“Liam? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“I need to tell you something. And it’s going to upset you a bit, but I think you need to hear it.”
It was late afternoon and the band had returned to our hotel in Montevideo after having taped a talk show in town. The fans outside were so loud, I could hear them singing from our suite on the fourth floor. “Undressed,” from thePetty Desiresalbum. The lyrics twisted, titillating.
“Are you ending it?” Hayes asked. He was lying on the bed, resting. His head was throbbing, he’d said.
They were at that point nine dates into the tour. There were sixty-six remaining.
“If I were, do you think I would start it that way?”
He smiled faintly, his hand reaching for mine. “I’m not sure. Sometimes I can’t read you. What is it?” he asked. “What is it you want to say?”
“Oliver…”
“Fucking Oliver… What did he do now?”
“He’s fucking with me, Hayes. He’s fucking withyou, for a reason. I think he knows.”
“He knows what?”
“I think he knows about you and his sister.”
He propped himself up on his elbows then, his eyes searching mine. “Did you bloody say something?”
“No.”
“Did you say something, Solène?”
“No. I would never do that to you. But something is up with him and I’m not going to be his pawn, Hayes. I’m not going to let him play me against you. That’syourissue.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m sorry. I just thought you should know.”
Friday evening found us in Brazil. Hayes and I were in our suite at the Hotel Fasano in São Paulo, getting ready for dinner, when Isabelle FaceTimed me.
“Are you having so much fun? Is it amazing?”
“It’s a little crazy,” I said. “There are fans everywhere. They really, really, really love them here.”
“More than they love them in the States?”
“I don’t know. I have nothing to compare it to. Hayes,” I called to him in the bathroom, “do they love you here more than they do in America?”
“Maybe,” he called. “I think they’re more enthusiastic here. But then again I can’t really understand what they’re saying. Who are you talking to?”
“Isabelle.”
“Hiiii, Isabelle.” He stepped out of the bathroom in black Calvin boxer briefs. And nothing else.
I shook my head, shooing him back inside. “FaceTime,” I mouthed.
“Byyyye, Isabelle.”
