“Is there not a lot of corn in Wisconsin?” His eyes stay on the guitar strings. I’m not sure if he’s shaking his head or swaying along to the song, but I don’t care about corn. I’m just trying to fill silence.
“Do you ever play with them?” Cam drops a note, catching up again clumsily. “I mean, do you play? Guitar… or anything?” He suddenly seems nervous, his eyes drifting between me and his stumbling hands.
“I do, actually. But just for fun. Playing in public isn’t really my thing.” Playing my guitar makes me feel whole, and powerful. I feel honest when I play, like I can say anything. I can share my hurt and my anger, and let it all out, because no one hates you when you share your feelings in a song. Lyrics are full of gray area and room for interpretation. But the thought of playing in front of people makes me want to cry and puke and scream, all at the same time. It’s a great visual.
“Plus, it’s sort of a boys’ club. I doubt Logan would be interested in me playing with them.” I have no idea, because I’ve never asked. Logan hasn’t heard me play in five years. I’m not sure he even knows I still play. For the last few years, I’ve become the unofficial songwriter for the band. Most of the time that feels like enough.
“I guess it’s a girlfriend thing,” Cam says. There’s this apologetic smile plastered to his face that makes me a little nauseous, because Cam isn’t the first person to mistakenly peg us for a couple. Especially up until last year, before my best friend Cort graduated. With her and Anders dating, and Logan and me spending so much time with them, the four of us looked like a permanent double date. I’ve always suspected it’s the reason I’ve only had one serious boyfriend.Who turned out to beseriouslydisappointing.“You can blame Yoko Ono,” he adds.
“Oh.” I shake my head. “No. Logan and I aren’t… together.”
His lip twitches, like he wants to smile, and it makes me smile.
I can’t help but stare at his twitchy lips, while he plays my favorite song. “Logan’s one of my best friends. Anders, too. We’ve been friends forever.”
“Well, if you ever want to get together, just let me know. I’d love to play with you.” He shakes his head gently, his long hair falling in his eyes. “I mean I’m not weird about playing with girls.” His eyes are darting around the room again, looking anywhere but at me and I can’t help but laugh. “I just mean… I can do that… if you want someone to play with you…”
I think he just muttered “fuck,” and I burst into laughter.
“… and I realize how that sounds, and it’s not how I meant it.” He finally shuts up and smiles, showing off his perfect white teeth.
Everything about Cam feels polished and crisp, unlike the other guys, who are wearing hoodies and wrinkled T-shirts. Cam feels like a perfectly styled photo shoot, every prop in its place, every angle checked and rechecked. He doesn’t belong in Riverton any more than I belong in a band. As weird as it sounds, he doesn’t even belong in Logan’s dimly lit basement. He belongs on that surfboard, out in the sun.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOW
VIRGINIA
Nothing good can ever come after the words “There’s something I have to tell you.” Especially when Logan is looking at me like he knows he’s in trouble. He hasn’t looked this guilty since he convinced me to be in the basketball team’s date auction our junior year—and then forgot to bid on me. I had to go bowling with Jason Fetner, a brace-faced ninth-grade kid whose one redeeming quality was that Hampton (his pet hamster) had his own YouTube channel. It was adorable—still is.
We’re all squished in the front lounge of the bus, waiting for our tour briefing, now that the production crew has all flown in and boarded their matching bus. I’m sitting on one end of the leather couch, wedged between the upholstered wall and Logan. “What?”
Across from us, Anders has gone back to playing a beat on his bongo drum, while Cam hums to himself, scribbling in his notebook. All he’s been doing lately is writing. When he’s not holding his guitar he’s carrying around that damn notebook. And it really grinds me, because since the moment I stepped onto this bus the one thing I can’t do is write. Not anythingI want to write, at least. Everything that does want to come out of me feels like dredging up ancient history. I refuse to putthatdown on paper. I won’t memorialize this feeling—I’ve already done it once. If you listen carefully to half of the band’s songs, it’s all right there. The story ofmylife—mypain—set to Logan’s music.
Logan shifts on the couch. “It probably isn’t even that big of a deal. You should probably know, though.” Anders snickers under his breath.
I twist on the couch to face Logan. “Spill it, Hart.”
“It’s about your internship.”
Not what I was expecting.I’ve been anxious to find out more about my internship.
He rubs a hand over his head. “The whole internship—well, it’s a little different than what I had told you…” There’s a long pause and his eyes seem to be fixed on the car driving by, outside our window. “So, well—there isn’t actually anofficialinternship with the tour.” His head is dipped down and he looks at me like he’s not sure he should make eye contact.He shouldn’t. This issucha Logan thing to do.No wonder I got such a weird look from the bus driver—I don’t even belong on his bus!
“What?” I launch myself into the aisle so I’m standing in front of him. I’ve been on this bus for less than a week. I haven’t seen a single city—we’re not even close to Nashville—and I haven’t even seen them perform yet. “Logan, that’s the whole reason I’m here!” Before I can get away, he has me by the wrist.
“Whoa, whoa. Settle down, Little Miss Temper.” He pulls me back onto the couch. “You can still help us—do all the stuff you used to do. You’ll beourintern. It’s practically the same thing.”
Except it’s not anything close to the same thing. Now I really am just tagging along, like some kind of glorified groupie, showing up at every show, acting like I’m a member of the inner circle.
“This isn’t a big deal, Vee—”
The sound of the air lock interrupts us, as the door folds open. A man in his forties in gray dress pants and a bright white shirt steps in, followed by a tall woman in her late twenties. Her hair is bright blond and twisted behind her head. She has a silver tablet in one hand, and a black stylus in the other. Behind them, two guys stand at the bottom of the stairs with cameras hanging at their waists.
The man pulls off a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses before speaking, “I’m Jared, the production manager”—he points to the woman next to him—“this is Jenn, head of tour publicity. I wanted to take a quick moment to introduce myself, welcome you all to the tour.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Go through the lists,” he says, tapping the tablet in Jenn’s hand.
“Sure, I can do that.” Her tone is the same one my mom used with my dad when he asked her to do something that he clearly could have done for himself. She reads through everyone’s names, confirming spelling, asking for ages and what instruments everyone plays. Jared is still running his finger across the screen of his phone, and I swear he’s just fake-busy. It’s been nothing but swipe, swipe, swipe.
