Love Songs & Other Lies

by Jessica Pennington

  And I’ve learned that Vee doesn’t like to come right out and ask questions. She always offers something first. A fact about herself or a little game to play along with. I like that there’s a certain give-and-take with her—she never asks for anything she can’t or won’t return. And she never presses. Whenever she asks about my family, or why we came to Riverton, the silence never lasts long. She just trudges right along, changing the subject and picking a new line of questioning as if nothing has happened. The fact that she looks past those glaring holes is what keeps me coming back.

  “Five years from now, I’m going to be backstage at some crazy music festival,” Vee says. “I’ll be doing interview prep with a coked-out but adorable guitarist with a heart of gold, who will eventually clean up his act and ask me to marry him.” We’re lying on the beach on a particularly cold September night, and I love that she’s holding my hand even while telling me about her imaginary future husband.

  “I’m glad to hear I’ll finally kick the habit one day.” I squeeze her hand, bumping her shoulder gently with mine. “Please tell me I at least get to go to one of those fancy celebrity rehabs—in Malibu or something?”

  I know she’s trying to get me to share my plans for the future—for college, probably—but I don’t have any. Vee has The Plan, and probably a Plan B, and C, and F, and when I think about the future I don’t really see anything. The furthest I think ahead is looking forward to lying on the beach with her night after night. It has quickly become the only constant thing in my life. And finally, I don’t feel like I’m running. It’s fun to imagine a future filled with normal things like getting married someday. Even if I do have questionable habits in this particular scenario.

  “Where’s the wedding?” I ask.

  “Oh, we’ll probably do something nontraditional. You know, get married in the redwood forests, or in a field, or something.”

  “I’m not getting married in a field.” And forests are filled with ticks. Why would we not get married on a beach, or at a golf club, like normal people?

  “It’s not going to be a cow pasture. It’ll be a wildflower field or something.”

  “Not happening.”

  “Excuse me?” She slams our joined hands into my hip. “You’re the one who invited yourself into my imaginary scenario. You’ll get married wherever I say.”

  I laugh, thinking of Bridezilla Vee, barking orders at caterers and florists and bringing me nineteen different flavors of cake to try, before she finds the One. My sister used to love those shows about crazy, screaming brides, and the thought of her stops my laughter in its tracks. “Nontraditional in a field. Got it. Do I at least get to pick out our song or something?”

  “As long as it doesn’t suck. I’m not dancing to anything cheesy and overplayed, like Frank Sinatra or Louis Armstrong.”

  “I’d write you an original song. Obviously.” I say it as though I’ve had this plan for months. Years maybe. As if I’ve ever thought about any of this before this very strange, exact moment. “And a symphony would play with me. It would be like rock meets classical. Very nontraditional, very rock royalty.” I lay my cheek against the blanket we’re lying on, so I can look at her. “We are rock royalty in this scenario, right?”

  She nods and rolls her eyes. “I don’t think my parents are splurging for a symphony.”

  “Hey, I’m a big-shot, formerly coked-out rock star. I’m sure I saved for my wedding.”

  She giggles. “What formerly coked-out rock star wouldn’t?”

  “Exactly. Anyway, your parents won’t like me much when they find out about my little problem.” I tap my nose dramatically.

  “Former problem,” she corrects in a very serious voice. A chunk of hair falls onto my forehead and Vee pushes it away with a warm hand.

  I’m never getting another haircut. “Right. I’m sure they’ll hate our rock-meets-symphony field-wedding so much they won’t pay for it, anyway.”

  “I want Rice Krispies treats!” Vee shouts.

  “Right now?”

  “No, for our wedding. I want a cake made out of Rice Krispies treats.”

  I love the way she’s playing along so easily, and I love that with Vee I can actually joke about an imaginary wedding—my imaginary wedding—without feeling like I may lose my dinner on this beach. If my ex had brought up our wedding—hell, if she’d brought up going to a wedding—I probably would have broken out in hives. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be playing along. But there’s something about Vee that’s different. And it’s not that marrying her is so unimaginable that I can just joke about it. Vee is just … easy. Easy to be with, and easy to talk to, and completely, one hundred percent genuine, in a way that I know I don’t deserve. I can’t give her the same thing. It’s reason number 192 I should stick with my plan of keeping this platonic.

  “I’m not eating Rice Krispies treats at my wedding,” I say. “They’re like slimy rubber chunks.”

  “But they’re my favorite,” she whines.

  “Not happening, sweetheart. I draw the line at marshmallow anything at our wedding.”

  “You’re totally unreasonable.”

  “Do we get to have a bar? Or am I a recovering drunk, too? Do we have to have a hot chocolate bar or something lame like that?”

  “God, hot chocolate sounds good,” she says.

  “For our wedding?”

  “No, for now. It’s cold tonight.” She leans over, resting her head on my shoulder, and wiggling closer so her chest is pressed up against my side. For the hundredth time since I met her, I have to talk myself out of kissing her. I don’t deserve it. Or her. And this isn’t even what I came here for.

  “You want to leave?” I ask, slipping my hand out of hers and looping it under her neck, pulling her tighter to me. “We can stop at the gas station and get your hot chocolate.”

  She nods against my arm but she doesn’t move. We lie in the darkness for hours, listening to the music drift down from the dunes, as her heart beats in rhythm against my shoulder. This isn’t what I came here for, but it’s what makes me stay. It’s what helps me forget.

  VIRGINIA

  Step Three: Exit Your Comfort Zone

  I’m sitting in Cam’s car, in the leather pants he bought me and a vintage concert tee I found at a thrift shop. I cut open the neck and stitched it into a wide scoop, so it hangs over one shoulder. My guitar is in the backseat with Cam’s, and we’re pulling onto the dimly lit streets of a small beach town thirty minutes north of Riverton. We drive down the brick streets, past the gift shops and restaurants, until the road dumps us out onto a small beach.

  “Dakota Gray and Parker Sunset are going out tonight.” My whole body had tensed when Cam said it this afternoon. I knew “going out” was code for singing. At first glance this beach is empty, but as we leave the car—pulling our guitars out behind us—I can hear the familiar sound of bongos. Do they give you a bongo the first time you buy weed? Or if you show up at a beach after sunset enough nights in a row? Is it part of a starter kit or something?

  “God bless the stoners,” Cam says. “I came here once this summer thinking maybe the waves would be better.”

  I give him a mocking look. I love harassing him about Lucy the surfboard.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m stupid. Whatever.” He’s waving his hands in front of him like he’s heard it a million times. Which he has. “What I did find here are more beach musicians.”

  “So you brought me to get my first joint. That’s so sweet.” I know that’s not why we’re here, but it actually feels like the lesser of two evils at this point.

  “You’re not as cute as you think you are.” He grabs my hand and starts to lead me toward the wooden stairs that stretch up into the dunes. “We’re here to play.”

  “In front of people?” I plant my feet on the concrete, bringing us to a stop.

  “For people. Baby steps.”

  Before I can protest, Cam’s face is in front of mine and he’s tugging on the ends of the long bl
ack wig I’m wearing. I’m fully embracing Dakota Gray.

  “No one knows you here. We’ll start out playing by ourselves, okay?” He’s giving me these pleading puppy dog eyes he’s so good at. “I really want to play with you. Will you let me play with you?” He’s smirking and I can’t stop the smile that’s creeping onto my face as he teases me.

  “You can play with me,” I tease.

  We make our way up the steep steps and take a seat on one of the wooden observation decks. We’re two levels up from where a group of dirty-looking guys—and maybe a girl?—are gathered with bongos and guitars. I can still hear the soft beat of their music, but we’re above them now and I can’t see them. They can’t see me.

  Cam takes his guitar out first, and starts strumming a rhythm he’s been working on for weeks, playing in his living room while I sit on the couch doing homework or watching movies. He hums along as I do the same. My guitar is sitting on my lap, but I can’t bring myself to join him yet. I’ve known this song almost as long as he has. As soon as he had started playing it, I went home and learned it on my own. I’ve even added to it, and changed it.

  “I know you have lyrics in your head,” he says over the music. “I can practically see them on your lips. They want out.” I get the puppy dog eyes again. “They need out, Vee.” He gives me a huge smile, and I start to lose my resolve. I don’t know if he even realizes it, but Cam doesn’t smile much. Not like Logan or Anders, who walk around with perpetual grins on their faces. Cam makes you work for it. Each smile he gives me is like a carefully wrapped present. And he’s right; there are absolutely lyrics trapped in me. But in my mind, the song he’s singing is different.

  I take a deep breath and steel myself. “In my mind it’s actually a duet,” I say. “A two-part call-and-response.” Cam is looking at me with so much hope and excitement that I forget I’m supposed to be scared. I forget about that hidden fear, and that I don’t play in front of anyone. “Like this.” I pick the first few notes. “You keep playing, and I’ll add.”

  Cam plays and I add a new rhythm line, and by the time the sun has fully set, Cam has started to add words and I’m beginning to feel alive. I didn’t even know I wasn’t, until this moment, when everything inside me began to open up, blossoming into something so much bigger. My heart starts to pound in rhythm to this song. Our first song.

  There’s this girl, yeah this girl,

  who makes the world seem

  brighter than it’s ever been.

  There’s her smile and her eyes

  and I just wanna make her mine—

  The lyrics Cam is singing aren’t the ones in my head. They’re better. I add my own response that mirrors his, and we trade verses back and forth, telling each other all the things we haven’t said. With the kind of honesty only lyrics can offer. And it’s not Dakota telling Parker how she feels; it’s Vee telling Cam. When it’s just the two of us and our guitars, there’s no room for anyone else.

  When we play the final notes we’re staring at each other and it suddenly feels too quiet. I can hear the blades of dune grass scratching against each other, and our heavy breathing. The soft rush of the water as it rages toward the shore. I think I hear Cam blink. And then a strange rhythmic sound that doesn’t fit. I’m still staring at him. I wonder if this is what falling in love sounds like. Like butterfly wings in my ears and trumpets in my stomach and like the pound of bass in my chest. Until I realize it’s the sound of applause. I lean over the railing and the group on the deck below us is clapping and cheering. One of them is shaking a tambourine overhead. Cam gives a dramatic bow and I follow. And I know; this is exactly what falling in love sounds like.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NOW

  CAM

  Sometimes I forget that the whole reason I’m on tour is to win a competition. To walk away with a recording deal and make an actual living as a musician. The first two shows had felt like every other gig we’ve played in the last two months. We went onstage, did our thing, and the crowds loved it. By the second show, a few of the girls in the crowd were wearing the purple Future X shirts. But now, for show number three—the first live show—I can tell that something has changed backstage. The air is crackling with a certain amount of aggression. Everyone’s on edge. The bands are all focused on the fact that two will be leaving soon. After nothing more than a tallying of public opinion, dreams will be ended. The drunken horseplay that had been filling the back rooms of the previous shows is now just drunken nerves.

  As we exit the stage from our performance, I see Pax and Sid—our two bus mates from Caustic Underground—sitting on a ratty couch in one of the club’s two back rooms. Two guys from The Phillips sit in metal folding chairs across from them. Between them is a large wooden trunk being used as a table, and it’s covered with a colorful assortment of guitar picks. The perimeter is lined with glasses and bottles.

  I tap the lead singer of The Phillips on the shoulder. “You’re in the pit, man. Jenn wants you up front.” He throws back the shot in his hand before sauntering toward the stage, his drummer following behind.

  “What’s this?” I say, taking a seat in one of the folding chairs while Reese grabs the other.

  Pax waves a long arm over the table like a magician. “Sit down and find out.”

  “I’m in,” Reese says, rubbing his hands together. “Whatever it is, I’m in. What are the rules?”

  He looks at me expectantly. I have a stage high from our first live performance—the cameras moving all around us, the screaming crowd that was so much bigger than we had expected. Even as we walked into the venue, there were fans. Little clusters of kids and women, men and teens, waiting by the doors, in the parking lot, by the bathrooms. Someone even asked me for an autograph. Whose life is this? I would do just about anything right now. I feel invincible. “Sure, I’m in.”

  “Here’s the deal,” Pax says, setting down a deck of cards that I hadn’t noticed he was holding. “We all start by throwing in a pick.” He picks up a red triangle with a black bird on it and drops it back onto the table. I dig one of my Your Future X picks out of my pocket, and Reese throws in a black Playboy pick as I give him a questioning glance.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “What?”

  “Nothing, I just forget you’re twelve years old sometimes,” I say.

  Reese just rolls his eyes and looks back to Pax, who is shuffling the cards, setting them in piles on the table.

  Out in the hallway, bands are being shuffled from one staging area to another. I can hear the overly dramatic voice of the former-rockstar host as he intros The Phillips.

  “When it’s your turn, you pick a card.” Pax flips over the top card on the pile closest to him and sets it down for us all to see. He goes through a list of rules that I’m not completely convinced he isn’t making up on the spot. Take a drink for this, give a drink for that. It sounds like a really complicated version of Truth or Dare. Some of the cards require us to find girls to kiss backstage, others let us give out a dare to someone else.

  I imagine Reese harassing the entire population of women hanging around backstage. “What is this, a slumber party?” Everyone ignores me.

  “What about face cards?” Reese says, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He’s really into this.

  Pax is still running through the complicated list of probably-made-up rules. And they all lead to a lot of drinking—it sounds like a hot mess waiting to happen. Thank God we’ve already played our set. “Walk us through as we go?”

  Pax has a wicked look in his eye. “Absolutely. Let’s do this.”

  After a few rounds, Pax is the first to pull a kiss card. “Watch and learn,” he says, dropping the card to the floor. We all turn to watch as he makes his way to the other side of the room where three girls are huddled together, holding plastic cups. Their eyes are fixed on the row of doors that lead to dressing rooms for the host and the guest performer of the night. The girls—two blondes and a brunette all in th
eir early twenties—straighten when they see Pax approach. The tallest of them is wearing a purple Future X shirt that she’s cut at an angle across her stomach, and ripped down the neck, revealing a lot of skin. It’s probably not what Vee had in mind when she picked out the T-shirts. Pax leans into her ear, and with a teasing smile, she kisses him. Then she scribbles on a piece of paper and tucks it in his pocket. Pax turns to the other two girls, and they each hand him scraps of paper that he shoves into his jeans for extra points. When he returns to the game, it’s with the blonde he kissed in tow.

  “Guys, this is Bri,” he says, as she sits down on the chair next to him.

  Her eyes don’t meet any of ours. “Hey.”

  If I hadn’t just seen her kiss a stranger, I would think she was shy. Reese draws a king of spades, then lets out an annoyed grunt when Pax tells him to close his eyes and take a pick from the table. He fishes around in the pile and when he opens his eyes and sees the purple pick in his hand, I can’t help but laugh at the tortured look on his face. This may be the best thing to happen to me since we came on tour.

  Pax gives me a knowing look. “He’s all yours. Whatever you want him to do.”

  “I want you to go talk to Jenn.” I nod toward the tour’s surly publicist, standing by the exit with her arms crossed. She’s not much older than us, but she’s scary, with her clipboard-waving and her constant yelling, and the way she’s always jabbing her pen at someone. But I swear, Reese has a thing for her. She’s one of the few girls I’ve seen him talk to without any indecent proposals or nausea-inducing innuendo.

  A cocky grin spreads across Reese’s face. “Nice.”

  “Tell her you need the bus to make a pit stop at a pharmacy.” I stare at him, begging him to ask.

  He squints his eyes at me. “Why?”

  “You need to refill your prescription. For your—you know—rash.”

  “Hell, no.” Reese throws the card down on the floor like it’s dirty. “What’s the penalty for not doing it?” He’s looking over at Jenn, like she’s the one who needs the prescription.