Love Songs & Other Lies(26)

Deep breath, Virginia.

Someone honks and I jump as I stand pressed up against the door, my hand wrapped around the cold metal handle. I rest my forehead against the rough wood. Son of a bitch. I take one last breath and slowly open the door, squinting as I step out of the early evening sunlight and into the dark bar.

I can do this. No, you can’t. But maybe Dakota Gray can.

Everyone is staring, and it isn’t just in my head. I know now that I’ve never actually been stared at before. Because I can actually feel it, the presence of their eyes on me. The white-haired old guy sitting at the long wooden bar. Anders, who looks like his eyebrows are about to declare war on his hairline. And Cam, whose eyes haven’t left me for a split second, since I stepped inside. The path that Cam’s eyes are traveling feels physical. From my purple velvet peep toes, up to the slick black leather leggings that look like each of my legs has been dipped in black ink, to the sequined top that hangs off one shoulder, draping delicately across my chest and down my sides. I feel his eyes burn my skin as they survey every ridiculous inch of me.

I can’t even bring myself to look at Logan, who said two words after I got into his car. He practically sprinted to get inside when we arrived. It’s always been ritual for Logan to pick me up for gigs—since we only get a few parking passes—but if I had known I’d be getting in his car looking like this? No way.

While Logan avoids eye contact, Anders is gawking at me like the perverted old men who hang out at the beach, checking out girls half their age. “Wow, Vee, that’s some—”

I hold my hand up. “Not one word. I swear on your drum set I will smother you in your sleep.”

“Will you wear that?” He’s biting his lip, and trying not to smile. “That’s how I’d like to die.” One more word and I’m texting Cort to come kick his ass. It was so much easier to keep him in line when she was down the street, and not in another state. The two of them have been on-again off-again since freshman year, and I swear dating her has completely warped him. He’s always been just a little more into her than she was him, and sometimes I think his crazy ego is the only thing that keeps him from being crushed by her. She’s created a monster.

As Anders continues to unabashedly stare—grinning like a fool—the light show taking place in front of me catches my attention. Every bit of light in the dark room dances off of me, tiny specks reflecting onto the floor, flickering around my feet as I walk through the room. I twist to the right and left, twirling once as the shiny facets of my shirt pattern the floor like the night sky.

I had admired this outfit in the store window. It was the sort of thing I could see myself wearing, if I had the perfect body and the attitude to match. Out on the brightly lit street I had felt like a clown; like someone dressed in a costume, playing a part I didn’t know the lines for. But in the hazy, dim light of Carnivale, I feel ethereal and otherworldly, like the heroine of a comic book. I should have a coiled whip or something. When I finally tear my eyes from the light show I’m creating, Cam is just a few feet in front of me, shopping bag in hand, laughing softly.

“Oh, you think I’m funny?” I snatch the bag out of his hands and shove it into his chest. “Because Dakota Gray isn’t afraid to make a scene. She’ll kick your ass,” I say with a smile. “Just wait until you see what you’re wearing, Mr. Polo Shirt.” I’m giving him my most devious smirk, hoping that it holds a sort of ominous warning. Even though the clothes I chose for him are far from controversial. “Then we’ll see who’s funny.”

His hands clutch at the bag, grabbing one of mine in the process. “I don’t think you’re funny.” His voice is almost a whisper, raspy and deeper than usual. My breath catches in my throat at the feeling of his warm skin against me, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, face just inches from mine.

“I think you look perfect … Dakota.” He winks.

Anders clears his throat, shaking me out of the moment.

*

When I lock myself in the bathroom, just before the show starts, I don’t expect to see myself in the mirror. I’m not sure what I expect. I guess to look like a little girl who tried to put on her mom’s wedding dress; completely out of place. But I still fit into the picture I see reflected back at me. It’s just a new version of me. I don’t look like I’m playing dress-up at all. You look perfect. The words are caught in my head, like the hook of a song.

The bathroom is dimly lit, with just one buzzing bulb overhead that’s covered in a thin film of gray smoke. It makes everything look soft around the edges, like smudged charcoal. Standing in front of the mirror, my shoulders arched back, stomach sucked in, I examine myself from every possible angle. My small chest, my round butt and hips, my long, muscular legs; it all seems to fall into place, seems to work together. You look perfect.

Nonni was right. This ridiculously amazing outfit—this night—it’s not a worst-case scenario. It’s like one of those thrill rides where the bottom falls out underneath you. Once the panic wears off—once you survive—you feel unstoppable. And if I steer clear of the creepier guys, this night probably won’t even land me on a MISSING poster, or dead in someone’s trunk. As I leave the tiny room, with the buzz of the lightbulb and Cam’s words in my brain, I feel like I could do anything. The band plays song after song, Dakota spins and jumps on the dance floor, and the entire night, Cam never takes his eyes off of me, as three words loop in my head on repeat: You look perfect.