The Encore

The bass still rattled the floorboards of The Rusty Amp, a tectonic vibration that usually made Roxy feel alive. Tonight, it just made her want to throw up.

She sat on the sticky leather couch in the Green Room, clutching a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon that had gone warm ten minutes ago. The room smelled of stale smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of permanent marker from the graffiti covering every inch of the drywall.

On the other side of the thin door, the crowd was roaring. They weren't cheering for the music. They were cheering for *love*.

"I can’t believe he did it," Roxy whispered to the empty room.

Ten minutes ago. That was the timestamp on the death of her social life.

*Soft Crash* had been closing their set with their hit ballad. Liam, the lead singer—the man with the golden curls and the eyes of a lost puppy, the man Roxy had been secretly in love with for three agonizing years—had stopped the music.

He had called Sarah, the band’s merch girl, onto the stage. He had dropped to one knee. He had pulled out a ring box that Roxy realized, with a sickening jolt, she had unknowingly helped him pick out last week when he said he was "shopping for his mom."

*“She said yes!”* Liam had screamed into the microphone.

Roxy had played the final G-chord, smiled her best "supportive bandmate" smile, and then sprinted off stage before the first tear could ruin her eyeliner.

Now, she was here. Alone. With a warm beer and the crushing realization that she was a cliché. The bassist in love with the frontman. How original.

She sniffled, wiping a smudge of black mascara from her cheek. She looked at her reflection in the cracked mirror above the mini-fridge.

"You look pathetic," she told herself. "Pull it together, Rox. You have to go out there and toast the happy couple."

The thought made her nauseous.

The doorknob rattled.

Roxy froze. She couldn't face Liam yet. She couldn't do the hug. She couldn't do the "I'm so happy for you guys!" screech.

The door swung open.

It wasn't Liam.

It was Jax.

Jax, the lead singer of *Viper*, the hard-rock band co-headlining the tour. Jax, who wore leather jackets in July and sang like he wanted to fight God. Jax, who had spent the last three weeks of the tour watching Roxy with a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and disdain.

He stepped inside, filling the cramped room with his presence. He smelled like expensive whiskey and trouble.

He looked at Roxy. He looked at the warm beer. He looked at the mascara streak on her cheek.

He didn't offer a tissue. He didn't ask if she was okay.

He turned around and locked the door.

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