Love Songs & Other Lies

by Jessica Pennington

  “Down,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the floor. She’s taking jagged breaths and I don’t know if it’s her asthma, or if she’s panicking. It’s freaking me out. I can’t remember if I’m supposed to leave the window open or closed. Air feeds fire. But the smoke. We make it back to the window and shove our heads out, feeling the cool night air invade our lungs as we gasp to take in the clean air. We’re at the back of the house, and I can see just one tiny light in the distance—the Andersons’ porch light. They live in a nearly identical home on the other side of the small river that divides our property from theirs. What time is it? We didn’t even go to bed until two.

  I grab my white undershirt from the floor and hang it out the window, waving it frantically as I scream at the top of my lungs. I don’t know what to do. Do we wait? Stand here in the window until someone sees us? Or sees the fire? Do we have time for that? I lean my head out of the window, trying to get a look at the house and can see that the windows below us are glowing, casting light out onto the patio below. It looks like every light is on in the house, except these lights are dancing and snapping and hissing. The air all around is opaque with smoke.

  Fuck.

  “Cameron?” Sienna still has her head hanging out the window. “It’s getting hotter in here. It’s hotter, don’t you think?” Her voice is panicked. I crawl over to the door, putting my hand on it again and it’s hot to the touch.

  “Put your clothes on, Sienna.” I’m already pulling my shirt over my head. “Put your shoes on. Quick.”

  “Cameron?” Her voice is tiny, like a scared little kid, and I’m trying to keep calm, but I wish my parents were here. I push the wet hair off of her cheeks. We’re both drenched in sweat. I’m back in my jeans and shirt from the night before and she’s got her flowery sundress on in one quick move. She slips her pink flats on as she hangs her face out the window. “Cameron?”

  I look down, surveying what’s below us, the hissing and popping of the flames filling the air. It’s almost three floors down to the ground. We’re on the second floor, but the back of the house has a walkout basement and most of the ground below us is a flagstone patio that bleeds out to the river’s edge.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, waving my shirt in the air again and screaming until my voice breaks. The patio below us is illuminated like the afternoon by the flames. Surely the Andersons will notice soon. The lights are still off, there’s just the one single porch light taunting me. What if they aren’t even home? It’s a Saturday night. Mom and Dad have gone to a bed and breakfast for their anniversary and won’t be back until tomorrow night. “Fuck.” The heat is almost unbearable now and the smoke is thick around us, choking me even with my head out the window.

  “Get on the edge,” I say, grabbing Sienna’s waist. “Get your legs out.”

  “Cameron.”

  “Do it, Sienna! I’ll hold on to you.”

  She scrambles up into the window frame as I hold onto her. Both of her legs are over the edge and I wrap my arms around her waist as she ducks her head down, swinging her upper body under and out the window. Her body goes rigid and I know what she’s thinking.

  It’s a long fucking drop.

  I’m trying not to think about what hitting the stone from twenty-five feet up will feel like. We don’t have another choice. Aside from the Andersons’, the nearest house is a half mile away because my parents always dreamed of living in the country.

  Some dream.

  “Don’t think about it. You got this.” Sienna’s a cheerleader—she was a gymnast when she was a kid. She’s small and cat-like. The girl the other cheerleaders all toss in the air and catch with their arms. But there’s no group of perky, ponytailed girls in red to catch her now, and we both know it. “Push off with your feet. Roll when you land. On three I’ll let go.” My head is wedged out the window by her shoulder, and I kiss her sticky skin. It’s not something I would normally do, but God, this isn’t how our nights normally go.

  “Camer—”

  “On three.” I know I can’t give her too much time to think about this. I can’t think about this. “One. Two. Three.” I release her waist as she pushes off the side of the house. She’s on the ground in seconds and I hear a piercing shriek as she makes contact, rolling on the stone in a rigid, unnatural way. She screams again, a shrill sound among the pops and cracks and steady whooshing of the fire.

  I hoist myself over the windowsill, gripping the frame as I twist my upper body under and out. Sienna is slightly off to the right, and as I jump I think “roll left, roll left, roll left.” The flames have lit up the river, reflecting oranges and yellows, and the Andersons’ house is bathed in light. All of the lights are on now and I see a single figure running down the dock, pulling the ropes free from the small speedboat.

  Pushing off with my feet, I propel myself away from the house as another shriek of pain cuts through the air. Roll left, roll left, roll left. I think it like a prayer. As my body twists against the hard rock I hear the snap of bones, and in the distance, the soft wail of sirens.

  VIRGINIA

  Just like I promised Cam I would, I remember everything about last night. Cort’s squealing, the drinks, the feel of Cam’s hands on my waist. The cool wash of the water against my hot skin. My drunken rambling. Walking a jagged line in the sand, his lips on mine. His hands all over me. Even though it feels like someone is shoving a drumstick in one ear and out the other, every moment of last night—good and bad—is seared into my brain. The only detail that’s escaping me is how I ended up in Cam’s bed.

  I smell him before I see him, because I’m wrapped in a cocoon of Cam. I bring the blue comforter tangled around my waist up to my nose, trying to identify the clean, minty, musk smell. I’d like it to take up permanent residence in my nose.

  “Did you just sniff my sheets?”

  I want to pretend like it didn’t happen, but I’ll never get away with it. Using my best sleepy voice I say, “Shh, I’m sleeping.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  I roll over slowly, keeping the covers pulled up to my chin. Cam is lying on the bed on top of the comforter facing me.

  “I like your bed.” I don’t know what else to say. What do you say when waking up in the bed of the guy you’re dating (but not dating) after crying and then kissing him?

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Is that the only thing you can say in the morning?”

  He nods, smiling at me. “Mmhmm.”

  “Whatever.”

  At that word, his whole body shakes with laughter. Realizing what he thinks is so funny, I grab my pillow. Launching myself at his face, I attempt to smother him.

  “You have anger management issues. You know that, right?” he says, holding me back with one arm.

  I laugh. “You have boundary issues.”

  “I didn’t hear you complaining about my boundary issues last night.”

  “Har har,” I say, flopping onto my back and pulling the pillow across my face. The bed dips and the pillow is jerked away.

  “Whatever.” He smiles and kisses me softly, slowly on the lips, before rolling away from me and hopping to his feet.

  I’ve never seen him this chipper in the morning. When he picks me up for school he’s basically a zombie, until he’s gone through his coffee and mine.

  “I’m going to wake up Anders and Cort.” Cam closes the door behind him and I stand up, feeling like a baby deer as I make my way to the bathroom. It’s a Jack and Jill bathroom, shared by the two bedrooms, and the door is always closed, so I’ve assumed Cam doesn’t use it, but the door is cracked open. I don’t feel like wandering out to the hallway bathroom in the blue boxer shorts I’m wearing. My T-shirt is slung across the shower rod, still damp, but my pants—and more importantly, my bra—are nowhere to be found. I had to have left the party with those two very important pieces. Right? I remember leaving the party. I don’t specifically remember having my pants on, but I have a feeling not having them would be memorable.

 
; I turn on the tap, filling my hands with cool water and splashing it onto my face, before wiping down my neck, chest, shoulders, and arms. I just can’t bring myself to get naked in Cam’s shower. After drying myself off with the only towel I can find—a tiny white hand towel—I head back into Cam’s room. The light is off, and I fumble next to the door, trying to find the switch. When the light clicks on, the room is empty, except for a stack of boxes along one wall. The room is baby blue—an identical twin to Cam’s—but it isn’t his. This isn’t what I had in mind when he said his parents weren’t here, and we could stay over. Are they moving? Why would—

  “Vee?” My train of thought is interrupted by a soft tap on the bathroom door, and Cam’s voice. “You okay?”

  I lurch back into the bathroom as if the mossy green carpeting in front of me has caught fire. I turn on the faucet, feeling like I’ve been caught. I probably have. Maybe his parents travel a lot? “I’m fine,” I say, over the rush of the water. “Do you know where my pants are?”

  The bathroom door creaks open far enough for Cam to shove his hand in, with my jeans—completely dry—hanging by a belt loop off his finger. Right next to my white cotton bra. I own one sexy bra. It’s black lace over purple satin, and it’s tucked away in my top drawer. I didn’t expect anyone to see my bra last night. Or to be holding it this morning. Kill me now. I grab the clothes, shove his arm, and close the door in one swift move.

  “You’re welcome!” I hear the creak of his mattress as his body slams against it and my whole face flushes at the thought of him on his bed again. Of me in his bed. All the potential that bed might hold for us now. Even though nothing has changed—not really—everything feels different. Life feels full of possibilities. I slip on my bra and jeans, leaving Cam’s red-and-white Coachella T-shirt on. It doesn’t look like anything else I’ve seen him wear, but it’s threadbare and worn-in, with tiny holes around the hems. Before I open the door, I take a second to smell it, letting the memories of the last twenty-four hours wash over me.

  Just like during our nights on the beach, I’m filled with this overwhelming need to know Cam. Not just his favorite movie (an apocalyptic thriller) or song (anything classic rock), or how old he was when he had his first kiss (twelve—which seems old, because I was eight on a swing set). I want to know his secrets. All of the things he’s not telling me. I want to know the stories that fill the gaps of silence, when he shuts down and gets quiet. The stories he doesn’t tell anyone else. I want him to tell me about that room, and those boxes. Why he drives a car like that, and lives in an apartment like this—small, with its mismatched furniture and zero decorations and that empty room. I don’t just want to know everything about Cam, I think I need to know. But when I open the door and see him lying on the bed, smiling and shirtless and mine, all the questions seem to drift away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  NOW

  VIRGINIA

  As an official member of the publicity team, one of my new duties is to make sure the bands arrive early to every show and sign autographs for the fans that line up outside the venues. Afterward, they do a meet-and-greet with fans who won that week’s contests. I ask fans to post pictures of themselves in their purple shirts, or to tell a story about their worst breakup, or share the lyrics to their favorite Future X song. Each week, the ten or fifteen winners join us backstage to watch the guys rehearse and get autographs. Usually, I’m glued to my phone, responding to online comments, but today all I can do is stare at the screen. My chest burns at the thought of Cam’s hands on me, the cold bricks against my back, the feel of us against each other. Don’t ever drink again, Virginia. I had just enough to give in to the feel of him. Just enough to forget why I should have pushed him away sooner. Before the cameras were pointed at us. Before we had to make stuttered excuses no one believed.

  The guys are onstage, finishing up their rehearsal. The contest winners are huddled around the backstage area with me, when I hear the whispers begin.

  “I can’t believe he let her stay.”

  “Stupid slut.”

  I look around the small backstage area, wondering who they could be talking about. It’s practically empty back here. There are a few groupies sitting with one of the bands, and Bri is standing by the exit with Pax. Are they talking about her? Why do they care if she stays?

  “I heard the band might break up.”

  Another one of them whispers behind me. “Do it.”

  I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  The tiny, pigtailed blonde behind me barely comes up to my shoulder. “He’s too good for you. And he’s going to figure it out pretty soon. So … enjoy it while it lasts.” It sounds like a threat. A confusing, nonsensical threat. “Bitch.”

  “Excuse me?” What is happening right now?

  Another girl chimes in. “You heard her.” And another. “Yeah, bitch. You’ll be out on the street soon.”

  “Woah. Hold up.” The music has stopped and all I can manage to do is glare at the two girls as a third steps up alongside them. “What the hell is your problem?”

  “You’re our problem,” one says.

  The other girl takes a step forward. “You, bitch.”

  “Stupid skank,” the third girl mutters.

  What the hell is going on here? I can feel my face burning red as a hand lands on my shoulder and I flinch.

  “Everything okay?” Logan steps next to me and the guys gather around. I look at him, unsure of what to say. Is everything okay? No. “What’s going on, Vee?”

  The blonde steps forward. “Logan”—she’s using a sugary sweet voice nothing like the way she spoke to me—“we were just setting your future ex here”—she nods to me—“straight.”

  “Bitch,” the other girl mutters.

  I take a step toward the nasty little pixie waving her manicured finger at me as Cam pulls me back by my waist. “Hey, now.”

  Logan steps between me and the group. “I think it’s time for all of you to leave.” His arms are spread wide like he’s herding the fans.

  “You’re defending her?” The blonde looks at Logan, sounding disgusted. “Look what she’s doing to you. Right in front of your face.”

  “Defending her?” Logan keeps pushing them toward the exit. “Paul.” He waves the security guard over. “Show these three out?”

  “Wait ’til Logan sees the pictures, you stupid slut!” the blonde yells as Paul firmly leads her toward the door.

  “What the hell was that?” Reese says, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “You starting chick fights now? When we’re not even around to enjoy it?”

  “I have no idea. It came out of nowhere.” Did I do something to offend them? I had welcomed them, and explained they’d be watching rehearsal before getting autographs. That was it.

  Kaley walks toward us, her hands flapping in front of her. Like usual, she’s squinting her brown eyes at me. “Virginia, they’re late for the group waiting outside.”

  “What photo was she talking about?” I say to Logan, who has already been distracted by the band sound-checking onstage.

  “Virginia?” Kaley groans, hand on her hip.

  “I’m sorry, Kaley—” I turn for the door and pull my phone out of my pocket, waving a hand behind me. “You guys just go, I’m going to catch up with you.”

  My phone is buzzing in my hand as all of the guys walk across the stage, toward the exit that is undoubtedly surrounded by anxious fans waiting for the autograph session to begin. I take a deep breath as I step onto the bus and swipe my phone to life. I have fifteen notifications, and ten of them are from Cort.

  Cort:

  WTF!

  Seriously?

  What happened to keeping your distance?

  I don’t see any distance!

  I’m going to kill you

  It’s my duty as your best friend

  Call me

  Are you there?

  Has your mom seen it?

  Call me

  Vee:

  Hey c
razy

  Has mom seen what?

  My throat tightens just typing the words. Immediately, my fingers fly over the letters of my name. I never thought I’d have to Google myself to find out something about myself.

  Cort:

  The video, stupid

  A link pops up on my screen, and I click it, landing on a celebrity gossip site. A preview box for the “clip of the day” appears, and I press the PLAY button. My heart waterslides down to my stomach as I watch the pieced-together clip of myself. The first few images are just photos; me pulling Tad out onto the dance floor, Logan holding me close and whispering into my ear. And then, a photo of Cam carrying me outside. My head is turned away from the camera, and it almost looks like I’m leaning in to kiss him. But if you look closely, you can clearly see that I’m not. You can see his stupid mouth, free of my stupid mouth.

  Then, the photo of Cam and me morphs into crystal clear video. No, no, no. I had hoped it was all a drunken dream. But there I am, pushed up against the stone wall of The Tabernacle. My chest burns thinking about the cold stone up against my hot skin. And then the video stops. This is all wrong!

  Vee:

  Nothing happened! I pushed him away!

  I was drunk

  Cort:

  I would hope so

  Vee:

  This looks horrible

  No wonder they were calling me a slut

  Cort:

  Don’t read online comments

  they’re jealous

  and jerks

  Online comments? I pull up my Facebook page and have two hundred new friend requests. Every one of them has included a message letting me know I’m a slut. Or a bitch. I’m not good enough for Logan or Cam. There’s a real lack of creativity among the fans, if you ask me. The other sites are no better. The breath seeps out of me as comment after colorful comment tells Logan how they support him, how sorry they are for him. Yoko Ono seems to be the go-to nickname, which is ridiculous, because I’m pretty sure that’s not even how Yoko Ono allegedly broke up the Beatles. I think she was a weirdo, not a home-wrecker. I’m torn between crying and screaming, because this is absolutely ridiculous. I’m not even dating anyone! And while Cam is clearly the one introducing my back to that wall, everyone seems to pity him, too. Poor Cam; somehow I lured him into my sticky web of sluttiness.