Chapter 2
Standing in the middle of my bedroom, I read over the long list of what to pack for the tour—more like an instruction booklet—in my hand again:
One small suitcase
One backpack
Fifteen pairs of socks
Fifteen pairs of underwear
Laundry bag with name on it
No more than three pairs of shoes
One box of nonperishable groceries
On and on it goes. Romeo is one thorough guy—although it has crossed my mind that anal-retentive might be a better descriptor. When I met him and Justin to review preparations for leaving, I’d been unable to hide my surprise at the pages of instructions they’d handed me. Justin had laughed when my eyebrows rose, but Romeo explained that he’d spent hours researching the best tricks for surviving a band tour, and that these seemingly small things turned out to be big issues. He wanted to take care of the details in advance so everything could go smoothly on the road, so the band could just focus on playing.
One thing I could tell from his list—the guys in Luminescent Juliet were slobs. There was a whole section of bullet points about who was supposed to clean up what . . . and when. I wrinkled my nose at that part. There were definitely going to be drawbacks to my spending the next six weeks with four musicians on a bus. Especially given that one of them couldn’t stand me.
I tap my foot to Nirvana’s “All Apologies” playing from my iPod deck on the desk and glance over the huge pile of things on my bed. I’ve gathered everything on the list, plus my camera gear and computer, and I can already imagine Romeo, the apparent micromanager, saying something about all the stuff. Just as I’m debating whether I can squeeze one more outfit into my suitcase, my roommate and cousin, Jill, comes into the room, holding two frosty margaritas.
She wiggles her blonde eyebrows at me.
I smile. Starting when Jill and I were both about eight years old, we got into the habit of telling people we were sisters. Since we both have brown eyes and blonde hair, everyone usually believed us. Then, by the time we were around thirteen, I started putting on weight. We didn’t look like sisters again until our senior year of high school, after I got serious about dieting and exercising. Of course, these days we don’t tell anyone we’re sisters, but we still look alike. We both keep our long, straight blonde hair cut a few inches past our shoulders. We dress similarly, partly because we share our closets. I fit into most of her things but not all. And unless I starve myself, which I refuse to do after too many years of strict dieting, I’ll always weigh more than she does. Jill is an inch shorter than me, and she’s built thin. I’m a little curvier. But after struggling with my self-image for years, I’m okay with my curves. So what if I have to buy bigger-sized jeans in certain styles? Size is just a number. There are worse things than being bootylicious. Like being obsessed with what a scale says.
Jill goes over to my desk and turns down the music. “The girls are coming over,” she says, holding a margarita out for me.
I don’t reach for the glass. “I’m supposed to go out with Bryce,” I say. “He’ll be here any second.” I’m already dressed in a gauzy, flowing, sleeveless dress, and all that’s left for me to do is to put on mascara.
Jill pushes the drink into my hand. “Practice always runs over,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Baseball is so boring that I don’t know how it can run late, but it always does. You can have a few while you wait.”
I take the drink from her.
“He’ll like you nice and easy,” she says with a wink.
I give her a dirty look and take a sip. “I’m never easy.”
She smirks and tosses her hair back on one shoulder. “Didn’t seem like it that time I walked in on you two.”
“The infamous Saint Patty’s Day session,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down.” I don’t regret it, exactly, but I’m still embarrassed that Jill had walked in on us after we’d done several rounds of green beer pong and were in a full make-out session on the couch, with various pieces of clothing removed. Bryce and I had waited another month until we had sex. Thoroughly still embarrassed, I flick some salt from the rim of my glass at her. “Who’s coming over?”
She swirls a straw in the slush of her drink. “Ashley and Jules, of course, and probably Sara. Maybe Gwen.”
“Fun,” I say. “Almost wish I could skip the date and hang out with you guys.” It’s true. I love our group of girlfriends. It’s made up of Ashley and Jules, who lived across from us in the dorms freshman year—and whom we still see all the time, partly because Jill works with Jules at the student coffee shop. I met Gwen when I started working at Tony’s, a local Italian restaurant, making desserts and occasionally waitressing. She instantly fit in with our group and started hanging out with us all the time. She almost killed me when I told her I was temporarily leaving the restaurant job to tour with Luminescent Juliet. It’s possible they’ll hold my job until I get back, since I’ve worked there for three years. But I’m not worried either way. My future career as a journalist is far more important than making giant-sized portions of spumoni and cannoli or serving up heaping plates of spaghetti.
“We’ll just be forced to get smashed without you,” says Jill, laughing.
Usually, we reserve Fridays for our ladies’ nights, no guys allowed. Sometimes we hang at one of our apartments. Sometimes we go out. Tonight is a Wednesday, so it’s a spur-of-the-moment gathering.
I take a long sip of the frozen drink. A few moments later, brain freeze has me rubbing the bridge of my nose. I sit down on the edge of my bed.
Jill’s expression is curious. “Are you okay?”
I admit, “I’m still nervous about Sam.”
Jill’s upper lip curls. “Please. What’s he going to do? Destroy your reputation on a bus? Make you cry? You’re over all that. Definitely tougher now.”
Jill, of course, knows about everything that destroyed my senior year. She had gone to high school with Seth and Sam, had been the one to introduce me to the fraternal twins. Back then, her life had seemed so much more fun than mine, even though she lived in serious farm country in the thumb of Michigan while I lived two counties over, in a town that drew tons of tourists each summer. But the fact was, Jill was just more social than I was. She had way more friends, and got invited to all the parties. So after I’d lost weight my senior year, I made the drive to her parents’ place on weekends and let her drag me around with her. And on one of those nights, I’d met Seth, at a barn concert.
“Seth was the one who ruined my reputation. Sam was just an asshole,” I recall, though both had hurt me in one way or another.
“Still is,” Jill says. “He’s an ass of the highest degree, like ass to the power of infinity. Ignore him.”
I sigh. “I plan to. I just don’t like remembering all that drama, and hurt.” The giggles behind my back throughout the day at school, the nasty comments on Facebook, the writings on bathroom walls, and my self-confidence in the gutter are painful memories I don’t like to linger on.
She plops down next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Fuck Sam. Fuck Seth. You were young, screwed up, and those two were to blame for everything that went down. Especially moody, stupid, egomaniac, rumor-spreading Seth.” She clinks her glass with mine. “So let it go.” She flutters her lashes at me. “I’ll always love you.”
Grinning, I clink my glass back. “Love you too.”
She glances at the huge pile of stuff I still have to pack, behind us on the bed. “This summer is going to suck without you here.”
“I wish you could come with me.” I smile. “But honestly, other than dealing with Sam, I’m so excited to be going on a tour. With three bands!” I say, lifting my glass and clinking it with hers again.
She shakes her head and smiles. “You’re one lucky bitch, but who better than you?” She waves a hand at the wall by my desk, which is plastered with old concert posters, guitar picks, an original Ramones T-shirt, and several album covers, including a signed copy of the Stooges’ Raw Power, all framed and sealed under glass. My grandfather was a bouncer at a punk club in Detroit years ago, and he gave me all the stuff. He met and saw many of the early bands perform live, from the Clash to Black Flag.
A knock sounds at the door, and Jill hauls me off the bed.
“Come on, that has to be Ashley,” she says. “You can at least hang out with us for an hour until loverboy gets here.”
Two margaritas later, Jill and Ashley are reenacting my first meeting with Bryce in the middle of the kitchen while Sara, Gwen, and I sit at the counter bar on the other side in the dining area. Jill, wearing a baseball hat, smacks into Ashley, whose features twist in terror. She lets out a yelp, falling clumsily onto the floor. Jill immediately drops to her knees and starts waving her arms frantically. I can’t stop myself from laughing.
It’s a perfect rendition of when Bryce and I met. And so romantic.
Not.
Our run-in, literally, had happened in late autumn last year, when I was covering a benefit baseball scrimmage for the school paper. I’d been shooting photos from the sidelines when the heavily muscled third baseman had knocked me over while going for a fly ball. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been so close to third base, but I’d been getting such good shots with my camera that I hadn’t wanted to move an inch. So our collision had pretty much been my fault. Even though it wasn’t romantic, Bryce was. He was seriously worried about me through the whole thing. We’d exchanged numbers after our crash, and he’d called me that night to ask if he could come by and make sure I was okay—and he’d even brought flowers. He kept up the phone calls and visits, and a few months later, he’d asked me out. I liked him well enough, and because we both seemed to be equally busy, we fell into an easy routine of casual dating that’s worked for us ever since.
“So that is how Barbie met Ken,” Jill says, bowing. I curl my lip at her and jokingly narrow my eyes. Because Bryce, like me, has blond hair, she’s been referring to us as Beach Barbie and Ken since our first date. The other girls laugh. I take a long, brain-freezing sip from my margarita and ignore her comment.
As Jill helps Ashley off the floor, there’s another knock at the door.
“Oh, let me get it!” Jill runs across the living room and whips open the door, smirking at us over her shoulder. Her entire body freezes as she says, “Holy shit!”
Holy shit is right. Instead of Bryce, whom we were all expecting, Sam stands in the doorway. His gaze travels past Jill to me and then over the other girls. He puts on a slick grin. “Hello, ladies,” he says smoothly, leaning casually against the door frame and giving the girls with me at the bar a wink. “Is this a bad time?”
He’s dressed in long shorts and a faded black tank. His dark curls are a sexy mess under a baseball cap turned backward. He should look like a loser slob, but with his skin tanned golden-brown from lawn work, his muscular arms on display, and his toothy white grin, he looks like a sloppy, college hottie—and I suppose he is, given the way all my friends except Jill are hungrily checking him out.
Sam’s hotness, which I’d ignored when I’d been so obsessed with his brother, Seth, is magnified now. His body looks as chiseled as that of a professional athlete. Sam had always been the one of the two who looked sweet and searing, like a poet. But with his build now adding another layer of gorgeous to his square jaw, sharp cheekbones, and deep-set blue eyes, his looks are as killer as the flirtatious smile he flashes. I’d forgotten that grin, because for the past three years the only expression I’d seen him wear was one of contempt.
Jill looks at me, waiting for me to answer him as her foot taps impatiently on the carpet.
Gwen, Sara, and Ashley continue to stare at Sam with wide, hungry gazes.
I slowly slide off my stool. “What do you want, Sam?”
He glances at the other girls sitting at the counter/bar and grins sexily before saying, “Could I talk with you for a minute?”
Since he appears sincere, I move toward the door. “All right.”
Jill’s look is level as I pass her. Because Sam’s crooked grin is still in place, I wonder if maybe this will be a first step toward resolving our mutual dislike. Maybe he’s ready to be mature. I pry the knob from Jill’s hand, ignore her pointed stare, and step outside, shutting the door behind me.
Sam leans back against the railing of the porch to our apartment, his biceps flexing as he props himself up, his ankles crossed. He is the picture of disheveled cool. “Listen, I’m sorry,” he says. “I was a dick the other day at my apartment. You caught me off guard. Romeo didn’t give any warnings about you or anyone else coming on the tour.”
I nod, hopeful we can find a way to get along.
He lets out a sigh as his eyes roam over me in the dress. “I still don’t think you should come on the tour.”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. Perhaps we’re really going to be stuck in the past forever, our distrust of each other like an angry, thrashing metal song that never ends. I don’t say anything, just raise an eyebrow.
“Consider it, Peyton,” Sam says. “Six weeks on a bus ignoring each other. Do you really want to deal with that?”
“I’ve already explained my reasons for going,” I reply. “Your last-ditch effort here isn’t going to work.”
His ankles uncross as he pulls away from the railing and stands up straight. His full lips become a thin line. “Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?”
Unable to control my anger, I snap, “Difficult? Because I’m not doing what you want?”
He lifts the cap and runs a hand through his curls. His wide shoulders sag. “This whole thing is difficult. You have no idea how difficult it is for me.”
His tone, his words, and his stiff body language signal that there’s more going on than that one past incident concerning us. Something is weighing on him so heavily that it strikes a chord of sympathy in me. “Maybe you should explain.”
“I . . .” His eyes are troubled and clouded by a shame that not only confuses me but tugs at my heart. He glances toward the parking lot of the apartment complex and lets out a short breath. When his gaze comes back me, he says, “You know I can’t stand you.”
Asshole. I’m aware he can’t stand me, but his aversion didn’t feel like the issue a few seconds ago. Though I can’t imagine what his emotions are, I’m sensing more than simple dislike. “Well, I can’t stand going to early morning classes or serving crappy-looking pizza or talking to guys with stupid opinions. Yet I deal with all that.” I reach for the door handle. “So my suggestion to you is to deal with it.”
His jaw clenches and his mouth twists, but before he can blow up at me, Bryce steps out of the dusk and onto the porch. Wearing jeans and a fitted T-shirt, he looks good—ready for a night out. Though at six one he’s over two inches taller than Sam, Sam’s heavy muscles make him appear larger than lean Bryce. He gazes from Sam to me. “Hey, Peyton. What’s going on?”
His voice is calm yet tense in a way that tells me he has noticed Sam’s rigid posture and angry eyes.
I feign indifference and shrug. “Nothing much. This is Sam, the bassist from Luminescent Juliet.” I gesture to Bryce. “My boyfriend, Bryce Hanson.”
Bryce gives Sam a skeptical look. I let go of the door handle and move close to my boyfriend’s side. “Sam came to double-check on everything for the trip tomorrow, but he was just leaving.”
Sam nods casually but I notice his fists are balled tightly at his sides. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Bryce watches him go, then turns to me. “What’s his problem?”
I tilt my head as if I’m lost in thought. “Nerves? They want everything to be perfect.” There is no way in hell I’m explaining my past with Sam or that dark time in my life to Bryce. We kind of date in the moment. Sharing our pasts has never been part of our relationship.
As Sam pulls away in his Blazer, Bryce stares down at me. His gaze turns troubled. “You sure you want to do this?”
I bump his arm with my shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure. I’m going to miss you and Jill, but it’s too good an opportunity to turn down.” I put my hand on his chest. “Besides, you’ll be gone half of the time at away games over the next two months.”
He puts one strong hand over mine and the other on my waist, drawing me close. “Gone, yes, but missing you.” His sweet words have me leaning in faster for his kiss as he bends toward me, but the door whips open.
“Oh, hey, Bryce.” Jill looks to me. “Where’s Sam?”
Bryce and I reluctantly step apart.
“Had to go,” I say. “He was just checking that I have everything ready for tomorrow.” My pointed look at Jill says, Keep your trap shut, before I turn toward Bryce. “Let me get my purse and we can go,” I say.
“Sure,” he says with a quick smile, and follows me back into the apartment.
“Hi, Bryce,” Gwen and Ashley say in unison, their voices friendly and just a little flirtatious. As I go to my room, I can hear them asking about the baseball team, then their questions about where he’s taking me. I hear something about a sushi bar, which surprises me. Bryce rarely moves out of his comfort zone. And sports are pretty much the extent of it. Nine times out of ten, we go to Lucky’s, a local sports bar. I don’t mind since it’s a college hangout too, but obviously Bryce is trying to do something special to send me off.
In my bedroom, I pick up my purse and take a deep breath, trying to forget about Sam. I’m going out with my boyfriend of seven months, and not only is he looking good, he’s taking me to sushi. This is going to be our last night for the next six weeks, so I want to enjoy it.
Screw Sam.
Screw the past.
Tomorrow I’m leaving town to tour with not only Luminescent Juliet but also two other bands. Bands signed to major labels. Bands that get national coverage. Everything in my life—excluding Sam—is going perfect right now. No one can take that away from me.