“What she’s trying to say,” Penelope cuts in, grabbing Misha’s shoulders from behind, “is that tonight could be the best sex of our lives, or it could be the worst.”
“And in this case,” I clarify, “sex is a euphemism for… not sex?”
“Precisely,” Jake adds. “But also, a euphemism for sex.”
“Nobody’s having sex tonight,” Penelope snaps, glaring at him. “Show up to sound check on time tomorrow and then we’ll talk.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Okay, Mom.”
“If you behave like achild, you get treated like one.”
“Can you guys flirt in private?” Marlowe calls from thebathroom—where he appears to be fixing a lock of hair in the mirror. “It’s nauseating.”
“Can you finish staring at yourself?” Jake calls back. “I have to piss and judging from the applause, we’re about to go on.”
Marlowe glares, coming back to the main room where his bandmates are loitering like anxious, revved-up engines. Jake immediately passes him, slamming the bathroom door.
“Why did you have to say that?” Penelope asks Marlowe.
He frowns. “What? About the flirting?”
“Yes,” she hiss-whispers. “You made things weird.”
Marlowe laughs. “Imade things weird? Pen, don’t start.”
Misha shoots me a significant, tell-you-the-drama-later look. I sink deeper into my armchair, hoping to camouflage.
I’m honestly not sure what I’m still doing in here. Misha and I caught up this afternoon, and then she and Penelope hounded me for details about my history with Liam while the three of us ate Thai food on their dressing room floor. I offered our story freely, but it was only when they asked me how we’d reconnected after so long, complaining that Liam had been vague about it earlier, that I lied on the spot. If Liam was vague with them, it means he wasn’t sure how much to share with the band about what we’re doing.
I told them I’d bumped into him at CMA Fest by coincidence. The fib sits uneasy in my gut, undigestible, but telling the truth might’ve gone over so much worse.
What would they—each a songwriter in their own right—think of me organizing a romantic scenario to reinspire me? And even if they were okay with that part, what if they were unimpressed with the songs that resulted?Orwhat if they determine my presence on this tour is nothing but a distraction for everyone?
The dressing room door bursts open, revealing the twins that make up the opening act, Etta Girls. Their names are, in fact, Gretta (with teased hair and pink eyeliner) and Henrietta (with box braidsand tattoos across her forearms). The twins have deep-brown skin and low voices, which give them their signature bedroom sound.
“Fuck, that was better than sex,” Henrietta says, grabbing a water bottle off the table.
“See what I mean?” Misha gestures at them while she looks to me for my agreement that yes, I understand her band’s reverse sex euphemism that also apparently isn’t a euphemism.
“No,” I reply, staunchly.
“You will,” she threatens.
Liam’s head appears in the doorway. “Where’s Jake?”
“Pooping!” everyone shouts at once.
“No, I’m fuckingnot!” he shouts from the bathroom.
“Well, hurry up,” Liam says, indicating he does not care either way. “It’s time.”
The others do toe touches and shake out their hands while Jake emerges from the bathroom. He glares around, bolting for the door, and his bandmates quickly follow. Penelope jumps onto Josiah’s back. He only laughs, hitching her higher as he walks. Henrietta and Gretta stay behind, chugging water.
“C’mere,” Liam says. I stand and go to him. “How was your afternoon?” His hand stretches out as if to pull me against him, but he remembers himself, drops it. My heart withers like an underwatered bloom.
“Chaotic. Lots of people.”
“Get used to it, Bristol.”
