“Sorry,” I whispered, trying to calm my pounding heart at what had almost just happened. At being caught doing what had almost just happened. “We’re...”
I glanced at Dave. What were we doing, anyway? Besides the last few moments, which I wasn’t about to try to describe.
He looked at me incredulously and then turned back to Sandy and whispered, “Just chatting about the gig, that’s all. Neither of us could sleep.”
“Yeah, well, some of us would like to sleep, so shut the hell up.”
Before we could promise to keep it down, she’d let out an exasperated sigh and yanked her curtain back across her bunk.
I cringed and looked at Dave, feeling like the kid who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. His expression looked like he felt the same.
Suddenly, we both burst out laughing. I slapped one palm over my mouth and the other over his, because God help us both if she came out again.
I shook my head and sent a telepathic message to Dave: no more laughing. And: she will seriously kill us in our bunks.
Dave nodded and darted his eyes down toward my hand, his normal-length, but somehow still sexy, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks before he then looked up at me. This move was his own telepathic message that said: can you move your hand now?
I widened my eyes at him pointedly: can you be trusted to stay quiet?
He nodded.
But then the second before I was about to pull my hand back, his eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips curved under my palm.
“Dave!” I mouthed at him.
He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to compose himself. His warm breath coming from his nose tickled the side of my hand. Finally, after a long moment, the crinkles around his eyes smoothed out. A few more seconds and then his lids fluttered open.
“Be good,” I warned softly.
He nodded.
“No laughing.”
He shook his head.
“Promise?”
A perfectly manscaped eyebrow went up before he nodded.
I slowly peeled my hand from his mouth, noticing the shape of his full lower lip, my mind going back to when we’d kissed in Times Square. It had been so awkward with an audience and was a staged shot—not even a real kiss. Nothing sexy about it; I’d barely noticed the feel of that lip on mine.
What? Stop! I yelled at myself inside my head, flicking my eyes up to his.
“Sorry,” he said, almost no sound coming out of his mouth, mostly just breath.
For what? Almost kissing me just now? For making me wish you had? popped into my head, but then I quickly realized he meant the laughing. Probably.
I looked over toward Sandy’s bunk, suddenly feeling weird and guilty for being out here with Dave alone. Not that anything had happened, but something easily might have. Who was I kidding? Something absolutely, totally would have if she hadn’t interrupted us.
She’d said she had all this chemistry with him. I began to think I knew what that felt like.
“So,” I said, turning back to look at him. “Uh...”
He cocked his head, waiting.
“I was wondering...”
His eyebrows—both of them this time—went up high on his forehead.
“Whew...” How was I supposed to say this without it sounding so high-schoolish?
And then I realized we were technically in high school, although obviously not at the moment. Screw it, may as well just ask and get it over with. “So...Are you into Sandy?”
He frowned and did a double-take. “What?”
“Sandrine,” I said, pointing over my shoulder at in the general vicinity of her bunk. “Do you like her?”
A loud breath came from between his lips before he chuckled and said, “Honest to God, Vanessa, that is the absolute last thing I thought you were going to ask me right now.”
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s awkward and it’s none of my business. It’s just that, she said...” I trailed off, wishing I’d never gone down this road. No, wishing I’d never gotten out of my bunk at all.
“What?” he asked. “She said what?”
I looked up at him and he seemed more amused than anything else.
I shrugged. “She said you two had a lot of chemistry.”
“She did?” There went those eyebrows again as his eyes flicked toward her bunk and then back to me. “We do?”
“Uh, according to her?” I said, cringing because it was obvious by his reaction that the only chemistry going on between them was the same kind that happens between oil and water. Which is to say, the non-mixing kind.
He exhaled and looked toward her bunk again before he said, really, really quietly, “I don’t think I’ve been leading her on...”
“No. I don’t think so either,” I said. “To be honest—and I feel like a horrible best friend right now, but—I never witnessed anything that I would have considered chemistry between you. That’s why I asked.”
“So am I supposed to say something to her? What am I supposed to do?”
My eyes widened. “No. You do nothing. Seriously—we never had this conversation. She would kill me if she knew I asked you. Especially since you’re not into her.”
“But wouldn’t it be better if...” His eyes flicked toward the bunks again.
I put my hand on his forearm before I even realized I had touched him. “No, Seriously. No good can come of it. She knows nothing can happen on tour anyway, so she’ll keep her distance. Just make sure you don’t give her any reason to read into anything. Once we leave tour—or you do if that happens first—she’ll get over it and move on.”
“Okay, right.” He blew out a relieved breath. “Thanks for telling me.”
I nodded. “No problem. I mean, she is my best friend, so I’m looking out for her, but...”
“Having a one-sided crush is awkward,” he said. “Especially when you’re in such close quarters.”
“Totally,” I agreed. And then, as I nodded, I started to wonder if he’d actually been talking about Sandy.
I opened my mouth to say something, but before I got the chance, he turned from me and scooted to the edge of the couch, leaning forward to slap his hands on his knees. “So, it’s pretty late. Maybe we should get some rest,” he said. “Except...”
I froze. “Except...?”
He cleared his throat. “What do we do about the media? About the posters, I mean.”
Oh. Right. The posters.
I considered that for a moment. His face was shuttered up and I had no idea what he was thinking. Or maybe all I could think about was he had been about to kiss me—I was sure of it. And I—the girl who was waiting to be done with tour so she could date a different guy—would have let him.
A second later, I registered that he was staring at me, waiting for an answer.
I mentally shook off my thoughts. “I don’t know. Probably we should talk to my dad tomorrow. He’ll know what to do. Until then, stay off your phone and social media.”
“Good idea.”
We got up off the couch and Dave turned toward the bunks. When he must have realized I wasn’t right behind him, he stopped and looked over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised.
“You go ahead, I’m just going to see if Gary needs anything.” It was a stalling tactic because something was going on in my chest that had everything to do with Dave and what had just gone on between us. With him almost kissing me because we were alone and he wanted to, not because he had to for a stupid poster.
Maybe he knew the Gary excuse was b.s. because I needed a moment, I don’t know. But he gave me a long look before he turned away and then climbed into his bunk.
After taking Gary a big glass of water, I returned to my bunk, thankful that Dave was behind the curtain of his own.
I didn’t look at my phone, even though I was a little tempted. Leaving it between my mattre
ss and the wall, I turned my back on it because I really needed to rest. Anyway, no good could come from looking at more mean tweets.
Unfortunately, now that I was alone in my bunk and thinking about more and more messages pouring into my accounts, my brain would not leave me alone. I was bombarded with mental snapshots from the worst time in my life: the police officers at our door telling us Mom’s plane had crashed, the endless media reports and constant calls, never-ending requests for a statement, the empty coffin at her funeral, my father breaking down. Then the less traumatic, but still heartbreaking images: the lawyer’s office to hear her will read, cleaning out her closet, canceling her credit cards, phone, e-mail.
Tears rolled from my eyes into my pillow and I knew Dave had been right when he’d implied that I could use some therapy. I totally wasn’t over the thing with my mom. Dad knew it, I knew it, and now Dave knew it. But it seemed so much easier to tuck it all away and ignore it than to bring it out of the closet and make a buffet of it.
My sprawling buffet of grief and anger. I almost laughed at how stupid it sounded, which somehow just made me cry more, while working my hardest not to make any sounds.
Finally, when it felt like sleep would never come and I was too keyed up to even try, I fumbled for my phone and, keeping it on silent, took it off airplane mode. I watched as the notifications went crazy and was beginning to seriously question my life choices when I noticed a text come in from Dave.
You okay over there?
I looked at the time. He’d sent it less than a minute before. Had he heard me crying? Was he telepathically linked to me?
You were supposed to stay off your phone, I sent, deliberately not answering his question.
So were you.
Touché.
Why aren’t you sleeping? he asked.
Why hide it now? I’d already cried on his shirt. Deep thoughts. What about you?
Same.
I couldn’t imagine he was thinking about my mother, but he had his own family issues. Your grandfather?
Nope.
?? I sent.
He responded with one word: Truth?
For some reason his question set my heart to pounding. Of course.
Three dots taunted me for a very long time before his text came through. You.
When I didn’t respond, he sent: I’m thinking about you, Nessa. As though it wasn’t already clear.
What did that mean? I stared at my phone for a minute. He had to mean that he was thinking about my problems and how he felt sorry for me because of my mommy issues. Didn’t he? Or was I being stupid—he had been about to kiss me. Was he on the cusp of admitting a crush?
Before I could even formulate how to respond, he sent another text.
Never mind. I’m tired and it’s been a long few days. Please ignore me.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. So now he was changing the subject? Was he chickening out or had I been wrong about him. Had I imagined him being about to kiss me?
I suddenly and kind of desperately wanted to ask him. Except that I knew he’d been about to kiss me. But what did it mean? Was it because he liked me or was it just an in-the-moment impulse that Sandy’s sudden appearance had quashed?
Did it matter? Would asking him about it just make it weirder? Would it make me have to admit to myself that I’d wanted him to kiss me, at least in that moment?
None of the above were things I wanted to examine closely, so I just sent back: consider yourself ignored. Turn off your phone and go to sleep.
You, too, he sent back.
I sent him a sleepy emoji and then returned to airplane mode.
But that whole sleep thing? That took much longer. Because as I closed my eyes and turned toward the wall, willing myself to get some rest, my brain wanted to chat. I told it now wasn’t the time to try to figure all this stuff out, but it didn’t want to listen. It wanted to rehash that entire time at the front of the bus with Dave, no matter how much I told it no good could come of it. It also kept throwing me images—the night in Times Square. The poster. How good he smelled. How sweet he was.
And worst of all: how maybe I’d been premature in starting things with Andres.
Stupid brain.
How to Deal: Unplug
Dad’s reaction to me bringing the whole poster situation to his attention had many levels.
First, he let out an uncharacteristic string of curses. Then he took some time to think and drink a lot of coffee by himself (the guys were smart enough to know he needed some space when he holed himself up behind the curtain in the office).
But eventually, he calmed down and did know what to do with the sudden swirling tornado of media attention that had descended on Dave and I overnight.
“Ignore it.”
We were all—the boys, Kiki, Sandy, and me—gathered at the front of the bus having our daily meeting. We’d just returned from breakfast at a suburban truck stop and were on our way to the Chicago venue. Once there, we’d be doing pretty much a carbon copy of the day before, though on a smaller scale. Also, instead of putting on a concert at a swank indoor venue, the guys would be playing at a mini festival, which was being held outdoors at a local school’s stadium.
Everyone was quiet as we processed Dad’s verdict about how to handle the media. He looked around at the guys and then his eyes landed on Sandy who was sitting between Graeme and Darren on one of the leather sofas. “No one confirms or denies that it’s Nessa on the poster. No one confirms or denies that they’re a couple. We say nothing about it and focus on other things. As soon as you engage, it whips up the frenzy again.”
“But don’t we want that frenzy?” Darren asked, his normally smiling face scrunched up in a confused frown. “Isn’t that the whole point of the posters and being on social media?”
Dad narrowed his eyes at the drummer who was showing a bit of his naiveté just then. “Not when what they’re saying is about my daughter.”
“Dad,” I said, glad I was sitting beside him at the little dinette table because it meant I could put a calming hand on his arm. “Darren didn’t mean it like that. He’s right. We do want media attention.” Before my father protested, though, I turned to Darren and added. “Just not this kind. We weren’t expecting it to be quite like this.” I was amazed at how composed my voice was even though this was all about me and was exactly what I hadn’t wanted to happen.
I knew without a doubt that it was the conversation I’d had with Dave in the middle of last night that resulted in my even demeanor now. Talking it out with him had given me the opportunity to get my emotions out and move on, get distance from the situation. I could now understand that this wasn’t about me personally and that I needed to not make it about me. This was about how best to deal so that the band could leverage it without doing more damage.
“Sorry,” Darren said and I could tell by his eyes that he really was. All the guys felt horrible (except Andres who didn’t just feel horrible, but was furious) about how I’d been demonized overnight.
Especially when Dave came off looking like a...well a rock star. He’d been getting nonstop congratulatory messages on how great the poster looked, how hot he looked, how girls would [insert inappropriate offers here]. Sexism at its finest, I guess. Though Dad had started the fire when he had put together a hot boy band, marketing to young girls. The poster was just a splash of gasoline on top of the already smoldering embers.
Still. The way they were treating me was pretty awful—it made sense that my father was freaking out.
Dad shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, just...” His voice trailed off as he scrubbed his palms over his face. For someone who didn’t get really stressed very often, that I’d been pulled into it was his one trigger and was getting to him big time.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I turned to find Dave looking at me. Since we were now practiced at te
lepathic conversations, I knew he was silently asking what he could do. But in the big scheme of things, this was nothing—just a blip that didn’t really mean anything. We’d weather it, but of course that didn’t help push Dad’s old memories away.
I gave Dave a tiny shake of my head because there was nothing he could do. Like Dad said, we needed to just carry on and not engage.
“It’ll die down in a few days,” Kiki said with a dismissive wave of her hand. She was sitting on the other side of the table across from Dad, leaning against the wall of the bus. Her legs were stretched out on the bench as she drank the giant coffee she’d gotten from the truck stop. She’d been around enough stuff like this to be rational about it. She knew how these things went and that she was unconcerned was encouraging.
“What are we going to do about the posters?” Graeme asked. “Are you going to trash the rest of them?”
Good question. Especially since they were being shipped ahead of us to all the tour stops. I looked at my dad.
He was looking at me. “Yes, we’re trashing the rest of them, I can’t—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They’re out. It’s not going to get any worse from here.”
“It’s not going to stop, though,” Andres pointed out. “It may not get worse, but...”
“It’s a promo shot. It’s no different than David Beckham and a hot girl who isn’t his wife on a perfume ad. People will get it.”
“I don’t know, Nessa,” my father said, scrubbing at his face again. “I don’t like how this has gone down.”
“You knew it was a possibility when we let them out yesterday.”
He blew out a loud breath. “I suppose, I just didn’t think...”
“You didn’t think it would bother you so much, but that it’s me is what’s getting to you. I know, Dad, it’s fine.” I forced myself not to say the last lie through gritted teeth.
He stared at me and I gave him a smile. “Seriously, it’s fine.”
Finally, he nodded. “All right. We continue with the posters. But if it gets worse, we pull them.”
The Rosewoods Rock & Roll Box Set Page 29
