.Silence.

“Should we go over that song again, or are we good?”

“I think that’s enough for tonight. It’s late, and we should rest up for tomorrow night’s gig,” I shout over to Dale, who is sitting behind his drums with his sticks in his hands ready go again. He’s still fresh with enough energy that would lead you to think we haven’t already been practicing for three hours.

“All right, the show is at eight?” Jeremy asked for what feels like the twentieth time this week while gripping the neck of his bass guitar. Dunce. He, of all people, has no excuse if he doesn’t show up on time.

“Yeah, but we should be there at five or six at the latest so we have time to prepare,” I answer him while suppressing a smile, and half failing, at his recurrent question.

Dale, Martin, and I have been running bet for the past few weeks to see how many times Jeremy will ask what time the gig is, and so far I’m winning. I bet about forty times, and so far we’re at thirty-five. Dale bet fifty, and Martin only bet a modest seventeen times—by the end of last week, he already knew he had to pay up.

“You’re sure you don’t need to go over it again?” Dale asks, yet again, but I like that about him. Like me, he can keep going all night to make sure he can play his part perfect even in his sleep. I’ve even joked in the past that he and I would be the only two who could perform our parts without any mistakes even if we suddenly got dementia.

But unlike me, Dale is definitely nervous. Whenever he is, he tends to ask a lot of questions, and needs constant reassurance. It’s like a monotonous tic that he has.

“No, I’ve got it down, let’s just go home and get some sleep,” normally I’d stay and practice more, but I’m not feeling up to it tonight. And that earned me a suspicious look from Dale and Liam, and even Martin, while Jeremy looks like he might be setting reminder alarms on his phone to warn him every four hours before our gig starts.

“Are you feeling okay, man? It isn’t like you to want to stop practicing on time. You’re usually the last one out of here, you know?” I knew Dale wasn’t going to stay silent and let this go.

“Yeah, but I feel like I’m coming down with a cold or something,” I explain, feeling low on energy, now standing next to him. I’ve been feeling a little under the weather the past day or so, and now is not the time for me to get sick. The band just got signed to a label and we’ve got a lot of gigs coming up to get our name out there.

His eyes are rapidly shifting between me and the other band members and he looks worried, “You’re still good for tomorrow?”

“I should be alright for tomorrow, but I might need a few days to recover after to feel better.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem. We don’t need to be in the studio for a couple of weeks, and then we have a gig at Starkey’s the following week,” overhearing our conversation from nearby, Liam commented before lifting his water bottle to his mouth and guzzling mouthfuls of water as though he hasn’t had water in days.

“Good, that should be more than enough time for me.”

“Did Jeff ever get back to you about doing a tour?” Dale looked at me as he casually pulled his hair back into a hair tie, then begins to pack his gear.

“Yeah, he said the label wants us to go on a small tour opening for Dusty Robbins to promote us and see how we do,” I tell him while wiping the sweat from my forehead. I’m not sure whether it’s actually hot in here, though the air conditioner is on, or if I’m coming down with a fever.

“Really?”

“Uh huh, and if we do well, he mentioned the possibility of a bigger tour to support our album when it comes out.”

Astonished, he smiles as he asks, “Wow, he really said that?”

“Yeah, they really like us,” I nod and laugh at the disbelief in his tone and the light of surprise in Dale’s eyes. The expression on his face looks just like a child who has just been told they’re going to Disney World.

Playfully pushing my arm in celebration, Dale cheered as he realized that our dream is coming true after years of hard work, meeting and practicing on weekends and three nights per week in a barn on his parents’ farm, not far North from where I live in Boca Raton. It’s a nice piece of property that has been passed down in their family through the generations, and it’s large enough that noise isn’t a problem for neighbors. When our band had trouble finding space to practice when we got together back in our college days, his parents were nice enough to let us use their barn.

“That’s amazing! Man, we made it! We’re finally going to make it big!”

“Who are you kidding Dale?” Liam looked at Dale, and gestured toward me, “They like Levi. He’s the singer, the one with the looks and all of the talent.”

A puzzled look suddenly swept across Dale’s face and he isn’t so sure whether or not to be happy about our impending success, and he turns to me with a confused look on his face and asks, “You’re not gonna to leave us when we get famous, are you?”

“What? Why would I do that? We’re a band.” I feel taken aback and confused, maybe even a little offended that they would think I’d do such a thing. I don’t understand how I could go ‘solo’ anyway if I’m the only singer in our band. Why would I leave just to front another band full of people I don’t know? I get along with these guys like they’re my brothers.

“Because that’s what they do. They sign the band when what they really want is the lead singer. They let them make an album or two as a band before they convince the singer to ditch them and go solo so they can make even more money off of the singer, or you, in this case,” Liam explained with a tone that suggests I’m naïve about something that’s common knowledge.

“What? Come on . . . ,” I halfway don’t believe that’s the label’s goal with us, or, maybe I don’t want to believe it. I shake my head and turn away to pick up my bottle of water, thinking to myself that they must be pulling my leg. They, especially Liam, know I’m not like that—I’m loyal.

“Think about it. How many solo artists can you think of that was once the lead vocals for a band?” Liam challenges me. He shifts his weight and crosses his arms over his sleeveless black T-shirt and waits for me to answer.

Damn it, I hate being put on the spot like this. I can’t think clearly and come up with answers quickly on demand like others can when under pressure. Of course the answers always come crashing to me like a tsunami when I’m alone later, but right now, it’s like the drought of the century.

I think for a moment, “Well, um . . .”

“I can name a few: Gwen Stafani, Fergi, Ozzy Osbourne,” Liam impatiently answers for me. Is he really frustrated with me?

“Ozzy Osbourne? He left Black Sabbath for other reasons, didn’t he?” I think so, right?

Liam shrugs his shoulders and continues talking without giving it another thought, “Maybe, I don’t know, but still.”

“But still, nothing. Not every lead vocalist abandons their band to go solo. I’m not going to leave; I swear,” I try to reassure not only Liam, but the rest of the members of the band who are now looking at me.

“Phil Collins,” Liam continues, not entirely believing me.

“Who?” Dale asked, tilting his head and looking over to Liam with his hands on his hips.

“No, not them,” Liam waved off Dale’s comment, mistaking his response for The Who, meaning, the band.

“Huh?” Dale obviously didn’t pick up on Liam’s mistake, and now he looks confused, but he stays quiet.

“John Lennon, Beyonce, Justin Timberlake . . . ,” ugh, Liam is my best friend, and he’s like the twin brother I never had, but he doesn’t know when to let things go sometimes. Just like Bubba rattled off every which way to make shrimp to Forrest Gump, I’m going to hear the exhaustive list Liam has catalogued in his head of all of the solo artists that have left their bands in the history of music before he drops the topic.

“Liam, stop!” I’ve had enough of this conversation already, and though I’m being completely serious, I make it seem like I’m half joking to avoid provoking any tension.

Liam looks at me like he doesn’t believe me, and then asks as if to test me, “Even if they offer you a fifty million dollar contract?”

“Hmm, fifty million dollars? Well, now I’ve got to think about that,” I’m messing with him, of course, but he deserves it for being annoying.

“See?” Okay, he really believes this is going to happen, and this will stay in the back of his mind for a while. Gotta love him like that brother that was dropped on his head as an infant and never quite fully recovered.

“I’m joking! Liam, calm down!” I laugh, but he has an uncertain look on his face.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” Liam side-eyed me with a sarcastic smile, “You’re the talent.”

“And you got the hair and the looks that’ll attract all of the women. Man, you hit the genetic lottery, and you better believe the label will use that to their advantage,” Dale added.

Not helping!

“Liam, we’ve known each other all our lives. You should know me better than that, and you should know by now that you can trust me. There’s no way I’d ditch you. That’d make me a shitty friend,” I counter, perhaps coming across a little too defensive than I intended to.

Liam nodded in agreement, intentionally maintaining eye contact with me as though to drive the point home, “Yeah, it would.”

“And we’re a band. We’ve each played a very important role in getting to this point, and we’re each going to continue to play that important role until well after we’ve been inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and either can’t walk, or I lose my voice, or arthritis gets so bad that no one can play their instruments, or we get Alzheimer’s and forget how to play.” I can’t tell if I’m giving some kind of pep talk or ranting, or being sarcastic, but it brings a grin to Liam’s face, and Dale laughs at my little outburst.

“Look, I may be good at singing, but come on, what’s a singer without a good lead guitarist, and drummer, and the rest of the band? Why would I leave you guys when we’re like brothers, and trade you in for complete strangers to do the same job?”

“Our band does sound good, doesn’t it?” Liam’s grin grows into a full smile and looks like a smug dumbass.

“Of course it does! Now, let’s go,” I roll my eyes at him, “I’m hungry. Do you want to stop at Pancho’s Nachos and pick up dinner on the way home?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Finally.