There’s a long moment of silence, and then Adam pipes in with his mouth full of chocolate chips, “What about a band?”
“Huh?”
“What about doing the project for a band instead of a company?” His chocolate chips struggle to get down his throat, and he seems cautious when he adds, “We need to find a new guitarist . . .”
Right. Because I ruined things with the last one.
Resisting the guilt wrapping its icy fingers around my throat, I say, “Why not just bring Cody back?”
All three guys stare at me like I just suggested we lick cookie dough off the floor.
The clang of the oven slamming startles me, and Rowan whirls around with an exaggerated smile on her face. She wipes her hands on her jeans and says, “I think doing a band project sounds like a great idea. You could come up with flyers and advertise online and stuff. And researching how well it works would be simple, because if they find a guitarist, it worked.” The corners of her mouth tip up in a triumph, and I begin envisioning the flyers in my head.
“I could advertise at the festival,” I muse. This project would be easy, and it’s the least I could do for the guys after what they did for me.
“So you’re coming?” Joel asks, spinning me around by my shoulders to give me a hopeful smile that’s impossible to resist.
I pluck a ticket from his hand, steal Adam’s chocolate chips, and plop down on the couch to write an overdue proposal.
Chapter Ten
THE WEEK BEFORE the festival passes in a blur of quitting my job, attending classes, getting the guys to finally fix my door, and dreaming of Cody. Every night since Saturday—with the exception of the one night I dreamt of my mom—I’ve woken in a cold sweat with Cody’s face fading from the backs of my eyelids. He always looks at me like he wants to eat me alive, telling me how hot I am and how much he wants me. Each morning when I’ve gotten ready for school, I’ve been tempted to wear yoga pants and hoodies—baggy clothes to hide my curves and prevent anyone from getting the wrong idea.
So instead, I’ve worn my shortest skirts, my highest heels, and my fiercest smile. I refuse to let him make me hide, even if my clothes are fitting looser against my frame because I can’t eat, can’t sleep, and feel smaller than I am. The fading bruises on my wrists are a constant reminder that he was more than just a nightmare, and I’ve decorated them with bracelets and bangles and cute fingerless gloves. Every day, I’ve treated life like a runway, strutting with a confidence I hope to someday feel again.
On Friday, I’m standing with Rowan in the only private room of the band’s tour bus staring down at the clothes she’s dressed me in. The oversized purple tank top, I can deal with. The cut-off jean shorts, those are okay too. But the black-and-white Chuck Taylors on my feet? “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Rowan giggles. We’re parked at the music festival, preparing for our first day of shows and general mayhem, and she’s enjoying this way too much. Normally, I’m the one dressing her, not the other way around.
She’s made me into her personal scene-kid Barbie.
This has got to be what hell feels like.
“Do I need to put my hair up into a messy bun, too?” I scoff, wiggling my toes in the world’s flattest shoes. They might be cute if they had a wedge heel or something, but the guys insisted that if I didn’t wear flats, my feet would fall off—which led to a long, disturbing conversation about amputation that I’ll probably have nightmares about for weeks to come.
“Actually, you probably should,” Rowan says, offering me a hair tie. “It’s hot as hell out there.”
I point a manicured fingernail at her like I’m warding off the hounds of hell. Even though we’re in the middle of some ungodly hot, middle-of-March heat-wave in crocodile-country Georgia, I have no intention of rocking Rowan’s college-bum hairstyle. “No freaking way. If I’m going to wear these grungy shoes, I’m at least keeping my hair down.”
A few hours later, my chocolate locks are melted against the back of my neck and my feet are dragging as I walk with my best friend and four sizzling-hot rock stars along a row of tents. When the guys emphasized that the festival was ‘down South’ and that it was going to be ‘warm’, I had no idea it would feel like sunbathing on the equator. Distant music drifts to my sweat-sprinkled ears from the area where the stages are, but right now we’re searching for food. “Can I borrow your hair tie?” I beg Rowan. “Just for like . . . an hour.”
She shakes her head. “I told you to wear one. You should’ve brought one along.”
I throw both arms in the air. “And put it where? I’m wearing like fifty billion wristbands!” I’ve purchased one at almost every band merchandise tent we’ve stopped at because they cover my faded bruises, help me fit in, and are way cuter than I’d ever willingly admit.
Without warning, Joel steps in front of me and scoops me over his good shoulder. His other is still healing, but the stitches in his knuckles were removed yesterday, so he’s looking like less of a mess. “There,” he says while I hang upside down like a soggy noodle, “now your hair is off your neck and your feet don’t hurt. Stop whining.”
Adam, Shawn, and Mike all laugh, but I’m too busy enjoying the reprieve from walking to mind. “Thank God.”
Joel chuckles and carries me all the way to the barbecue pit, where he sets me back on my feet and we all get in line. I insist I don’t want anything, but Joel orders a sandwich for me anyway, and the band covers the tab before we commandeer a long picnic table.