“You did it again.” His voice startles me. I snap my head up, heart leaping. He’s watching me with an intensity that feels like it could peel paint.
“Did what?” I ask, even though I know.
He nods at my laptop. “You keep deleting the good ones.”
“It wasn’t good,” I defend.
He tilts his head. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“You’re a terrible conversationalist,” I counter. “We all have flaws.”
His gaze doesn’t budge. “You did it the other night too. After Seattle. Thought I didn’t see you. You get something real, but then you throw it away.”
I swallow. My mouth feels dry. “Like I said before, not everything belongs to an audience,” I explain quietly. “Sometimes it’s just a moment. Between people. Not for sale. I try to maintain that line between what’s okay to share and what’s not.”
His jaw works. For a second I think he’s going to argue, to push. To accuse me of holding out, of not doing my job. Instead he says, almost under his breath, “The world doesn’t deserve that kind of loyalty from you.”
The words mean more than they should. I look back at my screen so he won’t see the way my expression cracks.
“You hungry?” he asks abruptly.
The subject change whiplashes me. “What?”
“You’ve been chewing on that same piece of gum for three hours.” His gaze darts to my mouth. “Which is either a kink I don’t want to know about or proof you haven’t eaten.”
My face heats. I didn’t realize he noticed. “I’m fine. I’ve got bars.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen your bars.” He smirks. “Protein and cardboard. Real gourmet.”
“Some of us respect our arteries.”
“Some of us burn enough on stage to earn pancakes,” he counters.
I blink, my brow furrowing. “Pancakes?”
He shifts and reaches into the small storage space under his bench. When he straightens, he sets a Styrofoam takeout container on the table between us, along with a cardboard coffee cup that smells like heaven.
“I grabbed them at the last gas station when you were in the bathroom.” He doesn’t meet my eyes when he speaks. “Since you ate them last time, figured it was a safe bet.”
I stare at the container. At the steam curling from the coffee vent hole. At him. “Why?” I can’t help my suspicion.
He shrugs, shoulders rolling under the worn cotton of his shirt. “Can’t have the enemy pass out from low blood sugar. Would really fuck with our schedule.”
My lips twitch. “So, this is purely for tour preservation.”
“Something like that.” His eyes flick up, catching mine. There’s a softness there he probably doesn’t realize he’s letting me see. “Eat, Sadie.” He almost never says my name. It feels different than camera girl. Too intimate. Too… real.
I pop open the container. Warm, fluffy pancakes stare up at me, butter melted in a small puddle. My stomach growls, loud enough to rat me out. “Traitor,” I mutter at my abdomen, then reach for the plastic fork. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He says it like it costs him something and he’s choosing to pay anyway.
I take a bite. The pancake is perfect. Warm, soft, just sweet enough. I have a sudden, ridiculous urge to marry whoever cooked it. We don’t talk while I eat. He goes back to his guitar, quiet, almost absentminded. The bus rolls on. The sky outside softens as the sun dips, turning everything amber.
By the time the last pancake is gone and the coffee cup is empty, the world outside the windows has gone mostly dark. Highway lights flash past in regular intervals. The driver calls back that we’re about an hour out from Lincoln.
The bus feels smaller somehow. Tighter. Hayden returns from his bunk and flops into the bench behind us. Mikey reappears, hair mussed, hoodie half-on, offering the room a lazy, “We there yet?” before collapsing across the opposite seat.
My laptop battery icon finally ticks back into the green. I save my work, shut it down, and unplug the cord, winding it with careful fingers.
