Shawn is like the unofficial manager of the band. He’s the one who books the shows, who keeps everyone in line, who networks with the right people. By the glint in his eye and the smile he gives me, I have an odd feeling I just became one of those people.
“Shit, that’s a good idea,” Van says, and my world stops spinning. “I’ll talk to merch and have them get in touch with you.”
I’m too stunned to reply, so instead I just sit there like an idiot until someone sparks up a new conversation. I’m mostly talking to myself when I finally say, “They can’t be serious.”
“Why can’t they?” Joel asks, reminding me that I’m on his lap.
With my arm around his shoulder, I gaze down at him. “All I do is cut up shirts.”
“All I do is play guitar,” he counters.
I turn back around, settling against the ridges of his body, thinking they’re so not the same thing.
His arms tighten around me and he says, “If you’re good at something, you like doing it, and you can make money at it, you should go for it.”
“So I should be a prostitute?” I argue, and he chuckles against my back.
“Don’t sell yourself short. You could be a high-end escort.”
I’m glad I’m facing away from him so he can’t see my amused smile. “You’d never be able to afford me.”
“You’d make me pay?”
“I’d charge you double.”
“Why?”
“Hazard pay. I think I sprained my pinky when I jammed it in the toaster.”
Joel laughs so hard that I have to laugh too. Everyone’s attention turns on us, and when they ask what’s so funny, he starts to say, “Dee and I were on the bus earlier and—”
I spin around and clamp my hand over his mouth, and his muffled laughter sounds into my palm. I turn back toward the group to make up a lie to finish the end of his sentence, but then his fingers are digging into my sides. He tickles me without mercy while I laugh hysterically and try to throw myself off his lap.
“TOASTER!” he yells when I free his mouth to pry his hands from my sides, and everyone looks at us like we’re crazy as we laugh and wrestle until we’re both falling out of the chair.
For the rest of the night, Joel acts like learning that I’m ticklish is better than Christmas coming early. He makes it his mission to discover all the places I’m sensitive, and I’m contemplating biting his fingers off, when someone brings up the flyers I’ve posted all around the festival about the auditions we’re holding next weekend.
“I was actually wondering about that,” Van says, his eyes glassy from one too many beers. Rowan and Adam have already gone back to the bus, but the rest of us are still hanging out under a sea of twinkling stars.
Van takes another sip of his beer and adds, “What happened to the little guy?”
“Wasn’t his name Cody?” someone else says, and the name sends a cold shiver crawling up my spine.
“Yeah!” Van says. “I never liked him.”
Joel’s fingers stop exploring my sides to tighten around me reassuringly, but it’s a pointless effort. This weekend has been make-believe. I should’ve always known I’d have to wake up sometime.
“Creative differences,” Shawn offers dismissively. He’s sitting on the edge of a cooler with a guitar on his lap and a fan club at his toes. His thick black hair is wild from the humidity, and his cargo shorts are a tattered mess. He doesn’t even glance at me, his expression schooled and impassive.
“I heard it was a girl,” a random guy says, ignoring Shawn’s explanation. I feel Joel tense behind me.
“Who told you that?” he asks.
“Cody,” the guy answers. “He said some psycho groupie was all over him but she started saying he was trying to rape her or something and you guys bought it.”
All eyes turn to me and Joel, and it takes everything in me to make sure the heartbreak in my chest doesn’t appear on my face.
“Cody is a fucking liar,” Joel snaps, giving voice to the fight no longer left in me.
Cody is a liar about some things, but not all of them.
“He just doesn’t want to admit he’s a shit guitarist,” Shawn says.
“My dead grandmother could play better than he could,” Mike adds, and Shawn nods his agreement.
“He’s lucky we kept him as long as we did.”
I love the guys for lying for me. I hate myself for putting them in a position to have to.
“Did you seriously beat him up?” the same someone-from-before asks Joel, and I can’t listen anymore. Each question is a memory unburied. This weekend at the festival, it’s been easy to pretend that what happened with Cody was a lifetime ago, that it happened in a distant place to a different girl.
But I’m not a different girl. I’m the same psycho groupie who lured a guitarist to a bus and made sure to seduce him where his band mate would find us. I’m that same jealous, selfish, stupid girl. The same girl who started a fight she couldn’t finish. Who played a game and lost.
“I’m heading to bed,” I interrupt, standing up and giving the group a weak smile. I know they’ve all probably guessed that I’m the girl in question—it’s written in my empty eyes, my forced smile, my broken voice. There’s nothing I can do about it except hide until tomorrow and hope I never see them again.