The Day I Left the Band, He Thought I’d Be Back

I was checking next month’s rent for our practice space when the festival dropped its first wave of posters.

The landlord’s email was polite enough.

The lease renewal was ready, and the money would come off my card on Monday as usual. If the band wanted to add late-night slots, we just had to give him a heads-up.

I forwarded the email to Ben and clicked open the festival page.

Our band was slotted for Sunday evening.

On the poster, Noah stood front and center, with Lila right beside him.

I zoomed in and looked for my name three times.

Nothing.

The bio, however, mentioned *Across the River*, calling it one of the band’s biggest crowd-pleasers.

Staring at the title, I thought back to that beat-up tape recorder in a high school garage six years ago.

Noah had been sitting cross-legged on the floor. When I finished singing it for the first time, he clapped louder than anyone.

"The day we hit a real stage," he’d said, "you’re singing the opening line."

Later, we formed a band and worked our way out of that garage into New York’s dive bars.

We played that song dozens of times, but Noah was always the one at the mic.

Whenever I asked when it would be my turn, he said the next gig. When the next gig came, he said to wait for a bigger break.

Now the festival was here, and he’d handed the lead vocals to Lila without even showing me the poster.

I sent the image to Noah: *Is this the final proof?*

He sent back a voice message.

"It suits Lila's voice better. Didn't you always say all that mattered was getting the song out there? Besides, you prefer staying off the mic and listening from the floor anyway."

I played it once, then played it again.

When he said *you prefer listening from the floor*, he didn't hesitate for a second. He sounded completely matter-of-fact.

I stared at the screen, almost trying to remember if I’d actually ever said that.

Setting my phone down, I opened my guitar case and pulled out the old lyric sheet buried at the very bottom.

The edges of the paper had gone soft.

There were two cross-outs in the first verse, right next to an awful little bridge I’d doodled when I was seventeen.

Back when I wrote this song, there wasn't even a real band yet.

I opened the festival website. The first wave of bands was already live.

Submissions for the solo stage were still open, closing in ten minutes.

The form asked for the artist's name, contact info, and an audio demo.

I didn't have any recent solo videos. All I could dig up was that old garage recording.

When I opened the file, there was the thud of Noah bumping the mic, and then my voice.

I had braces back then, and I rushed the second verse by half a beat.

At the end of the track, Noah laughed. "Ivy, we gotta run that back. That take was great, but I forgot to hit record."

He *had* hit record. He just wanted to push me for a better take.

I uploaded the file and typed my name under *Artist*: Ivy Reed.

I hit submit. A prompt popped up on the screen: *Application received.*

My hand stayed on the mouse.

Whenever I filled out forms like this before, I always double-checked Noah’s number, Ben’s gear list, and the spelling of the band’s name.

This time, there was barely anything to check. The contact and the artist were both just me.

My phone lit up.

A text from Noah: *Lila says she keeps tripping over the second verse. Come coach her tomorrow afternoon, yeah?*

Two minutes later, another one came through.

*Don't be mad about the poster. The organizers want a full stage presence, and Lila honestly has more experience than you.*

I didn't text him back. I pulled out my guitar and started playing *Across the River*.

Halfway through the second verse, I stopped.

Over the past few years, Noah had stretched out one of the lines, forcing it into the bar with his own phrasing whenever we played live.

I’d gotten so used to singing his version that I almost forgot how I originally wrote it.

I looked down at the old lyric sheet and sang it again.

This time, I didn't have to bend to anyone else, or anyone else's tempo.

The doorbell rang.

Noah was standing outside holding two bags of takeout.

He had on the black jacket he wore to practice, along with a tiny paper cup of the cilantro-lime sauce I always got.

"Knew you hadn't eaten," he said, holding up the bag. "Gonna let me in? The soup’s getting cold."

I took my share and didn't step aside.

He looked at me, his smile fading.

"Still mad?"

"Ivy, when it comes to the stage, we have to go with what works best for the show. We can't just base it on what you want."

"So you based it on what you wanted."

Noah’s face darkened.

"Everyone agreed this made the most sense."

"Who's everyone?"

He opened his mouth. "Me, Ben, and the festival reps who saw the tape. Lila’s been busting her ass these past three weeks."