I TEAR OFF my damp T-shirt and throw it in the corner of my room. The heat outside combined with my angry, anxious nerves have left me covered in sweat and feeling downright gross. I wish I could swap out the painful memories that have been crowding my mind for days, but for now, a fresh shirt is the best I can do.
I search through my closet for a T-shirt, knowing I need to hurry up. I’m procrastinating bringing Ali her check, but I really don’t want to go back out there and have to talk with her again. Twenty-seven minutes I spent with her on the tour. Twenty-seven minutes too long. She spent every moment scowling at me, and I spent every moment knowing I deserved her anger, and probably worse.
But apologizing for flipping her off would have inevitably led to her demanding an explanation. And I’m not even sure I have one of those to give, at least not after getting to know her a little on the tour. Yesterday, her deafness had seemed like a giant, painful reminder of the past I’ve worked so hard to escape. Today, her deafness had hardly even mattered. Her disgust for me was far more distracting. Guilt usually isn’t an emotion I let myself feel, but it kept clawing at my mind every time she’d shoot me one of those angry, frustrated glances.
I left her by the equipment trailer, promising I’d return in just a few minutes with her check. I’ve already written it out and have it waiting by the door, but I’m suddenly tempted to rewrite one for a higher amount. The money obviously means a lot to her. Every time I mentioned it, she got this desperate glint in her eye that made my guilt even stronger.
A knock comes at my door right as I shrug into a long-sleeved shirt. It’s way too hot to be wearing anything with sleeves—between the heat and the cramped, dusty landscape, Los Angeles has got to be one of the most miserable cities ever. But the long-sleeved shirt is a comforting reminder of one of the few good things from my past—growing up in Denver, with its thick snow and chilly air.
“Come in,” I call, and Jon pushes open the door to my room. He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms, his lips pursed in a tight scowl. After the lecture Tony gave us this morning, I don’t think Jon is going to forgive me anytime soon for giving a fan the finger.
“Did you get the pictures?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I take my phone out of my pocket and toss it to him. “I already forwarded them to Tony.”
Jon nods and starts flicking through the images on my screen. I wait for him to show approval, but his scowl just deepens. “What happened to her face?”
“Huh?”
“Her face. It’s all swollen on one side.” He walks over and tilts the phone so I can see the picture on the screen. It’d been taken right outside the sound room, and Ali and me are both wearing smiles that look painfully fake.
Surprise jolts through me as I realize Jon’s right. I haven’t looked closely at Ali all evening; her glares have kept me from meeting her eyes. But the swelling is obvious now that I examine the picture. I reach over and flick to the next image, and I wince as I see the swelling in that one, too.
I snatch the phone out of Jon’s hand and scroll to the last photo in the series. The sweltering heat had left all of us sweating by the end of the tour, and some of Ali’s makeup had worn off. Without the thick plaster of foundation on her cheek, I can see the greenish shadow of a fresh bruise.
“Shit,” Jon says, peering over my shoulder at the picture. “Did she have that yesterday?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. But it doesn’t matter if the bruise was there yesterday, because it shouldn’t be there at all. I flip back a few pictures until I find one that shows her arms. Cold nausea slams into my gut as I see what I was both expecting and dreading—a band of bruises curling around her forearm, like a hand grabbed her there. The bruises on her arm are faint, but the fact that they’re old just makes me feel worse. Whatever happened to her face wasn’t a one-time deal.
Jon gives his throat an uncomfortable clear. “Do you think . . . ?”
“Yeah,” I say, not bothering to finish the sentence for him. I know we’re both thinking the exact same thing. Jon comes from a decent family, but he’s spent plenty of time fetching ice packs for me and helping me wrap sprains.
“Shit,” Jon repeats.
He sounds sad and concerned, but it’s nothing compared to the emotions roiling inside me and lighting my nerves on fire. I don’t need this right now. Hell, this is the last thing I need. June fifth is always a horrible day, but it’s only supposed to last twenty-four hours. Then I can spend 364 days shoving away the memories from my past and pretending none of it mattered.