Tyler & Stella

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I’ve never hated myself as much as I do right now.

My best friend Beryl just ran to the bathroom in tears and I’m left holding her phone as a video plays. It’s just a guy in a hotel room, playing his guitar and singing.

If you can’t/ I can

If you won’t/ I will

If you vow, I might break

But I’ll try for your sake

It takes two

It takes two

To say I do.

God, it’s stunning. Gavin Slater’s sandy hair flops forward on his face as he concentrates on a chord progression and a pang of envy churns in my gut.

Not that Beryl shouldn’t have this. She should. I want her to have a sweet, beautiful, impossibly famous rocker writing her love songs and remembering her birthday.

But I also want that for me.

Even just the remembering my birthday part. Even if he isn’t famous or beautiful.

And while I’m making a birthday wish (even though it isn’t my birthday), forget the boys. I’d be happy with a decent place to live and a boss who doesn’t send me to shitty gigs like this one, to write stories about bands that aren’t famous and don’t deserve to be.

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