“Only on Fridays.” I try to keep my face serious as I say it, but I can’t help but smile as I catch hers out of the corner of my eye. “Sorry.” She gives me a look that says she knows I’m not. “I saw you walking and didn’t like the idea of you down here by yourself this late. I can hang out in my car and just give you a ride home when you’re done, if you want to be alone.” But please don’t ask me to do that.
“You really are like a personal taxi service, huh? Rides in the morning, rides at night. You’re going to spoil me and give me inflated expectations of your awesomeness, Cam Fuller.”
“In that case.” I push myself up in the sand, wiping my hands together dramatically and rising to my feet. “The last thing I want is you thinking I’m going to be awesome 24/7. Good luck with the serial killers.” I dust sand off my pants, stopping when I feel a hand on mine.
She tugs it once, before dropping it. “Shut up and sit down.”
“It’s nice out here. Quie—”
She cuts me off with a soft “shhhh” that sounds like a sigh. We’re sitting just a few feet from the water, far from the lights of the boardwalk. If the wind really picked up, the surf would reach up and grab us. Vee lies back on the sand again, her arms at her sides, and I copy her. Our bodies are just inches apart. The sound of bongos and acoustic guitar drifts down from the dunes; the only noise as we lie in complete silence. It’s easy to understand why she loves it here. Staring up at the dark, inky sky, the light breeze sends goose bumps across my skin. The gentle sound of the waves and the drums fills my ears. Eventually, the music stops and I suspect that what had felt like minutes has actually been hours. Time seems to pass more quickly with Vee, like at a concert or on vacation.
“Tomorrow? Same place, same time?” she asks, when I finally drop her in front of her house just after 2 A.M.
I just nod, watching as she slams the car door and walks away.
CHAPTER NINE
NOW
CAM
Aside from the superfans that have started showing up city after city, every week we see a new group of fans at each venue. Where normal shows are about entertaining—and that means playing the same tried-and-true fan favorites over and over, and plenty of covers—when you’re playing for a television audience week after week, you’re always playing new sets. But it turns out, if you replace your singer six months before you end up on a reality TV show, you can forget using any songs he wrote. Logan got the call yesterday—their jerk of a former singer swearing he’d see us all in court if we played any of the songs he helped Logan write. We’re not risking it. If we don’t do something, we’ll run out of songs eventually.
“I’m tapped,” Logan says.
We’re all sitting in the bus lounge, going over set lists for upcoming shows while Vee sits in the back of the bus, answering fan mail and managing our social media. She spends hours each day posting photos online, sharing funny things that happen from day to day and engaging the fans in conversations about what they like. It’s a huge part of our success so far, because people like us. Vee makes us seem accessible, when really we are so far from it. When we aren’t playing or sleeping, we’re in no mood to answer emails or post funny comments. She does it all for us.
Logan has his head in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “We’ve played most of our stuff. We can repeat a song or two each night, but we need at least two new songs to get through the next few weeks.”
“What about Vee?” I ask.
Logan glances toward the back of the bus, then shakes his head. “She’s not writing for us right now.”
I pull my notebook out of my bag and throw it over to Logan and Anders, who are sitting on the sofa across from me. “I’ve got a whole notebook of songs. Lots of them need work, but at least two or three are good to go, if you want to check them out.”
“What am I”—Reese is scowling at the two of them—“invisible over here?” He drops down onto the couch next to Logan, and the three of them flip through the notebook, nodding and mumbling, page after page.
Logan rips a page out, and I flinch. “This one.” Then another. “And this one. ‘Girl in the Purple Shirt.’ Play a little for us?” This is the first time we’ll play anything I wrote, and I’m trying to push down the little voice in my head saying I should have just kept these to myself.
I grab my guitar and start strumming the melody. Logan joins in with the lyrics, the two of us switching back and forth between verses. Anders taps out a rhythm on the table.
We’re in a full-on jam session when Vee walks in. “What’s this?”
Logan finishes up the verse. “New song,” he says, a giant smile on his face. “You like it?”
“I love it. And the fans are going to eat it up. T-shirt sales will go through the roof.”
When I wrote the song—about Vee and her lucky shirt—I hadn’t even considered the fact that our merch shirts would be purple. They’ve always been purple—since back when we were The Melon Ballers. But when I think of the Girl in the Purple Shirt, it’s Vee I imagine. In that ratty shirt, standing offstage as we play. Not a fan in an overpriced T-shirt.
I fight the urge to correct her. I won’t like her reaction if I say the song is about her. We’ll be singing it in front of hundreds of people soon—thousands, if you count everyone watching on television and online. I’m not allowed to tell Vee how I feel about her, so I’m ninety-nine percent sure she wouldn’t be on board with me telling the world.
VIRGINIA
Priya, one of Jenn’s marketing minions, gathers us all in one of the small backstage rooms of the club we’ve arrived at in New Orleans. Logan is sitting in a red velvet wingback chair in the corner of the room, and Anders is straddling a brown metal folding chair. The rest of us are standing around, propping ourselves against the counters and old dingy walls of the tiny room. I’m looking at my phone, scrolling through comments on the band’s Instagram, when Jenn and her assistant Kaley come in.
“We’re busy, so this won’t take long,” Jenn says. “Logan. Cam.” She nods at the two of them and then glances over the rest of us. “I really just needed the two of you, but I’m glad everyone could join us.”
“Whatever we can do,” Reese says in a serious voice I’ve never heard before.
“Just a heads up, as things move forward—as you move forward—we’ll be asking more of you. Meet-and-greets, radio interviews. You’ll need to stick around for photo ops. And down the road we have some other ideas in mind for you.”
“If we make it,” Cam says.
“When you make it.” Jenn sounds confident. “Listen, ‘Girl in the Purple Shirt’ is huge right now. We’ll set up some promotions geared around that, play off the idea of rock stars falling in love with someone out in the crowd. Fans love that.” Jenn smacks her tablet. “I know—we’ll run a contest to win dates with Logan and Cam.”
Cam crosses his arms over his chest. “That’s not really what the song is about.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jenn says. “That’s what the fans are responding to.”
I’m trying to get Logan’s attention, because, hello, I’m his girlfriend? As far as they know, at least. Isn’t it sort of tacky to send him out on dates with random girls? I clear my throat loudly but Logan is still fixated on what Jenn is saying.
Jenn turns to me slowly. “Virginia—” There’s annoyance in her voice.
What the hell am I supposed to say? I’m not even a part of this band.
While I’m panicking, Cam speaks up. “Logan has a girlfriend.” He glances over at me but doesn’t meet my eyes. “As you know. And I’m not interested in going on dates with strangers. But thanks.”
“It’s not a request,” Jenn says, still smiling. “It’s also not necessary to keep up the false pretenses—” Her eyes land on Logan. “Not with me, at least.”
“But I thought—” Logan says.
“We’ve already aired footage of the two of you together”—she’s looking at me—“so you’ll ju
st keep up the girlfriend act until it’s time for the breakup.” She doesn’t say it like this is some sudden revelation she had. No, this is what it’s been about all along. We’re just another means to her creating good TV.
“Soon?” I give Logan an apologetic smile and mouth, “No offense.”
He gives me a playful wink.
“Soon,” Jenn says.
Cam pushes himself off the wall. “And then she’ll have to leave?” His voice is laced with concern, and for once I don’t roll my eyes at his interest in me. I’m thinking the same thing.
“Of course not,” Jenn says calmly, and she seems strangely happy that Cam has joined the conversation. “Virginia can stay. She’ll work with us and help with publicity.”
Jenn is looking right at me, but I don’t say anything. I’m not convinced this isn’t a joke. And it’s not a question.
Jenn looks to me, her brows raised like she’s confused. “That’s what you want to do eventually, right?”
“Oh. Yes, actually. I mean, that would be amazing. Thank you.” I’ve been trying to talk to Jenn—to plead my case as an intern—since I got on this bus. She was always conveniently too busy, so why is this all happening so easily now?
“Talk to your college,” Jenn says. “Maybe you can set it up for credit.” She shoves her tablet into her large bag and turns for the door, then stops and turns back to me. “Let me know if there’s paperwork to fill out. Kaley will get you a schedule, so you can join us at the weekly planning meetings.” Kaley looks at me just long enough to roll her eyes, and part of me wants to join her.
Before leaving, Jenn tells us to “act normal,” until we get the okay to break up. I’m not sure that Logan and I are actually capable of pulling off a convincing breakup scene. Will we even have to, or will it all happen off-camera, and they’ll just leak it to the media? It doesn’t seem like there’s enough interest in us to warrant any kind of announcement. Who would even care?
CHAPTER TEN
THEN
VIRGINIA
Something strange happens after midnight. It’s like this invisible flip is switched, and everything that happens automatically feels heavier and more emotional. Like the walls that we spend so much time holding up during the day are just too heavy to bother with at night. And there’s something about being at the beach—alone with Cam—that makes me feel brave, when I decide I want to know more about him. After two weeks of sitting in near silence, I want to know everything about him, but I don’t know how to ask. Aside from the beach, we’re always surrounded by people—the band, kids in our classes. And Cam is still quiet. He doesn’t offer up any details at school. Or at band practice. And the curiosity—the feeling that I need to know him—it’s eating away at me. Almost as much as the ache for him to kiss me.
Which he hasn’t.
I’m starting to think he doesn’t want to, because he’s had a lot of opportunities, lying on the beach with me. And I’ve come to the realization that maybe it’s better this way. I’ll be leaving for college in less than a year, and I don’t even know where Cam is planning to go. Maybe he’s heading back to Wisconsin. He probably has tons of friends back there, though he never mentions any. He doesn’t talk about much of anything, until you ask him.
“Leaving for school.” I hold up one finger. “Living in Chicago.” Two. “And performing in front of people.” I wiggle three fingers in the chilly night air, raising my brows and giving Cam a look that I hope says, Now you, but he just sits there, with a questioning look on his face.
“Oh, we’re talking now? I didn’t get that memo,” he says teasingly, and I smack his shoulder. Cam and I have a comfort with each other that took years for me to gain even a bit of with Logan. I never felt any of it with my ex, Toby, even when we had sex at his parents’ cabin the week before we broke up. Even when I told him I loved him. Because I should have, right? I didn’t care what Toby’s favorite song was in elementary school, or if I knew his childhood pet’s name. Or who he thought was the most overrated band of all time.
I want to know everything about Cam. “Three things that scare the crap out of you. Your turn.”
“Are you going to college in Chicago?”
“What? No,” I say, confused.
“Then why are you scared to live there? It doesn’t sound like you have to.”
“No, but I want to. The idea just scares me. Catching cabs, figuring out train schedules … knowing when to pull that weird rope on buses to make them stop. I mean, what happens if I step onto the bus and that stupid little card is out of money? Do they just kick me off? And what if I get on a train going in the wrong direction and I don’t even realize it? Until I end up in some sketchy neighborhood, where someone turns me into an unsuspecting drug mule or something.” I pick up two handfuls of sand and let them drain out of my palms slowly. “The Plan is to go to State. But Chicago is the end goal. Someday.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re scared of public transportation, not Chicago.”
I pull my hand out of the sand and smack Cam’s leg—a move that isn’t much more than a twitch of my wrist since we’re lying side by side just inches apart. Cam laughs before grabbing my hand and holding it casually in his, nestled in the sandy gap between us. My skin feels tingly and electric, like every single nerve ending I have is aware of him.
“So why not go for college?” He keeps holding my hand as he talks, like we do this all the time. Like we’re those people whose hands drift into each other’s without even thinking.
“We’ve always said we were going to MSU. That’s The Plan,” I say.
“The Plan, huh?”
“Three things.” We have spent too much of our time together talking about how neurotic I am. And it feels weird to bring up the fact that Logan and I always said we’d go to State together. Especially when Cam and I are holding hands in the sand like we’re—well, something. Like we could be. I’m still not sure if something is what I want or not.
“Okay, let’s see.” His thumb is rubbing up and down along mine, and it’s hard to think about anything else. “Leaving for college. Playing music professionally.” He takes a deep, dramatic breath. “And holding your hand.”
It had taken me about two hours—the first night we were together on the beach—to figure out that Cam has a varsity letter in deflecting questions. I bump his shoulder with mine. “You’re doing that now, and you don’t seem scared to me.”
“Oh, I am. You just can’t tell, because I’m dying on the inside.” He rubs his hand over his chest. “My fear’s internalized—I’ll need therapy down the road.”
“Holding my hand is going to force you into therapy?” I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it in place, and I laugh.
“It probably won’t be the first thing.”
“Thank God you haven’t kissed me. I’d hate to see you institutionalized.” What is wrong with me? Maybe I’m willing it to happen, even though I know it’s better if it doesn’t. Still, I regret the words instantly, because his face looks pained, like he’s not sure if he actually does want to kiss me.
“Oh, I’ll definitely be kissing you.” There’s a huge, cocky grin on his face, and it holds a promise. “Do you need to change your three things now?”
I smack him again but he has a great point, because suddenly getting hit by a taxi or throwing up onstage doesn’t seem so terrifying.
CAM
Once she gets started, Vee doesn’t shut up. Not in a bad way. More of a surprising way. Over the last few weeks, we’ve spent almost every night at the beach. And while some of it was spent in quiet silence like our first night, most of it has been spent sharing facts and stories and favorites. I have my own Virginia Miller biography in the works. Born and raised in Riverton, daughter to Ted and Millie.
“Really? Millie Miller?” I asked.
“Technically, it’s Millicent Miller,” she said, warning me not to bring it up because it was a sore subject. Implying that I would be meeting her mother one day
. It had seemed weird that I hadn’t crossed paths with her mom, until she explained that she worked nights during the week. It made me wonder if Vee thought the same thing about my parents. You won’t be meeting them.
She told me all about her plans of studying marketing, so she could be a real band manager or publicist someday. What she should really be studying is music marketing, but the college she’s planning on going to doesn’t even have a program for it. Only a few colleges in the country do, according to her. She talked about Nonni, which I liked, because I finally felt like I didn’t have to be so careful about mentioning her.
“What do you talk about?” I asked.
“All sorts of stuff. I play her songs sometimes, actually. She’s the only one who’s heard me play. And she likes to give me life advice.”
“Like?”
“You know, ‘Get out of your shell. Don’t be afraid to live life. Come up with an alter ego and run wild.’” She shrugged and smiled. “That sort of stuff.”
I like hearing about her visits with Nonni. I’ve stopped my behind-the-curtain visits, like I promised myself I would. I’m trying to assume the role of legitimate friend over stalker, because knowing everything about someone is dangerous. You can’t unlearn some things. Like the stuff about Logan and Vee and their “more than friends” relationship over the summer. Vee reluctantly shared that little detail last week. I got the feeling she felt like she was supposed to. Really, I wish I didn’t know. It’s hard for me to look at Logan now without wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t called it off. How could he not have feelings for her? I’ve been swearing up and down to myself that I’m going to keep things platonic with Vee, but every time I see her it gets a little harder. It’s pathetic, how beyond-walking-away-from-her I am. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, and he’s had years to get sucked in.
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 9