Once in a Lifetime: (Becky) (Unnamed Duo Book 1)

by Luana Ferraz

  “Come on, guys,” Neil sighs from the floor. “It’s the end of the tour. Let’s go out with a bang, shall we?”

  “I think the bang might be the problem here,” Todd remarks, making my blood boil. But before I have a chance to say anything, Tyler snaps.

  “Good Lord, shut the hell up! Why don’t you mind your own business for a change?”

  “This is my business! If we sound like shit, it is my business,” Todd tries to justify himself.

  “Right, as if that’s what you care about,” Tyler snorts.

  “I’m just trying to be professional,” he digs again, making Tyler widen his eyes.

  “How is commenting on my sexual life professional, you asshole?”

  “Okay, enough!” Neil interrupts the argument. “Let’s call it. But you two better get it together before the show.”

  “Just don’t talk to me and we’ll be fine,” Tyler continues.

  “Very mature,” Todd snorts. “One would think that getting laid would put you in a good mood. Maybe you should do it again, but try to get it right this time,” he tells me and the next thing I know Tyler is flying across the stage towards him.

  Luckily, Tristan is faster and leaps from behind his drums to stop his brother.

  “What is your problem?” Tyler yells.

  “Jealousy, I bet,” I barge in, for their surprise.

  “What?” Todd snorts. “Do you really think I’d want anything with you?”

  “No, that didn’t even cross my mind,” I give him an ‘ew’ look and he blushes. “I was referring to everything else, actually.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he babbles.

  “You know, Todd, if there’s anyone in need to get laid here, it’s you,” I can’t contain myself. “Although I’m really not surprised as to why you can’t manage.”

  “What? You… you don’t…” he stutters, his face flushing in several different shades of red.

  “I could offer to introduce you to some friends, if you weren’t such a prick,” I say as I put my guitar down, walk towards Tyler with purpose and reach out a hand.

  He looks at me startled for a moment, but then smirks and accepts my hand. With a pointed look at Todd, we leave the stage. His hand is cold and clammy and I wonder if his heart is beating as fast as mine right now.

  We reach his dressing room and Tyler lets go of my hand once we’re inside. It’s obvious we’re not doing it. Not that I wanted to, anyway. I didn’t.

  “That was pretty bad-ass,” he comments, leaning against one of the counters and turning back to me.

  “Whatever,” I mumble.

  And then we just stare at each other awkwardly. I have the feeling he’s expecting me to say something. No, it seems like he’s afraid I’ll say something. I’m really out of my depth here.

  “Tyler—”

  “It shouldn't have happened,” he blurts out suddenly.

  “W-what?” I stutter, my mind running off with my paranoid thoughts once again.

  “We shouldn't...” he trails off, studying my face. “Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

  “No,” I answer firmly. Even though it has crossed my mind a million times since I woke up this morning. “Is that what you were going to say?

  “I wasn't going to say anything,” he argues. I can see him fidgeting with the seams of his shirt under his arms as he crosses them. “What were you going to say?”

  “I…” I pause. I wasn’t going to say anything. “I was going to ask you if you’re okay.”

  “Oh,” he frowns.

  “You seem… really…” What? Pissed? Afraid? Regretful? All at once? “Upset. Is it because of the photos?”

  “Um… yeah…” he says, closing his eyes and pressing them with his palms. I don’t believe him. “My fans can be nasty, you know.”

  “We can deny it,” I offer.

  “We should stay out of it, as Neil suggested,” he sighs. “Believe me, it’s best if we don’t engage.”

  That turns the paranoid thoughts inside my head into paranoid questions. And, of course, I can’t keep them only in my head.

  “How many times has this happened?”

  “Uh…” he frowns, giving me a puzzled look. “This what?”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. He knows what I’m talking about, why is he torturing me like this?

  “How many times have the fans seen pictures of you making out with random girls?” I clarify.

  “You’re not a random girl,” he argues. I can’t tell what I’m feeling anymore.

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” I say.

  “What do you want me to say?” he scoffs. “Countless times. More times than I can even remember. Yes, I can’t keep it in my pants, everything people say about me is true.”

  His outburst takes me by surprise. I still can’t tell why he’s upset. If this has happened before, so many times as he claims, then… well…

  “You should be used to it, then,” I say.

  He looks at me with wide eyes and a semi-open mouth, like I’m totally missing the point. Which, probably, I am.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, at last. “If you haven’t noticed by now, I’m pretty clueless and paranoid, so if there’s some point you want me to see here, you’ll have to draw it for me.”

  That makes him actually smile. Which, of course, makes me smile. This is my default now.

  “I didn’t want…” he starts and pauses. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  I nod slowly. “Because I’m not your type.”

  “No!” he says, in a tone that indicates he was expecting me to say that. “I think we’ve already established that I’m really, really into you, Eliza.”

  Gosh. These nicknames will be the end of me.

  “So—”

  “So,” he interrupts me, getting up and walking in my direction, “people are mean and nosy and I didn’t want to invite their opinions on… us.”

  Us. I start to panic. He’s already talking about an us. And don’t tell me it doesn’t mean what I think it means because there was a pause there. He paused before saying it. He means it.

  “What are we doing?” I ask, the question that no one who just had the amazing night we did wants to hear.

  He stops his slow approach, but his eyes never leave mine. He chews on his bottom lip, his head to the side—the stance I already recognize as his thinking face.

  “Do I make you feel good?” he asks next. It takes me by surprise—again. He doesn’t allow much time for me to answer, though, as he adds, “Because you make me feel fucking amazing.”

  I feel the warmth spread from the pit of my stomach to my chest, my arms, my face. It burns away all the other thoughts and feelings that had been nagging at the edges. I’m fully just…

  “Yeah,” I answer, but it’s just a whisper. “You make me feel like a person.”

  I think I’m the one to take him by surprise, now. His eyes harden, but not in the same frightening way it happened in the hotel. It’s different, like… like… I don’t know. I don’t have time to figure it out, as he closes the gap between us and kisses me. I kiss him back, feeling a bit more powerful now that I know he enjoys it.

  ***

  Unfortunately, our make-out session doesn’t go very far. We’re interrupted by none other than Todd—walking in on us while I have my hands underneath Tyler’s shirt. I curse his timing. I mean, it’s still not his business, but I’d prefer he didn’t have a real image to go with his assumptions.

  “Can I…” he stutters, blushing again and staring solely at Tyler. “Can I talk to you?”

  “S-sure,” Tyler stutters, too. He keeps me in front of him until he manages to sit on the bench in front of the mirror—in an effort to hide the boner I was giving him, I presume.

  “See you later,” I say, giving him one last obscene kiss. In part to make Todd even more uncomfortable, in part because I just want to.

  On my way to my own dressing r
oom, I automatically take my phone out of my pocket and open Twitter. I’m greeted by the first tweet on a thread trying to prove Tyler and I were on a secret relationship way before the pictures in the club were leaked. I should really stay away from social media for a while. So, I close Twitter. And open Instagram.

  “Hey,” Lindsey’s voice makes me look up from my phone screen.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  She’s alone, sitting on our small couch with her legs up, chin resting on her knees. She looks like a small child. Like a small, sad child. She has her phone in her hands, as well.

  “I’m sorry about the pics,” she scrunches her nose. “Are you okay?”

  And this is reason number 43 why I think she and Pete are a perfect match. They’re both able to worry about other people even when they’re knee-deep into their own shit. It makes me feel guilty because neither of them has even crossed my mind in hours. But I’ll make it up to them.

  “I’m fine,” I say, sitting sideways beside her, so I can watch her face. “How are you?”

  She seems surprised that I asked. I don’t blame her. I usually don’t ask. But it’s the least I can do, right? I mean, I’m one of the only two people here she can talk to. And the other one is clearly avoiding her.

  “I’m… well…” she hesitates. Then I remember I’m best friends with her problematic boyfriend.

  “I won’t tell him, I promise,” I say. She turns to me wide-eyed. “You can say whatever you want. That is, if you want to say anything at all.”

  She spends a long time just looking at me. I’m not sure she believes me, or even that she wants to talk about it. I just wait, though. And, of course, the silence makes her spill the beans.

  “He kissed Tristan,” she blurts out. I don’t react. I don’t know what to say, so she continues, “I was a bitch to him last night. I tried to… I don’t know… I was so drunk.”

  She sighs, hiding her face in her thighs.

  “You know, I was a fan,” she says in a hushed voice.

  “What?” I ask. I’m not sure what she’s talking about.

  “I was a huge fan of The Hacks when I was younger,” she says, resting her chin on her knees. “I had posters of them on my walls and everything.”

  “No fucking way,” I gasp, gob-smacked. “Does Pete know about that?”

  She shakes her head. “I thought he’d be embarrassed of having me around, or something. You know how nervous he was about this.”

  “Yeah,” I nod slowly. Then, for some reason, I ask, “Who was your favorite?”

  “Can’t you tell?” she raises her eyebrows.

  I can. Everyone can by now. Well, everyone except Pete.

  “I told Pete I was going to try to be cool about it, and I thought I was trying. I am trying. But… but…”

  “You’re jealous,” I say, making her grunt.

  “It’s stronger than me,” she admits, looking up again, at some invisible spot on the far wall. “He tells me he loves me, and I know it’s true, I can feel it’s true. And it should be enough, right?” She looks at me now. “He loves me, and I love him, and it should be enough.”

  I think she expects me to say something. What do people say to their friends in these situations? What would Pete say if he was here?

  “Sometimes it isn’t,” I say.

  Once upon a time, when I was the one knee-deep into my own shit, a little before Pete managed to pull me out, I justified myself with love. Pete would go on long rants listing all the ways my relationship with… Alex… was wrong. Slowly and persistently he made me see he was right. I think I had known for a long time that it was an unhealthy relationship. A dysfunctional relationship. An abusive relationship. I knew, but I still defended him. Because the good parts were very good. And because I loved him. I would tell Pete, when he was finished with his eloquent speeches, ‘but I love him’. And, then, he would answer ‘but sometimes, Becks, love isn’t enough’.

  I don’t know if he was right. I don’t know if what I felt was actually love. I do remember his words, though. All of them. They made me cry a lot. Just like they make Lindsey cry now.

  She buries her face on my chest and I hug her. I run my hand up and down her back, feeling my shirt get wet and my heart break. I really like her. I’m a bit mad at Pete for hurting her like this.

  It takes her a while to calm down, and when she does, she just stays there in my arms, letting me stroke her hair. She sniffles every once in a while, jumping as if she has a hiccup. When I deem enough time has passed, I break our companionable silence.

  “You should keep in mind I don’t know how love works, though,” I say.

  She chuckles and it tickles my neck. She disentangles herself from me, pulling her shirt up to dry her face. When she’s done, she turns to me again, looking at me with sweet, swollen eyes.

  “You know better than you think you do,” she says. I feel myself blush.

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek and gets up, saying she needs to take a walk. When she’s gone, I text Pete. I need to convince him to not let her go.

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  ***

  He steps in, walks to the couch, throws himself down—flinching, since he clearly forgot about his wound—and leans his head back, closing his eyes. He looks like a zombie. The part of me that is mad at him shrinks.

  “Where were you?” I ask.

  “Hiding,” he answers unashamedly.

  “Alone?”

  “Please, not you, too,” he pinches the bridge of his nose.

  I debate what to say next. Should I tell him I know he kissed Tristan? Should I tell him I know that Lindsey knows that he kissed Tristan? Should I tell him she just left the room after crying her eyes out on me?

  I bite my lip, watching him in silence. He doesn’t show any signs that he knows I’m staring. He doesn’t show any signs that my strategy is working. And then I suddenly realize I’ve never seen him like this before. I don’t know how to deal with this version of him.

  So, I decide to try his strategy.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, giving him one more chance to open up. That’s what he always does, even when he already knows what it is that I’m keeping from him.

  “Shouldn’t you be out in a dark corner with a certain blond pop star?” he asks back.

  I sigh, defeated. This isn’t going anywhere.

  I reach out, smoothing his hair, similar to what I did to Lindsey. After a few seconds, he rolls over, hugging my waist and burying his face in my neck—similar to what Lindsey did with me. He doesn’t cry, though, for which I’m glad. I don’t think I’d be able to keep my composure if the tears on my shirt were his.

  “Pete,” I say softly.

  “Hmm,” he mumbles.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “That’s already a question,” he says, making me roll my eyes. When I don’t continue, he adds, “Ask away.”

  “How do you know you’re in love?”

  It’s like I hit him with a taser gun. He jumps, sitting up straight, his head bumping into my jaw in the process. It hurts.

  “Where did that come from?” he shouts, dark eyes so wide I can see the little red veins in the white part.

  “Don’t read too much into it,” I say as I massage the spot where he hit me. “I was just thinking about it.”

  “About being in love?” he asks, still surprised.

  “About how it feels,” I continue. “How do you know it’s love?”

  My intention is to make him remember why he’s in love with Lindsey. How they met, how he fell for her, what it is that makes her special in his eyes. But, I can’t lie—I’m a bit… curious.

  “I don’t know Becks, I think it’s different for everyone,” he answers, after a while.

  “How is it for you?” I insist.

  “Oi, Becks…” he sighs. For a moment, I think he’s not going to indulge me. But he does. He always does. “It’s like… It’s like I want
to be near the person at all times. Even when things are shitty. I want them around even when I can’t stand looking at them. It’s… wanting them even when you’re not sure you want them. It’s wanting to make sure they know you care about them. That they’re safe with you.”

  I think for a minute. I’ve felt all of this before. In fact, I feel it right now.

  “It sounds a lot like what we have,” I say.

  “It does,” he laughs a little, but it has no humor. “It’s what we have plus something more. Something inexplicable, unquantifiable, untouchable. Something that every time you think you’re on the verge of grasping, it flows away.”

  Okay… so… you can’t tell when you’re in love. That’s what he’s saying, right? I mean, chasing after something you can never hold sounds exhausting to me. I don’t think I want that.

  “Can you… like… control it?” I go on. “Like, if you don’t want to fall in love, can you prevent it?”

  “I don’t know,” he chuckles again. “I can’t.”

  That seems to be quite unfair. Then again, I can’t recall one single moment in my life I was in control of any emotion. I don’t know why I thought love would be different.

  “Are you still in love with Linds?” I ask, suddenly. His surprised look comes back. He doesn’t answer, so I ask, “Are you in love with Tris?”

  He shakes his head. I’m not sure which question he’s answering. I feel sad, anyway.

  “Are you…?” he trails off. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s implying. I shake my head. Even though I don’t know if I’m being honest.

  “Do you think that…” I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to voice my thoughts. “Like, if we had more time…”

  “I don’t know, hun,” he answers, going back to his previous position. “I have no fucking idea.”

  ***

  The show ends up not being as terrible as it could be. The venue is packed full and hot, and the fans are loud and engaging. Midway through our set I’ve already forgotten all about their hostility and those pics. But then comes the joint part of the show and they all take their phones out and exchange glances with each other. That makes everyone uneasy. Even though we run through both songs seamlessly, it’s pretty clear it’s two different bands playing together.