“Of course,” Scott says. “Your life as performance art.”
The night only gets worse. Sean walks out as soon as he closed up his bass’s case and picked up its stand. Marsha demands we drop of her drum kit at her house and won’t stay. Breaking down with only two of us is a real bitch—especially lugging those W-bins with Scott.
Dropping off Marsha’s drum kit, Scott’s pissed in that crazy quiet way that makes me nervous, squinting like Blondie from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. He says nothing on the way back home.
I know I fucked up and burned bridges. Yet what really cuts into me is that Amy didn’t deserve that.
But what were you even doing there? You said you’d be working all night on whatever the hell project it was. I needed to talk to you. Alone.
Now that’ll never happen.