With the Band

by Jean Haus

  Beyond the mind-blowing, can’t-stop-myself sex, I force myself to admit that I do have feelings for Sam. Though they’re mixed up with my music awe, pity for his relationship with Seth, and serious lust for his hot body, I can’t deny my feelings if I’m being honest with myself.

  And while the sun slowly rises and casts shadows across Manhattan, I’m trying very hard to be honest with myself, and rational. Very, very rational. If I were letting my emotions dictate my behavior, I’d be back in Sam’s bed in a hot second.

  As far as Bryce is concerned—deep calming breath—I finally, completely realize nothing ever grew past our initial attraction. He was fun and attractive but now that I have real feelings—even as messed up as they are—for someone else, the shallowness of our relationship is so evident that his showing up for a weekend of sex doesn’t seem as callous as I first thought. I mean, other than dating and drinking and screwing, what else is there between us?

  I round a corner and the hotel comes into view.

  I’m still trying to be honest with myself. And I have to decide how honest to be with Bryce. Should I be entirely honest and tell him I slept with Sam? Or would that be too hurtful? Should I tell him I’ve realized there was never more between us than that initial attraction?

  Ugh. My internal questions are starting to make my head hurt because the fact is, I cheated on Bryce just like I cheated on Seth. And no matter how I try to sugarcoat it—Bryce being an asshole or Seth getting paranoid—I’m still at fault. Twice. Cheater times two. The thought not only hurts my head and my heart but also stabs at my self-respect. What little I have left at the moment.

  Tired of walking, I slowly make my way toward the hotel entrance.

  Okay. A breakup with Bryce is imminent, yet that doesn’t automatically mean I’m about to officially be with Sam. Even if I knew how he felt about me—for all I know he might consider last night nothing more than a step above his usual booty call with a groupie—I’m not ready to go there. I need time, and perhaps a shitload of beer, to get a grasp on my emotions. Logic tells me I’m having a hard time separating the awesome sex from my emotions. Our connection is a tangled web that I can’t dissect clearly when that earth-shattering climax is still so fresh in my mind.

  All right. First things first.

  Bryce.

  The hotel lobby is empty, but I’m grateful to see that the small coffee shop off to the side is open. After waiting in a short line, I buy two coffees. I don’t have to travel far to give Bryce his. He’s on the other side of the lobby, talking with a bellhop. He doesn’t notice me until I step next to him.

  When he turns to me, his look is flat.

  “Hey,” I say, lifting the coffee and trying not to let the guilt running through me show on my face.

  He doesn’t take the steaming drink. “Where have you been?”

  “Around. Walking, thinking,” I say, ignoring the gray-haired bellhop watching and listening to us.

  Bryce pulls the suitcase on the floor at his side. “Walking around New York in the middle of the night? What the hell, Peyton? I called you, texted you, and left a dozen messages.”

  “I turned my phone off. I needed to think,” I say, lifting the coffee higher. “It’s a mocha latte.” Bryce doesn’t like coffee unless it has chocolate in it.

  “You have the room until eleven,” he says stiffly, then swipes the coffee from my hand and marches with his suitcase rolling behind him toward the front exit.

  As he surely expected, I follow and find him outside, waiting on a bench.

  “I don’t get it,” he says, staring out at the street as I sit down at the far end of the bench. “We’ve never had problems. I come here and everything blows up in my face.”

  “Um, well, we go out once a week. Maybe have lunch once or twice. I’m not sure if our relationship was ready for prime time.”

  He turns and pins me with a glare. “I’m busy. You’re busy. We always get along.”

  I take a deep breath and turn to him. “Bryce—”

  “Don’t say it.” He scoots across the bench and grabs my hand, a strange desperation crossing his face. “We can pretend this trip never happened. You’ll be home in a few more weeks, and we can continue like we were.”

  I shake my head and tug my hand from his grip. “I’m really, really sorry you came and things turned out like this, but the last two days put everything into perspective for me. I don’t want to go back to the way things were.”

  He looks dejected. “Why?”

  Not wanting to hurt him and not wanting to admit I’ve done something vile, I bit my lip. Deep down, Bryce must know we’re not meant to be.

  He lowers his chin and asks in a deep tone, “Is there someone else?”

  “Not really,” I say, cringing inside. But does it matter if he knows?

  “What does that mean?”

  “You were such a jerk yesterday. And well . . .” I take another deep breath, getting ready to spit out that I cheated on him, that I’m an awful person regardless of the mess of our relationship. The knot in my chest feels like it will loosen if I’m honest.

  “Oh shit. This must be my taxi,” Bryce says, standing up.

  I stand too. “Bryce—”

  “I have to go. We can talk about this when you get back.”

  I shake my head.

  “Don’t let one day of me being a dick destroy seven months.” He bends and kisses my forehead. “Think about it, Peyton.”

  I draw in a deep breath. “It’s over,” I say, but he shakes his head and rushes to the taxi.

  Standing still, I watch him get into the taxi, then wave to me as it heads away. After taking a long pull on my coffee and another deep breath, I turn and notice Sam standing to the side of the lobby doors.

  He’s smoking, and from the short length of his cigarette, it’s obvious he’s been out here a while, watching us. He stares at me, his striking face lined with a tension and distress that eats away at my conscience. Then his expression changes into one of casual indifference. He nods a hello before dropping his butt into the ashtray nearby, turning his back to me and going through the doors.

  Longing has me nearly running after him, to explain and then beg for forgiveness, if required. Instead, I stay rooted to the sidewalk. Sam was right last night. There are tons of issues between us. Issues that I need to consider, like that we’re together only when I’m cheating on someone. Plus, working through our issues during a tour isn’t the smartest idea. I’m not sure working through them—the past, Seth, our differences—is possible.

  As I watch Sam stalk off, I assume he thinks Bryce and I are still a couple. Funny, I suspect Bryce does too. But I’m sticking to the plan I made during my sunrise walk. Bryce and I are over. I need to distance myself from Sam and figure out my emotions. I may already be in too deep. That doesn’t mean Sam is.

  Chapter 25

  The heavy smell of grease hangs in the truck stop diner. Since it’s hours past the lunch rush, less than half the tables are occupied. We’re all crammed in a booth. Outside, Gary is filling the bus with gas and water, and dumping the tanks. It’s been a week since we left New York, and we’ve been staying on the bus the entire time. Providence, Boston, and Albany flew by. Tonight we’re in Rochester. Tomorrow we’ll finally check into a hotel. We’re all whipped. This second continual concert run has been more grueling than the last.

  The waitress comes back with our drinks, setting them at the front of the table, and Justin hands glasses back to Gabe and me in the corners.

  “Can someone pass the sugar?” Sam asks from the front of the booth. His jaw is tight. He doesn’t look my way. Though we’re all crabby, he has been the worst, snapping at his bandmates and ignoring me.

  Since the words were said in a general way, I don’t count them as having been spoken to me. I shove the sugar basket down to the middle of the table and Romeo pushes it along to Sam, who has talked to me exactly seven times in three days. “Excuse me” three times. “Watch out” tw
ice. “You gonna eat that?” once. And “Where’s the mustard?”

  Curls falling over his forehead, he stirs sugar into his iced tea. The tightness of his jaw reveals his agitation. Lately, he always seems irate.

  Holding in a sigh, I glance down at my hands clasped in my lap. I’m still confused about my feelings for him, but the tension between us needs to lighten up. Though I’m scared shitless of the outcome, I’ve been drumming up the courage to talk to him. It’s just—the past three days have been so busy. At least that’s what the coward in me offers as an explanation for my inability to start the conversation.

  Sam sets his spoon onto the table and glances at Romeo, sitting next to him. “Peyton should stay with you and Justin.”

  Glancing up from his phone, Romeo gives him an odd look. “Why?”

  With my hands now clenching my thighs, I echo Romeo, “Yeah, why?”

  Across the table in the other corner, Gabe smirks, looking from Sam to me.

  Next to me, Justin keeps texting someone. Probably Allie.

  Ignoring me, Sam turns fully to Romeo. “Gabe and I are single.” He gestures across to Justin. “You two are pussy whipped. Why should we have her in our room? Makes it kind of hard to bag chicks.” The last words come out with a sly grin.

  My nails dig into my thighs so I don’t go off on Sam in front of everyone. Of all the low-down things to say in front of me. I’m angry and more confused than ever. Is he doing this to get back at me? Or is this what he really wants? Here I’d thought it was time to bridge the gap between us. He’s thinking of bagging chicks.

  Gabe is now silently laughing across from me.

  I resist kicking him under the table.

  Texting more, Justin shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me.”

  Romeo frowns at Sam in confusion. “I could see Gabe bringing this up but you’ve been pretty tame this tour.” He leans back against the vinyl booth, glancing at Gabe. “Did you put him up to this?”

  Gabe puts his hands up and shakes his shaggy head. “Dude, this is news to me too.”

  I wrap my hands around my water glass, then glare down the table at Sam. “Well, I don’t want to be stuck in a room with groupies coming and going.”

  He holds my glare with one of his own, and I sense everyone at the table looking from him to me. Oh crap, I’m not bringing this drama into the band. I let out a huff and look elsewhere, only to find Gabe still smirking at me.

  Would a tiny kick be that bad?

  Romeo reaches into the sugar basket and yanks out a tiny container of creamer. “Peyton can stay with Justin and me. I just thought you two were friends from before.” He glances at Sam. “You told me she’d be more comfortable in your room since you two go way back and she dated your brother.”

  Romeo’s words settle in my gut, then blast inside me. Red-hot anger erupts in my veins and pounds through me until my fingers itch.

  “What?” I screech so loud that almost everyone in the diner looks my way. I’m off my butt, leaning over the table and ready to dive at Sam. In addition to the bagging-chicks comment, I can’t believe he told Romeo about our past after we’d both agreed several times to leave it in the past. “You’re an asshole!” I hiss at him as Justin holds me back and Gabe catches his Coke before it spills.

  “Whoa,” Justin says, hauling me down by the waist. “Slow down. You’re going to get us kicked out of here.”

  As I resist getting pulled down, tugging at the hands at my waist, Sam glares at Justin. “Get your hands off her.”

  Justin blinks at him, his hands loosening on my waist.

  “Now!” Sam says loudly, snarling.

  Justin lets go and puts his hands up. “Whatever, dude.”

  Romeo’s head whips toward Sam. “You’re not helping,” he says in a low tone.

  People are still staring at us, but leaning across the table, I snap too, “What the hell, Sam? I can’t believe you!” My cheeks are heated. Not as much as my insides. I’m so angry, I could spit. In Sam’s face.

  Sam’s jaw tightens again as he stares ahead. “Then that makes two of us,” he says loudly.

  “Both of you, quiet down!” Romeo hisses. “And you—he points at me—“sit down.” After I sit and the table is silent for a few seconds, he asks in a neutral tone, “Is there something I’m not getting here?”

  “Yeah,” Justin says, his brow creasing, “what the hell is going on?”

  Both of them are staring at me as Gabe opens his mouth, and I do kick him in the shin. He yelps.

  I grip the edge of the table. “Sam is an asshole. That’s what’s going on.” I scoot over and my hip hits Justin’s. “Let. Me. Out.”

  Justin doesn’t budge. “Our order should be here any minute.”

  After eating only sandwiches and cereal for the past three days, even the lure of real, hot food can’t keep me sitting at the same table with Sam. I bump Justin’s hip again, harder this time. “Have them box mine up.”

  Putting up his hands in surrender, Justin slides out of the booth to let me out.

  I slide out too, glaring at Sam.

  He stirs his iced tea again and stares into his glass. Refusing to look at me, he mumbles, “Overreact much?”

  My hands clench into fists as Justin slides back into the booth. Maybe I am overreacting, but I feel so betrayed that achieving calm isn’t possible.

  “Not enough,” I say bitterly, grabbing Justin’s ice water. Sam still doesn’t look at me until the cold splash of water hits him in the face.

  Sputtering at me, he gasps. His blue eyes are an angry flash of ice.

  “There,” I say, smiling smugly. “Now I’m overreacting.” As Sam stares at me with fire in his eyes, the water continues dripping down his face. I drop the empty plastic cup into his lap, then march out of the diner.

  Chapter 26

  The crowd roars on one side of me, music blaring on the other. Since New York, Luminescent Juliet’s popularity has soared. Earlier tonight, the booth was busier than ever—luckily, Romeo had ordered more T-shirts. He also hired Mike to help me the entire time, and even the two of us together could hardly keep up with the preshow line. I can’t help but notice that during the first part of the tour, usually only half the seats were full when the guys kicked off each show. Now, the seats are nearly three-fourths full, which is pretty good for an opening band. Their album has also skyrocketed on the indie charts.

  I take pictures of both the band and the mass of screaming fans, already thinking through the best way to highlight the surge in sales and the increasing crowds. Of course, Sam is his usually flirty self, winking at the girls in the front as I take pictures. I have a suspicion he pours it on extra thick when I’m out here.

  Asshole. We haven’t spoken since the incident at the diner this afternoon.

  Attempting to ignore Sam, the way he does me, I try to let the energy, the music, the lights, the rumble in my chest, and Justin’s vocals take me away from my jealous thoughts of groupies. Then the band starts the fast notes of what has become my absolute favorite song, “Trace,” and I move to the side of the stage in the shadows to watch Sam. He’s not as frozen as he was last time I watched them perform it, but there’s still a noticeable shift in his demeanor. Maybe nobody else would notice, but I instantly pick up the sadness that overtakes his posture, reminding me of the incomplete song lyrics I typed into my phone. I want to know why this song has such an effect on him.

  The song ends and the first notes of “Inked My Heart” begin. I start heading back to the booth.

  The time after their performance is as busy as the initial rush, but the crowds instantly thin as Griff goes onstage, and I help Mike pack the booth up. Then I head to the green room, grab a plate of fruit and crackers, find a quiet spot in the corner, and start filling in the lyrics of “Trace” on my phone.

  I know the bus would be quieter, but I’m sick of the bus. So I munch on fruit and crackers, listen to the song again and again, and fill in the missing lyrics. Done, I pull out my ea
rbuds and read over what I’ve typed into my phone.

  I remember your laugh

  I remember when

  When you were real

  Before everything changed

  You fell into a nightmare

  Leaving me alone

  Holding on to traces of you

  Gone, gone, gone

  Nothing left but traces of you.

  Gone, gone, gone

  But still holding on to these traces of you

  Life is so empty

  No one understands

  You’re lost forever

  Leaving half a man

  My whole word has crumbled

  Meaningless I stumble

  Holding on to traces of you

  Gone, gone, gone

  Nothing left but traces of you.

  Gone, gone, gone

  But still holding on to these traces of you

  Still I wait

  I’ll always wait

  However hopeless

  You’re my other half

  Caught in your shadow

  Here I stand

  Holding on to traces of you

  Gone, gone, gone

  Nothing left but traces of you

  Gone, gone, gone

  But still holding on to these traces of you

  I’ll always hold on to these traces of you

  I grip my phone as the reality of the song hits me. Probably like most people, I thought “Trace” was about a girl, especially with the chorus, I can’t let you go. Now reading the lyrics in their entirety, I’m very aware of what they mean, and who wrote them.

  Romeo didn’t. Sam did. And the song isn’t about a girl. It’s about missing a twin brother lost to a disease. Lost to schizophrenia.

  It’s about Seth.

  My empty plate falls to the floor as I look over the lyrics again, and my lip quivers. When Sam explained his pain, I thought I understood, but the lyrics, the desolation and sorrow of them, and the realness behind them, tear at my heart and make it hard for me to breathe.

  Poor, poor Sam. Poor, poor Seth. The stupid fucking tragedy of it sucks.