Same Time Next Week (Ch 30)
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Jackson faces the frustration of band rehearsal, where tensions run high as the guys bicker. He reflects on how much he's changed—no longer the workaholic he used to be, he now looks forward to personal connections. Jackson's jealousy surfaces, highlighting his growing feelings for Shelby as he grapples with the reality that she has a past filled with deep connections.
Thursday took about a month to arrive and then crept along, hour by hour. The guys were happy to be getting off early, but not very happy about the early rehearsal time to make up for it.
"Couldn't we have taken the whole day off? We didn't get out of here until almost three today, and we're back at..." Duke craned his neck to see the face of Cole's watch. "Two o'clock? Do you sleep?"
"You were supposed to be here at noon," muttered Sam, flipping through sheets of lyrics in front of him.
"You know what, Sam? Fu−"
"Hey!" Jackson interrupted, his voice booming over the bickering. "Rehearsal started at noon. We're behind now and we're not leaving until we get this down. It's up to you guys. We can leave in two hours or eight hours. This is my life. Doesn't matter to me."
He began to shuffle papers on the stand next to the keyboards, working hard to keep his expression blank. It was a veiled threat−he was leaving before traffic began to build up. He wanted to get in a shower, shave, and pick up the house a little, in case he and Shelby ended up back at his place.
He almost didn't recognize himself. A new project used to mean hyper-focused hours in the studio. Days on end, not eating or sleeping, but writing and creating and mixing and fixing. After a few days, someone would sniff him out, come find him, drag him out for some sunlight and sustenance. As soon as he could get away, he was back to it. That old Jackson would never cut work short to go out on a date.
Well, that old Jackson spent a lot of time masturbating and sulking over being hurt by various women, using other women to heal those hurts and still ending up in pain, alone in a studio, rolling a pencil back and forth and wondering what the fuck he was doing wrong.