“Since you invited us? Last week? Remember?” Anna adds at my confusion.
I don’t remember. I was so worried about Max touring and the day trip with Cricket that I could have invited the editor of TeenVogue and forgotten about it. “Of course. Thanks for coming,” I say distractedly.
They don’t buy it. And I end up spilling another private story to them: the story of my birth parents. Anna grasps the banana on her necklace as if the tiny bead is a talisman. “I’m sorry, Lola. I had no idea.”
“Not many people do.”
“So Cricket was with you when you found her on your porch?” St. Clair asks.
His question snags my full attention. I’d purposefully left Cricket out of the story. I narrow my eyes. “How did you know that?”
St. Clair shrugs, but he looks self-chastised. Like he said something he shouldn’t have. “He mentioned something about taking a road trip with you. That’s all.”
He knows.
St. Clair knows that Cricket likes me. I wonder if they’ve already talked this evening, if St. Clair already knew what happened with my mother. “I don’t believe it,” I say.
“Pardon?” he says.
“Cricket told you. He told you about all of this, about my mother.” Anger rises inside of me again. “Is that why you’re here? Did he send you to check up on me?”
St. Clair’s countenance hardens. “I haven’t spoken with him in two days. You invited Anna and myself here, so we came. You’re welcome.”
He’s telling the truth, but my temper is already boiling. Anna grabs my arm and walks me forward. “Fresh air,” she says. “Fresh air would be good.”
I throw her off and feel terrible at the sight of her wounded expression. “I’m sorry.” I can’t look at either of them. “You’re right. I’ll go alone.”
“Are you sure?” But she sounds relieved.
“Yeah. I’ll be back. Sorry,” I mumble again.
I spend a miserable fifteen minutes outside. When I come back, the club is packed. There’s hardly standing room. Anna has snagged a wooden bar stool, one of the few seats here. St. Clair stands close to her, facing her, and he smoothes the platinum stripe in her hair. She pulls him even closer by the top of his jeans, one finger tucked inside. It’s an intimate gesture. I’m embarrassed to watch, but I can’t look away.
He kisses her slowly and deeply. They don’t care that anyone could watch. Or maybe they’ve forgotten they aren’t alone. When they break apart, Anna says something that makes him fall into silly, boyish laughter. For some reason, that’s the moment that makes me turn away. Something about their love is painful.
I turn toward the bar for a bottle of water, but Anna calls out to me again. I head back, feeling irrationally aggravated that they’re here.
“Better?” St. Clair asks, but not in a mean way. He looks concerned.
“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry about all that.”
“No problem.” And I think we’re leaving it at that when he adds, “I understand what it’s like to be ashamed of a parent. My father is not a good man. I don’t talk about him either. Thank you for trusting us.”
His serious tone throws me, and I’m touched by this rare glimpse into his life. Anna squeezes his hand and changes the subject. “I’m looking forward to this.” She nods toward the band onstage. Max’s guitar is slung low as he adjusts something on his amplifier. They’re about to start. “You’ll introduce us to him afterward, right?”
Max has been too busy to come out and say hello. I feel bad about this. I feel bad about everything tonight. “Of course. I promise.”
“You neglected to mention that he’s much cooler than us.” Worry has crept into her voice.
St. Clair, back to himself, is clearly ready with a catty reply, and I’m pleased that the moment he opens his mouth is the same moment Amphetamine explodes into their set. His words—all words but my boyfriend’s—are lost.
The intensity radiating from Max mirrors what I feel burning inside of myself. His lyrics are by turn tender and sweet, scathing and cruel. He sings about falling in love and breaking up and running away, and it’s nothing that hasn’t been sung before, but it’s the way he sings it. Every word is saturated in bitter truth.
Johnny and Craig push an aggressive rhythm, and Max attacks his guitar with string-breaking ferocity. The songs become openly malicious, as if even the assembled crowd is to be distrusted, and when it’s time for the acoustic number, his usual soul-searching turns belligerent and cynical. His amber eyes lock with mine across the room, and I’m filled with his vicious attitude. I know it’s wrong, but it only makes me want him more. The crowd is fevered and delirious. It’s the best performance he’s ever given.
And it’s for me.
When it’s over, I turn to my friends for their reaction. Anna and St. Clair look shocked. Impressed but . . . definitely shocked.