by Luana Ferraz
“I know!”
“And, I have to admit…” he sighs. “It does sound better in his voice.”
“I know,” I admit. And now I’ll have a decent recording of it to listen to whenever I want.
“I think so, too,” Lindsey says somewhere behind us, startling Pete. He jumps up, turning around to face her. Oh, God… maybe his weirdness isn’t because of me, after all. “Although I like your arrangement better,” she adds.
“Thanks,” I say, glancing back and forth between the two of them. So much for giving them time, right? I sigh, feeling guilty for barging in. “Sorry to burst in, it’s just that… you know…”
“Sure, no problem,” Lindsey smiles. It’s so… cold. Empty. Sad. My heart starts to break.
“Neil said… he kind of…” I stutter, unsure of what to say, what to do. “I need to talk to you. Later. Business stuff.”
“Okay,” Pete nods. I’m not entirely sure he heard me.
I glance once more at Linds, who is now staring at the floor, and decide to leave. I carefully close the door behind me and lean over, trying to hear something. Awful, I know. Anyway, I don’t succeed. I can hear that they’re talking, but the TV is still on and I can’t make out any words.
I walk back to my room—or, should I say, I glide back to my room—with a weird feeling weighing me down and lifting me up at the same time.
I’m worried about Pete and Lindsey, the way they looked at each other just now… I really hope they can work things out. Mainly because I really like Lindsey. I know it sounds selfish, but she’s the first of Pete’s ‘significant others’ that likes me. The first to actually want to hang out with me. The first with whom I don’t feel pressured to explain our relationship. The first that actually deserves him.
On the other hand, I’m so… so… Christ… I’m so happy! Hearing a band like The Hacks praise us as they did and then play our song live—all things they didn’t need to do—was such a thrill. Grandma was right, people don’t do that. Maybe I do like them. Maybe I do like him.
***
I’m in front of the mirror, fixing my make-up. For the first time in days it looks flawless, exactly the way I want it to be. The foundation and concealer completely covered the pesky spots I have, and also the dark circles under my eyes. The wings of my eye-liner are perfectly symmetrical. My purplish shadow brings out the dark brown of my eyes. I pause to take a look at my creation before drawing my lips—it will be a darker purple today.
That’s when an alarm starts to blare and fire sprinklers go off. I hadn’t even noticed there were fire sprinklers in the room. I rush to the door, but fail to open it. It seems locked, which is so strange—I rarely lock my doors. I bang on it, screaming for help, hoping someone will hear me.
I turn back around and gasp at my reflection in the mirror when I see my make-up is melting. Like wet paint, big drops of blacks and purples turn the edges my eyes and mouth down. They drip from my chin in heavy blobs, hitting the floor with an unnerving sound. I walk closer and notice it’s not only my make-up—my whole face is melting. Whole chunks of painted skin fall off, hitting the ground with a loud thump. I scream again, but this time no sound comes out of my mouth—I have no mouth anymore. I want to close my eyes, I want to look away, but I can’t. I’m stuck, frozen in place, just watching as I slowly become a disfigured mass.
I jolt awake and almost fall off bed. I sit up fast, reaching up, glad to feel the skin on my face is still whole and imperfect. My heart beats in my ears. This is my most recurring nightmare. It’s so stupid. Yet, it always manages to scare the shit out of me.
“Becky?” I hear a voice on the other side of the door at the same time there’s a knock. “Are you there?”
It’s Pete. So, I yell back, “Yes, it’s open.”
And it is. I always forget to lock my doors.
I watch as he steps inside—his hair damp from a recent shower, his clothes immaculate and snuggly fitting his tiny body. He stares back, his hands in his pockets.
“What did Neil say?” he asks, at the same time I ask, “What is going on?”
He sighs, looking down. He’s standing next to the door and part of me fears he’ll just walk out.
“Have you eaten yet?” I ask, an idea forming in my head.
“Uh… no…” he mumbles.
“Let’s go down and have breakfast,” I say.
“It’s almost noon,” he scoffs.
“Lunch, then,” I say, cursing myself for having slept for so long. “Even better.”
“Okay,” he says.
“I just need to pee,” I say, jumping off the bed.
“And change,” he adds, looking down at my pajamas.
“I’ll just throw something over this,” I say. He frowns, but says nothing.
I’m relieved to find him still by the door when I come out of the bathroom. I find my navy sweater, the one I brought back from home, and put it on. Then, I hold Pete’s hand as we walk together to the hotel restaurant. I figured he’d be less likely to make a dramatic exit in a public place.
We walk around, silently picking up what we want to eat, and find a table at the back. The room is pretty much empty, since it’s too early for lunch yet, but it’s a good thing. The emptier, the fewer people will see me in my current state.
“So?” I ask after we’ve had time to eat half of our food.
He looks up to me, startled. Then, he takes a deep breath.
“I owe you an apology,” he says. It sounds so formal, but at the same time it sounds so Pete. “I didn’t mean to lash out this morning.”
“Why did you?” I ask.
“I was… I was angry. At myself,” he says, looking away.
“Why?” I insist.
“I’m…” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Start from the start,” I lean over, catching his hand and squeezing it. He stares at our hands for a while.
“Okay, so, remember you guessed Lindsey and I had a fight?” he says.
“Yes,” I nod. It’s pretty obvious they’re still in a fight.
“It was because I told her we should move in together,” he blurts out.
“Wow, that’s, um… that’s big,” I stutter. I don’t know what to say.
“Yeah,” he nods.
“She doesn’t want to.”
“No.”
“Because… because of me?” I ask.
He looks startled for a moment. And it hurts me. It hurts because I can tell he didn’t think about me when he made that proposition. And he shouldn’t, I know that. I know we can’t be roommates forever. I know he can’t take care of me forever. As much as we love each other, at some point, our personal lives will take different directions. That’s just how life goes.
Yet, the fact I can be rational about it doesn’t mean I don’t feel slightly betrayed.
“No!” he exclaims, squeezing my hand tighter. “No, it’s not you, it’s just timing. She thinks it’s too soon.”
“Well, it is too soon,” I blurt out. He flinches with my bluntness, so I say, “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. You’re right,” he says, shaking his head.
“Am I?” I frown.
“Yeah, I mean… we’ve been together for less than a year. Fuck, we’ve known each other for less than a year. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“You’re in love, you were not thinking,” I try to joke.
“I guess,” he answers, looking away. I immediately know there’s more to it.
“What is the problem, then?” I ask.
“Huh?” he mumbles, as if he didn’t hear me.
“Well, it seems to me you’re both on the same page. So, there’s no reason for a fight. Am I right?” I insist. He only stares, his eyes widening as the seconds tick away. “What is the problem?”
“The problem is…” he trails off, studying my face. I’m sitting at the edge of my chair. He sighs. “It’s not that simple. Something�
�� something broke, you know? It’s not the same anymore.”
I don’t know what to say because I don’t know. I’ve never had a real relationship. The only time I thought I had one, it broke me—both literally and figuratively. And Pete was the one who had the right words to pull me through. I don’t have any words. And I hate myself for that.
“Anyway, do you forgive me?” he asks, looking me back in the eyes.
“Oh, hun, you don’t even have to ask,” I try to smile. “And you know you can tell me anything, right? Even if I can’t give you any advice, I can listen. I want to listen.”
“I know,” he says. And the look on his face—a mix of sad and lost and confused that I’ve only ever seen on my reflection in the mirror—breaks my heart.
Also, the fact that I know he’s still not telling me everything breaks my heart. He’s still hiding something, and I don’t know how else to make him open up. I wonder if he feels this frustrated when I don’t tell him things. Which reminds me I’m also not telling him everything.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he breaks the silence, as if he can read my mind. It’s on the tip of my tongue. But then, he adds, “What business stuff?”
My heart sinks. I can’t tell him. I can’t throw my mistakes and doubts on him this time. I have to stop being so selfish.
So, I just tell him about Neil’s idea and we spend the rest of our lunch trying to come up with some type of challenge for the fans. Strictly business stuff.
***
We head to the venue not too long after that. Unfortunately, I can’t replicate my dream make-up skills and end up with my average coverage. Still, it looks better than my bare babyface. It makes me feel better. I’ve been make-up-free for days, it’s good to look nice and professional once again.
The journey over is rather awkward, although Lindsey chats with the driver as if everything is normal. It’s only when we arrive and are left alone that I see she looks as sad and lost as my best friend.
“Hey, guys,” Neil meets us in the dressing room. “Did you do your homework?”
“Ah, we’ve come up with a few options, but we want to run them by you first,” Pete answers. Neil seems satisfied with that.
“Great, I’ll be happy to discuss them with you,” he grins. Wide. I start to get suspicious. “I have something to show you first,” he says as he starts scrolling through his phone. “I think you’re gonna like it. It’s not out yet, but they had the courtesy to send me a copy of the finished text before-hand. It will be up on the website on Sunday.”
I exchange wide-eyed glances with Pete. I start to bite the tip of my thumb. I’m already anxious.
Neil turns the phone screen for us to show an article. A Peroxide article. Our interview.
“Oh my God!” I snatch the phone from him and huddle up with Pete as we read through.
‘Like it’ is an understatement. I love it. With every line, I get more excited. The interview is everything we dreamed of and more—Graham didn’t measure his words to commend us. He starts by mentioning the show he told us he attended all those years ago. He says how the precarious gig stuck with him and how he thought we had potential then, and goes on to tell the readers how we surpassed his expectations.
He describes our first opening show in vivid detail, and it’s like I’m reliving it—starting off doubtful, winning the crowd, ending with half of the place singing along. He praises our interaction with the one fan that requested a song and our ability to improvise. He even mentions how we now have merged our sets and exchanged songs with The Hacks—something he didn’t even witness.
The interview bit is funny and insightful, and although Pete’s name is the one that appears the most, I never end up seeming distant or uninterested. He mentions more than once my passion for music and talent with the guitar, and every time I read it, my heart leaps in my chest. He finishes the article saying:
‘In my profession, there’s a myth that you only find true talent once in a lifetime. Throughout my career, every so often, I came across diamonds in the rough that left me wondering long after the last guitar chord is played. For the few with whom I got to cross paths again, one of two things happened: they were either not slightly as good as their first impression or just completely changed direction. That’s not Becky and Pete’s case. They’re the real deal. They’re my once in a lifetime. They’re legends in the making.’
At the bottom of the page, there are links to our official website, social media pages, and Spotify channel.
I look to Pete and don’t even have time to gauge his expression, as he engulfs me in a hug, almost breaking my bones. But, for once, I don’t care. This article is worth breaking every single bone.
“Congratulations!” Neil says excitedly and I feel his hand on my shoulder.
“Oh my God, mate, thank you so much!” Pete releases me to hug him.
“Oh, please,” Neil chuckles, patting his back. “I did nothing.”
When he releases him, he turns to Lindsey. She didn’t read the article so she doesn’t really know what we’re celebrating. She walks up to Pete and hugs him, anyway. She loves him. I think she loves him more than he loves her.
“There’s something else,” Neil breaks the silence. We all look back at him. “The label wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Pete and I gasp at the same time.
“Yep. They asked me to schedule a conference meeting as soon as you guys have a minute. I was thinking maybe Monday? I think that would give you time to come down from all this excitement,” he says.
“Mate… does it… does it mean…” Pete stutters, putting a hand over his chest. I think he might burst into tears. Fuck, I think I might burst into tears.
“They didn’t tell me anything else, just that they wanted to talk,” Neil rushes to explain. “But, you know… when a label wants to talk to the artist…”
That earns him another hug from Pete. He laughs.
“Okay, I’ll give you a moment,” Neil says. “Don’t be long, though, you need to rehearse today. Like, seriously.”
“Of course, we’ll be right out,” Pete says.
Neil glances at me—I haven’t said a single word to him. I still can’t, though. So, I smile. I smile and I hope he knows everything I mean by it. He smiles back and winks—I think he does.
“So,” Lindsey clears her throat when we’re alone again. “What was that about?”
“The interview,” I seem to find my voice. “We did an interview for Peroxide when the tour started, it was the text they’re going to publish.”
“Oh, right,” she nods.
“We should have asked Neil to send it to us,” I turn to Pete. “So Linds could read it, too.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll read it when it comes out,” she says. “I’m sure you deserve everything they wrote about you, though.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
Then, completely out of character for me, I walk up to her and hug her. As I did with Neil, I hope she understands everything I mean by it.
I try to look her in the eyes when we let go, but she stares at the floor. I think she did understand.
“So,” Pete interrupts our moment. “Let’s… let’s get going?”
I nod, interlocking my arm with his, and we walk to the stage. And my heart starts to beat even faster, if that’s even possible.
***
“Okay, let’s take five,” Neil suggests. “Todd, Pete, come over here for a second, please.”
We’re on our second hour of soundcheck. We suck. Honestly, I have no idea what’s happening. Well, to be honest, I have some idea.
Every time Tyler comes close to me, I get so nervous that I hit the wrong notes or sing the wrong words. It’s ridiculous. It gets even more ridiculous when he notices what’s happening and starts doing it on purpose—looking at me while he sings, or lightly touching my waist, or staring at my lips. He’s having way too much fun with it. I hate him. Especially because I don’t seem to have the
same effect on him. Well, you’re not his type, after all.
“Did you watch it?” He walks closer, taking the five-minute opportunity to harass me. We haven’t properly talked all day.
“Watch what?” I ask back, even though I know what he’s talking about.
“The interview,” he says, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, that,” I say, smiling evilly. “No, I ended up falling asleep.”
“Really?” He frowns.
“Yeah,” I shrug.
“Well,” he sighs, clearly disappointed, “you can always catch it online, I guess.”
“Uhum,” I mumble, trying my hardest not to let him find out I’m lying. He just stares—at my whole face. I start to get hot. “What?”
“I had forgotten how good you look in full-on make-up,” he says. I thank the gods that I actually went for full coverage, so he won’t see me blush.
“Were you tired of looking at my everyday face?” I ask.
“Not at all!” he frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Right,” I scoff.
He just keeps looking at me, trying to say something, but saying nothing. It kind of gives me a bit of satisfaction. A sort of payback for how jumpy he still makes me.
Then, suddenly, he asks, “Does your lipstick smear?”
“Tyler!” I gasp, looking around to make sure no one is within listening range.
“What?” he mocks my tone.
“Don’t… do that,” I say in a low tone.
“Do what?”
“What you’re doing.”
“Why not?”
“Because!”
“I can’t help myself,” he smirks.
“Well, get a grip!” I raise my eyebrows.
“Fine,” he sighs, apparently giving up. “Sorry.”
He walks back to the piano and sits down. I follow him, still making sure nobody is paying too much attention.
“If you behave,” I lean over, whispering in his ear. He jumps. “I’ll show you if my lipstick smears or not.”
He turns to look at me, a bewildered expression on his face. And he blushes. Hard. Now I know why he keeps doing it—it’s just too good to cause this reaction on the other person.