by Aimee Salter
“No, they never got your tape.”
“What? But you said—”
“All I know is, I contacted the festival producer. The Dox, who was supposed to be opening, got a second stage contract for Manchester, so he needed a new act. I talked him into watching your live stuff on YouTube, and he emailed me the contract while I was still on the phone.”
Crash cursed happily, and I was so excited I didn’t even care. But as he babbled questions and his voice got higher, my heart sank.
I would kill to see the boys play to thousands on the main stage at Barkleys. The most Crash Happy had ever played was fifteen hundred. But there was no way Dan would let me go to Portland with them.
“Amber, you’re incredible,” Crash said.
“Well, I did tell you.”
“Does Tommy know?”
“Not yet. Do you want to tell him, or should I?”
Crash looked at me again. “Why don’t you call him? I have to do a thing, but I could be at your place in about an hour?”
“Yep.” Her voice dropped into business mode. “I’ll email you the contract to read. Bring Tommy. You guys need to sign it today.”
As they discussed the details of getting the contract signed, I looked at Crash. Really looked at him. The bright, open expression on his face was rare. He was so prone to brooding—always thinking through a new song, or lyric—that it was fun to see him excited. He got intense before a show, focused and eager. But that wasn’t the same as this giddiness.
Then he got off the phone and leaped up, grabbing me off the couch into a squeeze so tight I could barely breathe. I loved it. Threw my arms around his neck and buried my nose in the skin under his ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
It wasn’t until he let me down—our bodies sliding against each other every inch—that I realized he was shaking.
“Crash—”
“It’s happening, Kel. I think it’s happening.”
I put a hand on his chest and stared into his brown eyes, sparkling with hope and excitement. My heart swelled. He smiled down at me, and his fingers danced on my waist.
It was happening. I’d always known it would.
I tried to push away the unease that churned when I imagined Crash on tour, thousands of girls screaming at him every night, and me, here, with Dan.
Unaware of my dark thoughts, Crash cupped my face and pulled me into a searing kiss. I arched into him and grabbed at his shoulders, surprised by my own desperation.
We didn’t break apart until we were both panting. Crash gripped my hips and pulled me close for a moment, his arousal plain.
He grinned. “Irresistible, that’s what you are,” he sang, his voice gravelly with desire.
I buried my face in my hands, as he laughed and squeezed me close.
Crash was experienced with sex. I wasn’t. At all.
He’d been patient with me. It hadn’t been a problem—yet. But I still struggled with how open he was about this stuff. I half-believed this effect on his body had nothing to do with me. That any female body would do. But Tommy had told me more than once he’d never seen Crash act the way he did with me. That we had something special. And Crash told me that too.
I wanted to believe it.
Tearing my thoughts back to the moment, Crash ran one hand through his hair, the other clasped mine.
Being adored by Crash was like being under a spotlight. I loved it and fled from it with equal fervor, because when I got all of him at once—his attention, his desire, his mind—it was overwhelming.
“You have to come with us. To Portland,” he said.
I deflated like a pricked balloon. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
He looked away, some of the light Amber’s announcement had put on his face dimming. “There must be—”
“Crash, please.” He knew I’d kill to be there with him. To see him on that kind of stage, singing the song he wrote for me, being mine. But he knew how hard it had been with Dan since Mom died.
It was the only issue we’d ever really argued over. He thought I should tell Dan where to put his controlling behavior. And I didn’t. Couldn’t.
I thought about it, of course. There were days when Dan’s hovering was so oppressive I dreamed of running away. But I was practiced in smoothing it over. Trying to please. I was good at that. Mostly.
When Mom was still alive, she always ran interference when Dan’s controlling got too bad. And Dan did a lot of good things too—not the least of which was providing enough money that the worry lines in Mom’s forehead virtually disappeared.
Yet, since she died, his grief made the controlling worse. He was in pain. Whether I liked being around him or not, I knew he loved my mom. And now he was alone. That would be hard for anyone. I figured it’d let up in a few months when he felt less sad. And I didn’t want to add to what he was already going through.
But, because of my own grief, I retreated. I didn’t have the energy to deal with my friends, let alone the tornado Dan would unleash if I defied him. The only people I could relax with anymore were Tommy and Crash—so I had to stay. I couldn’t leave until I was eighteen and could get my own place.
Dan’s been my stepdad since I was four. Since Mom died, he’s shared legal guardianship of me with aunt Holly, my mom’s sister. Running to her would mean leaving Los Angeles and moving to San Francisco where she lived. Hours from Crash and Tommy.
I couldn’t do it.
Crash knew that.
“I’m serious, Kel,” Crash says in the voice that means we’ll have to argue because he’s not backing down.
“Crash, please, let’s just celebrate—”
“We wouldn’t have gotten here without you,” he said firmly. “I’m not saying you have to tell Dan where to go. But we have to at least ask. Maybe Holly would help?”
“Maybe.” I knew Holly would be happy for me to go—but Dan wouldn’t let her. He’d get wind of Crash and Tommy headed to Portland and know if I asked to visit Holly that I’d sneak away to see them play. And he’d put his foot down—with a long lecture about what a whore I’d be if I “groupied” my boyfriend.
I could hear his words in my head. The guys have always suspected he hit me because they’d seen him lose his temper. But Dan’s not like that. He doesn’t need to hit. His weapons are words, sharp enough to eviscerate.
His protectiveness isn’t all bad. He makes sure my car is always serviced. He plans meals ahead so I don’t have to think about what to cook. And he watches out for me. If anything happens at school, he’s on it. But the day-to-day stuff with him is exhausting. And moments like this, when I know he’ll be an obstacle I can’t overcome, make me really angry.
Crash leaned back, his attention still fully on me. I wished it wasn’t. “Why don’t you ditch Dan?”
He knew the answer to that—it just frustrated him. Crash had this crazy idea about becoming an emancipated minor so I could get my own place. But how would I pay for it?
“Listen, Crash,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I would kill to be there. You know that. But it’s not a good time.”
“It’s never a good time with that asshole,” Crash pointed out. Which was true, but didn’t need repeating.
“Let’s not talk about that right now, okay? I’ll see if I can come up with a way to be there. And if I can’t, it doesn’t matter. Because you’ll be awesome.” I squeeze his hand and force a smile that I hope looks real. “Crash . . . it’s happening.”
After a couple more seconds of brooding, his lips pulled up in the wicked grin that I adored. “Yes,” he said, leaning in to kiss me. “It is.”
Crash and Tommy went to Portland without me. The festival provided studio musicians to fill out their sound for the bigger venue. And they rocked. Of course they did. I knew they would.
Then everything began to change.
They rushed to finish the demo CD they’d been working on with Amber.
Record executives called.
Contracts were o
ffered. Promises made. Amber was forever calling or showing up with new legal papers or suggestions for songs.
Tommy’s mom told everyone on Facebook that Tommy was famous—sending him into an anxiety tailspin because he thought God would never let it happen since she’d tempted fate.
At first, Crash got really quiet. Then distant. He stopped sneaking over to my house. We texted, of course. But with him writing until three or four every morning, then sleeping all day, and me working afternoons as a waitress at the diner, then cooking for Dan, I never saw him.
Then, on a day two months after the call from Amber about the festival, my boss texted.
Skip your shift this afternoon.
We have a broken water main
and the restaurant’s closed.
I stared at that message for a couple minutes, arguing with myself. This was a chance to spend the afternoon with Crash. Dan would think I was at work. But if he found out I’d lied . . . I shook my head and shoved my phone back into my pocket. Then I got in my car and drove to Crash’s house.
The little trailer Crash shared with his mom was surrounded by scrub grass, and had what I think used to be hedges on either side. Usually when I pulled my car up, Crash came out. He hated me going inside to see the tiny rooms and threadbare carpet. I didn’t care.
When I stopped the car in a small cloud of dust and he didn’t come out, a little knot of dread bloomed in my stomach.
I mounted the rickety steps carefully. The wood was beginning to rot and there was a soft spot on the middle stair. The door was open, but all the curtains were pulled so I couldn’t see anything but shadows.
It took three knocks to bring Crash’s mother out of her room, cursing, her hair stringy and twisted into a knot. She didn’t come to the door but stopped at the counter across from it to pick up her cigarettes.
“Morning?” she said in a gravel voice that reminded me of Crash. “Whattaya need?” Her lighter flicked, sparked, as she pulled her hand around the flame to light a cigarette.
“I was just looking for Crash. I got an afternoon off.”
She blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling, squinting into the sunlight from the door. She rubbed her forehead. “I think he’s recording, or something? I don’t know.”
They’d gotten the studio time? He was supposed to tell me. The knot in my stomach became a brick. “Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll text him. Thanks.”
She waved a hand vaguely in my direction and shuffled deeper into the house.
I pulled my phone out, excitement battling with hurt. Why wouldn’t he have told me? Why didn’t he answer my texts when he got up? I’d assumed he was still asleep.
I typed out another message.
Your mom says you’re recording.
Is she right? I hope it goes really well.
Call me when you’re done.
I spent the drive home trying to figure out how to feel about it all.
I hated their increasing success for stealing all his time, but I loved it for making his dreams come true.
I hated Tommy for never even thinking about how much I’d miss him because he was always with Crash, and I loved him for being there for Crash through it all.
It was awful. And wonderful.
Crash didn’t answer until two in the morning.
Sorry baby. Things are crazy.
Someone canceled studio time
and we got called in. The single
is done! Amber says we’ll get
the advance soon.
I was so happy for him when I woke up and read it.
I also cried in the shower.
Days passed into weeks, and I saw Crash less and less. The texts got fewer, and phone calls virtually stopped. When we did talk he was buzzing, but it was always about the music.
I hated myself for not demanding that he make time to see me. But I was afraid of seeing their success too.
Then, after a week of being down to a single text a day, I got a call at eight in the morning—when Crash was usually dead asleep.
“Babe,” he said, sounding hungover, or desperately tired. “I’m taking you to lunch today.”
There was a quietness in Crash’s voice that made me go cold. “I have work this afternoon.”
“That’s okay. We’ll go early. I’ll get you back in time.”
He wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I said I’d make sandwiches if he’d drive me out to the reservoir. I told Dan I had to go to work early, and he didn’t question it, for once. Like it was meant to be. Which sucked. But at least if Crash was dumping me I wouldn’t have to deal with it in public.
A few minutes before twelve I drove to the parking lot of work and parked my car under the trees at the back. Crash was already there.
“Hey,” he said, elbow over the window of his truck. But his eyes were puffy from lack of sleep, and he’d lost weight. He looked pale and sunken. And gorgeous. I drank in the sight of him.
“Hey.” I forced myself to walk around the truck and into the passenger seat.
When I got in, he didn’t kiss me. Just took my hand. His knee kept bouncing.
Nervous. He’s nervous. Because he’s breaking up with me.
I almost leaped out of the car at the next red light.
We barely spoke the entire drive. At some point, Crash flipped on the radio to fill the silence. I leaned on the window and waited it out.
He took the back road, to the side road, to the dirt road, until eventually, we pulled up at the edge of the reservoir in our spot, where the trees trailed leaves only a few feet off the ground, and the dank water looked almost blue.
Crash turned the truck so the bed faced the water, then killed the engine. He smiled. “Ready?” Without waiting for my answer, he turned the radio up (music to break my heart by) and opened the little window in the back of the cab before getting out and walking to the bed of the truck, making the entire thing bounce as he levered himself up into it.
I was slower. He offered me a hand when I reached the tailgate. I took it, memorizing the feel of his warm, dry fingers twined with mine. The easy strength that pulled me off my feet and into the bed of the truck—right up against his chest.
I almost rested my forehead on his collarbone—it always fit there so perfectly—but I
knew I’d cry if I did, so as soon as I’d found my balance, I stepped out of his arms and walked to the back of the bed, to the two little, legless chairs strapped under the sliding window.
Our seats. Our spot. His truck. My heart.
In a second I’d sit down. Then he’d sit next to me—always on the same side. I’d spent hours, imagining the day these would be our sides of the bed.
The thought broke something open inside me and I folded my arms, unable to bring myself to sit.
A flock of geese paddled on the water. I watched them instead of Crash as he examined me, worry lines appearing on his forehead.
“Babe, are you okay?”
I dropped my head, cursing myself as the tears welled.
Crash took the two steps to my side too quickly. The entire truck lurched up and down. I windmilled, trying to keep my balance on the uneven truck bed floor. He grabbed me and pulled me into his chest again, searching my face, his reticence gone like it was never there.
“What’s wrong?” he said, wiping my tears with his thumbs, which only made me cry harder. “Why are you crying? Did Dan—?”
“No!” I sputtered. Did he have to bring Dan up now?! “I just know why we’re here and I need you to just get it over with because—”
“Tommy told you?”
Even through my tears, I could give him The Look.
When Crash and I first got together things were awkward for about a week before the three of us sat down and made some rules: Tommy was Crash’s best friend, and mine too, really. He wanted to help keep me safe (which, in his mind, meant keeping Crash honest, apparently) and Crash sane (because while Crash was a lot of things, “laid back” and “down to earth” wer
en’t among them).
He knew he’d be stuck in the middle whenever we fought—and we both weren’t sure where to place our loyalties.
So we made some promises.
Tommy would keep both our secrets. Never tell either of us something the other said without permission. And we’d never ask him to choose.
“No. Tommy didn’t tell me anything. He didn’t have to. I’ve hardly seen you—and even when I do, you barely touch me. You’ve done nothing but work all summer. But you haven’t missed me! I’m just the pathetic high school girlfriend who’ll—”
“Kel, how can you think I haven’t missed you?”
“Because you don’t call me. Or . . . or do anything with me.”
Crash never pushed hard for sex. He always asked, then backed off as soon as I said no. But in the last few weeks he’d kissed me maybe three times. And he hadn’t made even a passing comment about wanting me or flirted with me about taking off my clothes for him.
The jokes and teasing had always made me a little uncomfortable. Until they were gone, and I realized how much they’d helped me feel sure that he wanted me. That I wasn’t off his radar.
Like now.
Crash clawed a hand through his newly-cut hair—Amber told him he needed to look more “rocker” and less “starving artist.” I liked it. Except for the part where it made him even more handsome.
“So, wait, you’re mad because I haven’t kissed you enough?”
“No.” I pushed him away. He swayed back but didn’t step out of my space. Jerk. “I’m sad because you’re going to break up with me and I don’t want to break up with you!” I hid my face.
Did he really think I hadn’t guessed?
Man, I must be pathetic.
The radio ads that had been babbling in the background stopped. There was dead air for a second before the low thud of a bass drum, pulsing over a syncopated tap on the snare, set the rhythm for the rest of the conversation.
The announcer spoke over the beat, but I couldn’t hear the words. I was poised. Too busy waiting to hear how Crash would take the opening I’d given him. Whether he’d just say, “Yeah. Okay. Sorry about that”—or try to explain all the reasons why he didn’t want to be with me anymore.
