“Okay,” Leti says after I’ve been quiet too long. His tone has changed, becoming the tone of the guy who knew we were going to be friends before I even knew who he was, and who has always been there for me when I’ve needed him. “Tell me everything.”
I unstick my forehead from the table and sit up, resting it heavily on the heel of my palm instead. “What did Kale tell you?”
“Nothing. I’ve been talking to you and ignoring his closeted ass.”
The impatience in Leti’s voice might sound like a joke to anyone else, but I know he’s getting irritated, and I know Kale knows it too. Ever since Out, he and my look-alike have been kind of an item, but Kale wants to keep Leti a secret, and that’s not the way to keep Leti at all.
“So are you going to start talking,” Leti continues, “or should I start going into detail about the prom king and all the scandalous things we did in the limo after the—”
I interrupt Leti to tell him everything—everything I told Kale, from the beginning to the end. When he asks for details, I give them. When I realize I’ve forgotten something, I go back. I tell him every secret, every lie, every mistake.
“What did Kale say?” he asks when I’m finished.
“He told me to come home.”
“Which means you decided you’re staying.”
“Do you think I should?” The question leaves me in a moment of weakness. I shouldn’t need him to tell me what to do, but I just need someone—someone who hasn’t inherited my stubbornness or infamous last name—to tell me something, anything, that will make this better.
“I think you’re a bona fide rock goddess,” Leti says. “I think you should do whatever the hell you want to do.”
“What would you do?”
“Hmm,” he hums, and I get a pang of homesickness as I picture his face and the vintage cartoon tee he’s probably wearing. My Little Pony? Rainbow Brite? He pauses for a moment, and then he suggests, “Is Mike still single?”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the talk, Leti.”
He snickers into the phone. “Look, Kit-stand, I’m not going to give you advice—”
“Apparently.”
“Because you don’t really want it. You only want me to tell you what you want to hear.”
“And what’s that?” I counter, not even trying to hide how frustrated I am. He’s as bad as Kale. Worse.
“Shawn is an asshole and you should castrate him while he sleeps.”
“Is that what I need to hear?” I counter, and a faint sigh drifts through the phone.
“Beats me. You’re asking someone who’s dating a guy who’s still in the freaking closet.”
WITH NO HELP from Kale, and even less help from Leti, I finish my coffee, order another, and wait for the clock to tick down. I arrive back at the bus just before morning soundcheck, toting a carrier full of specialty coffees and giving them to the guys with the fakest smile I’ve ever delivered. They immediately ask where I’ve been, and I put on the performance of my life. I pretend to not be broken. To not be an absolute wreck inside. My brain wants to hate Shawn. But my heart . . . my heart is useless.
Where was I? A walk to find a coffee shop. Why? Because I wanted to bring back a surprise. No more questions asked, and even though Shawn’s eyes are curious, he says nothing that would make him seem any more or less concerned than anyone else—because we’re a secret he’s determined to keep. Or maybe because he just doesn’t care.
I still have no idea what I’m going to do tomorrow, but for today, I have a plan, and that plan is to just get through it. I get through soundcheck, I get through lunch. I act normal. I play games with Mike, I make a casual phone call to my mom. I do whatever I need to do to avoid getting caught alone with Shawn.
That evening, I think about changing into something that will make his blood pump in all the right places and give him blue balls for the rest of his life. I could grab something from our boxes of Dee’s merchandise, guaranteed to flaunt my ample chest, my tight stomach, my long legs . . .
But then I just say fuck it and grab the first clean things I find, not caring in the slightest that I turn out looking much more grunge than gorgeous. My jeans are tight and worn to pieces. My tank top is loose and falling apart at the collar. Complete with an oversized flannel, I look like I’m ready for a night on the couch instead of a show on the stage. I look like I’m ready for a tub of ice cream and a marathon of Ice Road Truckers, and if I had just listened to Kale when I had the chance, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.