She’s giggling as the waves pull at her, soaking her clothes. I don’t know what to do, so I just sit down in the dry sand behind her, making sure Lake Michigan doesn’t decide to rush up and drown her. Or wash her away, like her footprints. It doesn’t feel real being here with her. It feels like it’s a memory already—like one of those moments you know you’ll be looking back on, before it’s even over. I pull out my phone and take a picture of her, lit only by the night sky. She looks like a ghost. Her eyes are closed, every piece of her washed out into shades of gray by the moonlight. It’s quiet. The light whistling of the wind and the waves clawing at the shore are the only noise. We’re too far from the boardwalk to hear the familiar sound of the guitars and drums that usually keep us company.
“I used to come out here when my parents were fighting. Before they sold the house.” She stretches an arm over her head and points behind me, to where houses are set back into the dunes, crowded by trees. “We used to live in that little green one. It was my Grandma Miller’s house, before I was born.” There’s a long pause. “Anyways, I’d just lie here and wish the water would wash me away. That it would take me somewhere. Anywhere but here. I couldn’t stand the idea of beinghere.”
“Because you thought they’d get divorced.”
“No.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “I worried they’d stay together. That things would never feel normal again if they tried to put the pieces back together. A new version of them seemed like it would be better than a broken, poorly pieced-together one.” She closes her eyes and turns away from me before she continues. “They’re not together anymore. They won’t admit it, but I know it. Dad lives in Chicago, and when he does come home, my mom isn’t even around. And he thinks I don’t notice, because he gets up so early, but he sleeps on the couch. None of his clothes are even in the house. I used to think things were perfect, but maybe it was always a lie.” She’s rambling, one softly spoken word slurring into the next. “Still, I was horrible to wish for it. Iamhorrible.” She shakes her head, tears running down her cheeks.
“You’re not horrible.” I lean forward and cover her hand with mine, the cold sand rough between our skin. I stand and pull her to her feet. Her soaked-through clothes hang heavy. Her eyes are glossy and distant, like she isn’t actually seeing me, even with her eyes fixed on mine. She looks at me under hooded lids as I hold her face in my palms. The warmth of her tear-stained skin seeps into my cold hands.
I want to kiss her.
Dammit.This is probably one of the most inappropriate times in all of history to want to kiss someone, but I want to. Iguess I’m an asshole. Because all I can think about is pressing my lips against hers until she stops looking so sad and broken and barely held together. I want to, but even with her clothes clinging to her skin under the moonlight—her body so close I can feel the warmth—I know I shouldn’t.
She’s drunk. And sad.
And—probably more important than either of those things—I don’t want our first kiss to be associated with her crying. I don’t want to train her brain to cry every time I kiss her. Like Pavlov’s dog.Is that even possible?Or worse yet, she’ll forget everything when she finally wakes up tomorrow, hungover and miserable. My thumbs drag across her cheeks, ineffectively trying to dry them as water continues to spill from her eyes. It’s hard to tell the tears from the lake water, but maybe I’m just trying to convince myself she wasn’t just sobbing.
“You’re drunk and emotional, but definitely not horrible. You’re one of the least horrible people I know. Not even top ten.” When she laughs it feels like a small victory. A tiny battle won against the sadness and guilt that I can tell is buried deep inside of her. Part of me wants to tell her that I’m a soldier in the same war, except that I actually deserve it. My parents are dead and it’s my fault.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NOW
CAM
I had assumed that musicians on tour didn’t actually party every night. That it was just a stereotype perpetrated by the old VH1 rockumentaries Anders and Logan were obsessed with watching before we left for tour. But it turns out most shows actuallydoend with everyone out at the bars. Except for those of us who can’t get into bars. No one is letting us drink underage with a bunch of cameras trailing us. So we do our own thing. That usually means talking Pax and some of the other guys into buying for us, and setting up camp in one of the buses, or the backroom of the venue we’re rehearsing at. When your workday ends after midnight, and you have nothing waiting for you but a tiny bed in a cramped bus, anywhere else looks pretty good.
“On the cover of theRolling Stone!” Anders sings, with an exaggerated rasp, pounding his hands along the wood-paneled hallway as he walks into the dimly lit room. The Room, as they call it, is a lounge space inside The Tabernacle—a historic church converted into a music venue in the heart of Atlanta. In three days we’ll be onstage, tiers of balconies looming over us; but tonight, we’re camped out offstage, fresh off of an amazing rehearsal. From top to bottom, the Room is encased in wood. It covers the walls and wraps over the doorways, and across the bars that run along one side of the room. A line of wood booths is across from the couches we’re sitting on, and the wood floors are covered in huge red, green, and gold rugs that remind me of something in an old horror movie house.
“Rolling Stone, Rolling Stone,” Reese joins in as he drops onto the sofa across from me. Soon, Pax and a few of the other guys have joined in this god-awful eighties monstrosity that our bus driver Hal introduced us to. It’s just us and Caustic Underground on the bus now. We lost The Phillips after the third show, but one of the empty spots on the bus was quickly filled by Bri, who became a permanent fixture with Pax after showing up backstage at our last two shows. Hopefully she knows better than to divulge too much in the confessional interviews. I don’t think Jenn would hesitate to cast her as the country’s most pathetic groupie if it boosted ratings. Vee was adorably excited to have another girl on the bus, even though Bri spends most of her time attached to Pax’s face. Bri watches from a stool at the bar as Pax keeps singing this torturous song, but Vee and Logan are the only ones noticeably missing from the festivities.
The room is already crowded with band members, crew, and even some fans, standing around in little clusters, eyeing us from a distance. Fans who don’t talk to us make me feel like a zoo animal. Like I’m on this side of the glass, and they’re out there—wondering what I eat and how I have enough room to run around. At the entrance, Marcus, one of the tour roadies, is dropping cell phones into a basket. Pictures floating around of bands drinking with fans is the last thing Jenn wants. And trouble with Jenn is the last thing any of us needs.
Sometimes I feel like there’s a weird alarm in my head, because Vee has barely made it through the doorway before I notice her. Logan has his hand on her back as he gently pushes her throughthe crowd toward us, with Tad following close behind. Vee’s black dress is lower than anything I’ve seen her wear on tour. Or ever, maybe. It’s the sort of thing she would have hated to wear when we first met. A Dakota Gray outfit.Does she still think about her?
In the two weeks since our behind-the-scenes clips started airing with each episode, Logan and Vee have quickly become a talking point. A hometown love story for everyone to drool over.Spare me.The comments on social media (which, I’m horrified to admit, I’m addicted to reading) run the gamut. There are those who gush: “They are so cute,” “Maybe he’ll propose on tour,” and “She’s so lucky!” Then there are theothercomments: “She’s not good enough for him,” “Gold digger,” “He can do better.” There are ten times more ofthosecomments, and I hope like hell Vee doesn’t read them like I do. Most of America seems to be waiting for Logan and Vee to crash and burn. And I’m not proud to say it, but I can’t help but agree. I’m ready for management to pull the plug.Will I bring popcorn to the breakup extravaganza?
Vee takes a seat on the couch across from me, crossing her long, naked legs in what feels like slow motion. I shift in her direction. “Hey—” But as quickly as she came, she’s gone, following Bri to the other side of the room, where someone has set up speakers and there’s a group of people pressed together on the makeshift dance floor. A thumping, electronic beat saturates the room and vibrates under my feet.
Anders and I are as alone as you can be in a room full of people—and it’s nice to have a break from the cameras—to be so boring they don’t even bother coming around.
“Cheers to a kick-ass new song,” Anders says, holding up his glass. I do the same.
“To the girl in the purple shirt,” I say, keeping my eyes on Vee, who is swinging her hips from side to side, dipping up and down, in rhythm to the music.
Anders laughs. “The girl in the purple shirt.” He shakes his head, looking at me sympathetically. “Man, you’ve got it bad.” We’ve never talked about the meaning of the song. It’s a sort of unspoken agreement among us that we don’t pry when it comes to original songs. It started back when Vee wrote all their songs. If she’d had to talk through each of them, they wouldn’t have had a single original to play. Of course, the rule doesn’t apply to me.
I set my glass on the table. “Don’t start.”
“I don’t blame you, man, but Vee’s stubborn. You’ve got a long road ahead of you.”
“Noted.” I give him a look that I hope says,Shut the hell up and move on.
Anders has his phone out, absentmindedly typing as I grab a bottle of beer from the cooler Pax filled for us and hold another in front of Anders.
“Beer?” I ask, but Anders doesn’t seem to notice. “Anders?”
Anders nods idly and continues staring down at the screen.
