "You love me? What do you love about me exactly?"

With a look of consternation, she says, "I love… Well, you're good-looking. I love that you're in a band. I love that you remember how I take my coffee and how you, you know…" She swirls her pointer finger in the air. "...do that thing you do in bed."

"Exactly," I say, and she stares blankly at me. "None of those things are me . You don't love me. You don't even know me… not really. And as much fun as we've had, at this time in my life, I want something more. I need more."

Erin leaps off the seat. "Fine. Fine! You go find someone boring to fall in love with, and I'll take my hot ass to that new bar and find someone even more famous." Her lips press into a thin slash.

"I hope you do," I say honestly. I've got nothing against her; we really did have some fun times. But this is a difficult time of year for me, and it always ends up reminding me that screwing around with women who aren't right for me is just another way of distracting myself from the pain.

"Fuck you, Dec."

Feeling a sense of emptiness—an emptiness that has been there for years—I lean back in my seat as I hear Erin's heels clip-clopping across the drive and her car door slamming shut.

At least that's over.

Her car screeches out onto the street and out of sight, hopefully for good. Once she's definitely gone, I head into the house, grab a beer from the fridge, and make my way downstairs to my art studio.

The large blank canvas that stands on an easel in the middle of the room has been taunting me for weeks. A bunch of my old paintings are hanging around the studio. I'm rarely fully satisfied with my art, but I was at least happy enough with those to hang them in the privacy of my home. Lately, though, inspiration has refused to come. My hope is that it was because I was with the wrong person and now that I'm single, it'll come to me again. I take a long swig of my beer, pick up my paintbrush, and stare at the canvas.

And then I continue to stare. Nothing's coming. What is there to paint? What beauty do I have in my life? Sure, I've got all the material things anyone could want: a house in the Hills, a classic Maserati, and a wardrobe full of designer shit that brands send me for free because as soon as I wear something in public, it sells out immediately. But none of that is beautiful… not really. It's just stuff. I'm looking for something—for someone—that sets my soul on fire. And I've got a feeling my inspiration isn't going to return until I find it.

The temptation to just splatter paint across the canvas is strong; at least that would be something. But I'm no Jackson Pollock. Disappointed, I leave the studio, but on my way out I catch sight of the painting hanging next to the staircase. It's a portrait of my mother I painted about ten years ago.

One of the most painful parts of grief is realizing how time steals your memories of the person you've lost. Photos help, but they never capture the life of a person, those little details that only loved ones notice. So on the seventeenth anniversary of her death, I'd finished the painting of her, a painting I'd done as I remembered her—vibrant and full of life.

I've never painted a picture of my father, the sperm donor.

Fuck him.

I'm just about to pick up my guitar again when my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a text from Lennon, lead singer of our band.

Lennon: Hey man, you okay? Just checking in.

I smile at my phone. Lennon always remembers this time of year is hard, and he checks in with me almost every day.

Me: Yeah I'm good, thanks. It's over with Erin.

Three dots appear on the screen for a few moments before I receive his reply.

Lennon: Good. Skye sends her love.

Skye and Lennon were high school sweethearts until life threw them a curveball and separated them. It took them almost twenty-five years to find each other again and renew their love for each other. They reconnected about a year ago, and it's as if they hadn't been apart for two decades. They're still going strong, and I'm super happy for those two.

Skye wrote some of our early songs back when we were banging out tunes in Lennon's basement as teenagers, dreaming of the stage. It was only fitting that our band, Orion Skye, was named after her, a nod to the inspiration she brought to our music and the love she and Lennon shared.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and let my eyes wander back out over the city. After a break-up, I always end up wondering whether I'll ever find the right person for me. The one who will make all the pain I've felt over the years seem like it was worthwhile. The one who understands me, and still loves me despite that fact. There's a small optimistic voice in my head that tells me I will find her. And who knows, she might be out there right now… just waiting for me to make her mine.