Chapter 27
Though I can’t make out the words, I can hear Justin in the hotel bathroom as he facetimes with Allie. Romeo sits at the desk, intent on shuffling papers. I lounge in a chair and flick through TV channels. There is tons of stuff to do in Pittsburgh but I’m too whipped to leave the room. After I did my daily blog stuff, Justin and I spent most of the afternoon fighting over TV channels. He likes to watch stupid reality crap on MTV; I prefer the old-style videos. At least now that he’s busy with his girlfriend, I have the remote to myself. Romeo looked at sales numbers in between phone calls that he took out on the balcony. Apparently, we’re all too tired to do anything away from the room. And obviously, after the tiff Sam and I had the other day at the diner, Romeo put the rollaway in his room when we checked in.
My phone on the table next to me dings, signaling an incoming message. I pick it up halfheartedly. Gabe texted, Come down to the bar. I’m bored out of my mind, sitting by myself.
I reply, Too tired.
Please! pops up right away, then, Just one drink before dinner.
We’re all supposed to meet in one of the hotel restaurants for dinner.
He sends several more begging messages, until I text back, Fine!
I slip on my flip-flops and grab my purse. “Heading down to the bar for a drink with Gabe,” I tell Romeo, trying to be polite.
Without looking up from his spreadsheets, he shrugs.
I exit the room with a huff. Fine, so he doesn’t give a crap where I go. It just seemed impolite to get up and leave.
Sam’s room is right around the corner, so I tiptoe down the hallway to the elevator. Facing him has become uncomfortable. We’ve come full circle after the other night of crying together about Seth. Both of us are being distantly polite. Now that I have internally admitted my feelings for him, his proximity is far more painful than before.
Lucky for me, the coast stays clear of Sam all the way down to the lobby. I find Gabe sitting on a stool in the bar, picking at a bowl of nuts on the counter. There is a couple at a table in the far corner. Other than that, the lounge is empty.
“Hey,” Gabe says with a wide smile, and pats the seat next to him. “Let me buy you a drink.”
The bartender comes over and I say, “A Diet Coke with a lime.”
Looking up from texting on his phone, Gabe shakes his head and smiles at the guy. “How about a little rum in it? Vodka? Whiskey?”
“Just a lime,” I repeat. I’m planning on going to bed early and getting a good night of sleep. Rollaways suck, but they beat the couch on the back of the bus any day.
His expression is exasperated as he reaches for his beer. “So what are *-whipped Thing One and Thing Two up to?”
The bartender sets my drink in front of me.
“One is going over sales.” I reach into the bowl of nuts. “The other is busy on FaceTime.”
Gabe’s eyes light up. “Phone sex?”
I toss a nut at him. “Don’t put shit in my head like that.”
Suddenly, Sam is on the other side of Gabe.
My fingers pause inside the bowl. My pulse goes up a notch at Sam’s nearness, and I’m instantly, embarrassingly nervous.
“Thought you were alone and bored,” Sam says tightly to Gabe before his eyes flash to me.
Gabe stands. “I was.” He finishes his beer in one long gulp and throws a ten-dollar bill onto the bar. “Need to hit the restroom.” He turns to go but as Sam turns too, he puts a hand on his shoulder. “Dude, you two need to figure this shit out. If I’m sick of the tension between you two, it’s gotta be way worse in your shoes.” With a hand on Sam’s shoulder, he steers him toward the empty bar stool next to me.
When nerves have me shoving away from the bar, Gabe pushes my stool in. “Come on, Peyton. You’re tougher than this.”
Then he’s gone.
Sam and I both stare forward at the wall of glass shelves filled with liquor. Stupid Gabe and his stupid games. Things need to settle between Sam and me. But time, not conversation, is what we need.
Sam finally breaks the silence, saying, “So he bombarded you with texts too?”
“Yup,” I say, sipping my drink and wishing I hadn’t come down.
Sam orders a beer, and I keep my gaze on the bartender reaching into the cooler for a bottle. With the beer now in front of him, Sam draws in a deep breath, sighs, and says, “Haven’t touched anything but alcohol since that night you helped me with the nosebleed.”
Though I’m aware he’s trying to break the ice and get on my good side, my nerves disappear at his news. Immediately understanding that he’s implying I helped him get off drugs, I turn. “That is awesome. Has it—has it been hard?”
“A little,” he says with a wince, reaching for the bottle in front of him. “I knew using was a crutch, but that night and your reaction to it made me realize how close I was coming to addiction. It had become habitual to use when I was down.”
My eyes widen as I realize how close to the edge he had been. “I’m really glad to hear you’ve stopped.”
He nods.
Silence reigns as we both stare at our drinks until Sam says in an absent tone, “Why does it feel like we’re back to where we started?”
“Because we are?” I say, my voice a low grumble.
“I’m trying to do what you asked for. I’m giving you time, Peyton.” He takes a long swig of his beer, then sets it down with a clunk. “I’m not sure for what, but I’m trying.”
I twist my drink on its coaster. He’s not giving me anything to go on. I’m clueless where I stand with him. “I’m not sure either.”
“Obviously,” he says sarcastically.
“Back to being a jerk?” I ask, sliding the lime around the edge of my glass.
“Back to screwing me and running to your boyfriend right after?”
I resist throwing Diet Coke in his pretty face. By sheer, momentous will. “That’s low, even for you.”
“It’s the truth,” he says.
“If I’m such a coldhearted bitch, why are you giving me time?” I grumble.
Shrugging, he turns to stare at the shelves of liquor again. “Well, you’re only a coldhearted bitch to me. And only sometimes. Like after we have sex. Otherwise, you’re usually sweet and caring and giving. Beyond that, you’re extremely brilliant at what you do—several of your photos and blog posts have blown me away—and you’re hotter than hell, especially in those cowboy boots and shorts. Fuck,” he says, running a hand down his face. “I’ve imagined peeling those shorts from you inch by inch a million times.”
He takes another long swig. I stare at his chiseled profile, my mouth frozen open. I would have never guessed he paid attention to the blog or the photos on it. And the image of him peeling off my shorts slowly? Yeah, unfortunately, just the thought is getting me hot.
He sets the beer down and turns to me. “Maybe I’m waiting to see the real you, because I truly like the person you are most of the time. I’ve always felt a connection to her. From the start.”
My mouth is seriously stuck open, like in a permanent O. He has put himself out there, maybe not as eloquently as the romantic in me would like, yet he has stated his feelings. Clearly.
He lifts my chin and his touch sends stupid tingles through my body. His gaze radiates a sadness that hits me harder than his words. “But, then, maybe you don’t like me.”
“I like you,” I say in a stunned whisper as he lowers his hand.
He raises an eyebrow.
Biting my lip, I try to collect my confused thoughts. “It’s just . . . There is so much that’s complicated about our past. And you’re kind of a jerk to me sometimes too, but—”
“You two coming to dinner?” Justin asks, popping his head in between us.
Justin’s appearance axes whatever confused crap was going to come out of my mouth next.
With his hands flat on the bar and his elbows up, Sam pushes his stool back. “As long as Romeo’s paying, I’m in.”
Romeo is actually not paying with his own money. He is using band funds for this dinner, but yeah, after five days on the bus, everyone needs some kind of bonus, even Romeo. Too bad Sam has me so confused all over again that the prospect of a nice dinner doesn’t hold the excitement it might have earlier, when I was watching my third hour of bad reality television.
Justin looks to me.
“Yeah, I’m coming too,” I say, scooting off my stool and refusing to meet Sam’s stare.
The hotel has several restaurants. No surprise that after being inside a bus for so long, instead of choosing the most expensive and fanciest, we all wanted to eat in the inner courtyard since it’s outdoors and more casual.
Justin leads the way past the elevator, then down a few steps to French doors that open onto a flagstone patio. Linen-covered tables are situated among small trees and overflowing flowerpots. Justin takes us to a partially hidden table on the far side from the entrance. Romeo and Gabe are already seated and looking at menus. Once Justin sits, I pick the spot in between him and Gabe. Unfortunately, Sam is across from me.
I order another Diet Coke. Romeo orders a bottle of champagne, I’m guessing to celebrate the near end of the tour—there’s only a little over a week left for the tour. While we order dinner, I fidget whenever Sam’s questioning gaze falls on me. The others don’t notice as they obsessively talk about winding up the tour.
Once the bubbly is poured, Romeo raises his fluted glass. The rest of us follow his lead.
Romeo taps the edge of his flute with a knife. “Though just a group of college kids, beyond landing this tour, we’ve kicked ass.”
“Fuck yeah,” Gabe says.
Justin grins.
Sam stares at me.
“And now,” Romeo says, lifting his flute higher and then looking at each of his bandmates individually. “We have two labels offering a contract.”
I almost drop my flute at the news.
“Holy shit,” Justin says, slowly lowering his flute. “Are you kidding?”
Romeo takes a gulp of champagne, then grins slyly. “Nope.”
Gabe whistles lowly. “That is fucking awesome.”
Sam is now staring at Romeo too. “When?” he asks. “When did they offer?”
“Today,” Romeo says. “We got the first offer around three. The second one followed shortly after.”
“That is fucking awesome,” Gabe repeats.
That they now have offers from two labels is beyond awesome. It’s mind-blowing. My eyes must be as wide as saucers as I slowly realize the possible implications: money, fame, travel, and an even longer string of available women.
Justin leans forward. “So what are the offers?”
Romeo shakes his head. “Both are vague right now. I’m not sure which is better. We’ll have a meeting in my room tomorrow morning and get into logistics.”
“Are we going to sign?” Gabe asks.
Romeo nods. “With two offers to choose from, I would hope so.”
Sam raises his flute again. “To Luminescent Juliet,” he says before downing the champagne.
We all lift our flutes and drink too.
Shocked conversation continues around the table, even after the waiter brings our dinners and another bottle of champagne. They joke about shooting a real video, maybe eventually having their own tour, and going to the Grammys. Though they’re laughing, all of it seems possible, suddenly. Lucky for me, the news and the subsequent conversations deflect Sam’s attention from me.
Listening to the guys’ excitement, I eat my risotto and sip champagne, truly hoping that all their jokes become reality.
After dinner, they want to continue the celebration a few blocks away at a local bar where Brookfield is playing a short acoustic set. Justin asks me to go, then Gabe. I decline. Twice. Sam gives me a level, knowing look each time, and while he is part of the reason I decline, I’m also very tired. My confusion over him adds to my exhaustion.
So when the guys go out, I head upstairs.
I call Jill and we talk awhile. She’s been supportive about my breakup with Bryce, which is not surprising. She doesn’t hate him or anything, just thinks he is too boring for me. I haven’t said anything to her about Sam. I don’t know how to explain the mess. I also don’t tell her about Luminescent Juliet possibly signing with a label. I’m more than aware Romeo will want to keep the news under wraps. And though I love Jill like a sister, the girl has one big mouth.
After we hang up, I go out on the balcony and watch the lights from the boats along the dark Ohio River. The conversation with Sam at the bar plays over and over in my head. Though it’s hard for me to believe—after everything we’ve been through—I accept that Sam has feelings for me too. His feelings aren’t a guarantee that things won’t turn to shit, but it’s nice to know that what we’ve got going is not just about couch sex for him either.
My fingers absently drum on the rail.
And maybe I drank too much champagne.
My fingers stop their drumming to grip the rail.
No, I’m finally thinking clearly. Staring at the slow-moving boat lights, I realize how silly and cowardly I’m being. The thought of Sam warms me up from my toes to the hair on my head. I don’t want to feel this way about him. I just do. And I can’t seem to stop. To ignore our connection because I’m afraid of getting hurt seems beyond cowardly. It seems stupid.
I’m sick of thinking the mess between us is all there is, when what I truly want is to be with Sam.
Besides. He wants to be with me.
So why the hell am I here on a balcony alone?