Vee wraps one leg over my hips, bringing us even closer in the small space. She makes a sound like a single guitar string being plucked, a soft, tinny hum. The only thing that separates us is two thin layers of cotton and even that feels like too much, and also not enough. Being with her is like being wrapped around an exposed wire, like baring all of my raw nerves. My hand slips from her waist down to her hip, slipping under her pajama pants and resting against her warmed skin. I leave it there, letting her decide where it goes. She twists toward me, and my hand drops further, following her leg all the way down to her knee before slowly running my fingers back up. I’m waiting. This is all too good, too surreal. She’ll stop this.
She doesn’t. My hands continue to wander and explore, and our breath is loud in the small space. Her hand wraps tightly in my hair as she kisses me fiercely, roughly, like it’s the last time. Like she wants me as much as I want her. Which isn’t possible, because since I met her, I’ve wanted her more than air. The humming still fills my ears; a song, soft and low. Her lips are stilled against mine, before she captures my mouth again. The song continues, grows louder, is muffled by our mouths. It ends like it starts, with a single note, a hum. The sound of our breathing, ourchests pounding in rhythm between us. The bunk above us squeaks and Vee tenses.
I kiss her hair, letting my lips rest there, as her body begins to relax again.
Her face is pressed against my chest. “You have nightmares.”
“Yeah.”
“I usually just stay until they stop.”
“You’ve done this before?”
“Most nights.” Her voice is soft, muffled by my shirt. “I must have fallen asleep.”
She’s been treating me like an inconvenience for weeks; barely speaking to me. And at night she’s been crawling into my bed. She’s been holding me. I don’t like the little seed of hope that’s growing in my chest.
I pull the covers back up around us. “So when people have nightmares your first thought is to climb into bed with them?” I’m trying to lighten the mood. “I sure hope Reese never gets lucky enough to have night terrors.” I kiss her on the forehead and she laughs against my chest. “Thank you.”
I kiss her again, because I can’t get enough of touching her and I don’t know how long it will last. How long I’ll be allowed to be near her whenever I want.
VIRGINIA
The fans are in love with “This Girl,” so at the next show—my last show before I leave for the wedding—Jenn tells me I’m going to play it with them again during a special off-camera encore. It doesn’t sound like a request; it sounds like a task. Like when she tells me to set up a promo contest, or to prep Anders for an interview, so he doesn’t sound like a mumbling idiot (her words, not mine). “This Girl” and “Purple Shirt” have become fanfavorites, and the second time I go out onstage it’s still terrifying, but it’s easier.
Logan hasn’t gotten me a present since I was ten, but when he goes off-script during a radio interview to mention that he and I aren’t actually together, I know it’s an “I’m sorry,” wrapped in a box, with a bow on it. He casually mentions to the deejay that the seriousness of our relationship has been “inadvertently misconstrued,” and I wonder if Jenn prepped him, because the words don’t sound like him. The whole thing has a bit of a “friends with benefits” vibe, but I’m not about to get picky. He’s the one stepping in front of the firing squad. I wonder if people hear the underlying truth in his words:We lied; we got caught.
When they ask him about the photo of me and Cam, Logan actually does tell the truth: he doesn’t know—it’s no one’s business but mine and Cam’s. But the band and me, we’re like family, he says. It’s sort of shocking how well Logan handles the whole thing. He gave the interview this morning, and by afternoon, the clips of his statement are everywhere.
The response from fans is mixed—some think Logan’s explanation makes perfect sense. He’s perfect, they love him, and of course they knew it was lies all along. Others aren’t so trusting. They think he’s protecting me—the girl he’s still in love with. Either way, Logan has come out unscathed by the whole twisted situation, which is all that matters to me. I don’t care anymore if nameless people on the internet think I’m horrible.What do I care?By next month I’ll be old news. I just don’t want the band to suffer because I’m on tour. With everything I have to think about with Cam and me, I’m suffering enough for all of us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THEN
CAM
It’s almost midnight when my phone rings. It’s Vee’s house phone calling, and I can’t help the bubble of hope that’s rising up in my chest.
“Hey.”
“Cameron?” an unfamiliar voice says.
“Um… yeah, sorry… this is Cameron.”
“Honey, it’s Millie, have you seen Virginia?” She’s talking so fast, it’s like all of her words are running together.
“Um—she’s not here. Did she say she was here?”
“No, I was just hoping. We got some upsetting news and she left about an hour ago. Call me if you hear from her, please?”
“Sure. Of course.” The line goes dead before I can even finish. I pull on my socks and then my boots, my knit cap and gloves, my thermal shirt and polar fleece, then my ski coat. I shove an extra pair of gloves in my pocket and make my way outside.
***
Vee is sunken down into the snow, sitting on the wood planks of the boardwalk. She’s a purple smudge on a clean canvas. Thewind is fierce, biting and cold, but I can still see her footprints. She hasn’t been out here long. I’m glad to see she has her big puffy winter coat on, but the jeans she’s wearing are already covered in a fine dusting of white. She has tennis shoes on.
“Vee?”
