Love Songs & Other Lies(39)
She’s drunk. And sad.
And—probably more important than either of those things—I don’t want our first kiss to be associated with her crying. I don’t want to train her brain to cry every time I kiss her. Like Pavlov’s dog. Is that even possible? Or worse yet, she’ll forget everything when she finally wakes up tomorrow, hungover and miserable. My thumbs drag across her cheeks, ineffectively trying to dry them as water continues to spill from her eyes. It’s hard to tell the tears from the lake water, but maybe I’m just trying to convince myself she wasn’t just sobbing.
“You’re drunk and emotional, but definitely not horrible. You’re one of the least horrible people I know. Not even top ten.” When she laughs it feels like a small victory. A tiny battle won against the sadness and guilt that I can tell is buried deep inside of her. Part of me wants to tell her that I’m a soldier in the same war, except that I actually deserve it. My parents are dead and it’s my fault.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
NOW
CAM
I had assumed that musicians on tour didn’t actually party every night. That it was just a stereotype perpetrated by the old VH1 rockumentaries Anders and Logan were obsessed with watching before we left for tour. But it turns out most shows actually do end with everyone out at the bars. Except for those of us who can’t get into bars. No one is letting us drink underage with a bunch of cameras trailing us. So we do our own thing. That usually means talking Pax and some of the other guys into buying for us, and setting up camp in one of the buses, or the backroom of the venue we’re rehearsing at. When your workday ends after midnight, and you have nothing waiting for you but a tiny bed in a cramped bus, anywhere else looks pretty good.
“On the cover of the Rolling Stone!” Anders sings, with an exaggerated rasp, pounding his hands along the wood-paneled hallway as he walks into the dimly lit room. The Room, as they call it, is a lounge space inside The Tabernacle—a historic church converted into a music venue in the heart of Atlanta. In three days we’ll be onstage, tiers of balconies looming over us; but tonight, we’re camped out offstage, fresh off of an amazing rehearsal. From top to bottom, the Room is encased in wood. It covers the walls and wraps over the doorways, and across the bars that run along one side of the room. A line of wood booths is across from the couches we’re sitting on, and the wood floors are covered in huge red, green, and gold rugs that remind me of something in an old horror movie house.
“Rolling Stone, Rolling Stone,” Reese joins in as he drops onto the sofa across from me. Soon, Pax and a few of the other guys have joined in this god-awful eighties monstrosity that our bus driver Hal introduced us to. It’s just us and Caustic Underground on the bus now. We lost The Phillips after the third show, but one of the empty spots on the bus was quickly filled by Bri, who became a permanent fixture with Pax after showing up backstage at our last two shows. Hopefully she knows better than to divulge too much in the confessional interviews. I don’t think Jenn would hesitate to cast her as the country’s most pathetic groupie if it boosted ratings. Vee was adorably excited to have another girl on the bus, even though Bri spends most of her time attached to Pax’s face. Bri watches from a stool at the bar as Pax keeps singing this torturous song, but Vee and Logan are the only ones noticeably missing from the festivities.
The room is already crowded with band members, crew, and even some fans, standing around in little clusters, eyeing us from a distance. Fans who don’t talk to us make me feel like a zoo animal. Like I’m on this side of the glass, and they’re out there—wondering what I eat and how I have enough room to run around. At the entrance, Marcus, one of the tour roadies, is dropping cell phones into a basket. Pictures floating around of bands drinking with fans is the last thing Jenn wants. And trouble with Jenn is the last thing any of us needs.
Sometimes I feel like there’s a weird alarm in my head, because Vee has barely made it through the doorway before I notice her. Logan has his hand on her back as he gently pushes her through the crowd toward us, with Tad following close behind. Vee’s black dress is lower than anything I’ve seen her wear on tour. Or ever, maybe. It’s the sort of thing she would have hated to wear when we first met. A Dakota Gray outfit. Does she still think about her?
In the two weeks since our behind-the-scenes clips started airing with each episode, Logan and Vee have quickly become a talking point. A hometown love story for everyone to drool over. Spare me. The comments on social media (which, I’m horrified to admit, I’m addicted to reading) run the gamut. There are those who gush: “They are so cute,” “Maybe he’ll propose on tour,” and “She’s so lucky!” Then there are the other comments: “She’s not good enough for him,” “Gold digger,” “He can do better.” There are ten times more of those comments, and I hope like hell Vee doesn’t read them like I do. Most of America seems to be waiting for Logan and Vee to crash and burn. And I’m not proud to say it, but I can’t help but agree. I’m ready for management to pull the plug. Will I bring popcorn to the breakup extravaganza?
Vee takes a seat on the couch across from me, crossing her long, naked legs in what feels like slow motion. I shift in her direction. “Hey—” But as quickly as she came, she’s gone, following Bri to the other side of the room, where someone has set up speakers and there’s a group of people pressed together on the makeshift dance floor. A thumping, electronic beat saturates the room and vibrates under my feet.