by Luana Ferraz
“Stop!” he lets go of my hands to hold my waist and keep me away. But it’s too late. He’s already on.
“Your mouth says one thing, your body says another,” I tease, running my fingertips up his arms.
“My body says nothing,” he argues, grabbing my hands again and pulling them away from him. “My body can’t talk.”
I dive in, kissing his neck—slowly. He sucks in his breath. It’s glorious.
“Dammit, woman,” he complains, managing to stop me once again.
Without much effort, he turns me around, so I’m sitting in between his legs, my back crushed against his chest. I reach my hands up, squirming around to try to grab his hair, but he locks my hands over my stretched legs.
I sigh, about to complain, but then I have an idea. I sit still, catching my breath, and wait until he rests his chin on my shoulder. I glance at him sideways, making sure he’s looking down at me. Then I start to pull my skirt up with the tip of my fingers. He starts to laugh.
“You’re impossible,” he whispers into my ear, kissing his way down my neck.
I tilt my head to the side, giving him full access. And when I try to turn around to my previous position, he holds me down again.
“You’re impossible,” I complain. He laughs again, giving me a hard peck on the cheek. “Why are you being such a spoil-sport? We could be having fun!”
“Oh, I’m having fun,” he says and I can hear the smirk without even looking at him.
“I’m not,” I complain again. It’s ineffective.
We sit there in silence, catching our breath until the music starts to fill the room. They’ve started soundcheck.
“They won’t hear us now,” I try again.
“Shut up,” he says, with a gentle kiss near my ear.
Then, Pete starts to sing. His voice sounds loud and clear as he goes through The Hacks song.
“Wow, is that Pete?” Tyler asks. I nod. “He sounds great! I didn’t know he could sing.”
“He can, but he doesn’t like it.”
Tyler uses my hands to play an air-guitar as he softly sings in my ear. He covers my mouth with his when I start to laugh too loudly.
Next, Tristan starts to sing my song. His voice is much too sweet for the lyrics, but he’s a great singer, too.
“Tris is a great singer, too,” I say.
“Yeah, he doesn’t really think so,” Tyler answers airily.
I take the opportunity to turn sideways and look at him. He’s frowning, his thoughts distant. He’s thinking about what happened again.
I press my index finger in between his eyebrows until the frown dissolves.
“Better,” I say. He chuckles. And then he watches me.
It’s kind of like the way he was looking at me before I ditched him to go out with Pete. Now, though, since there’s no one to interrupt us, I start to get uneasy.
He reaches one hand up, brushing his fingers down my cheek, running his thumb over my mouth—his eyes following his movements. I get embarrassed. I think he can tell. When his eyes meet mine again, he opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again. I keep staring, getting lost into the deep blue, until he decides to break the silence, after all.
“You're so pretty,” he says softly.
I frown. I remember the first time he mentioned he thought I was pretty and how embarrassed he got. He’s not embarrassed now.
“You are,” he insists.
“Okay,” I roll my eyes.
“Why don’t you like it when I say that?” he asks, still watching me intently.
“Because it’s dumb,” I blurt out. I look away so I don’t see his reaction while I explain it. “Beauty is subjective. What is pretty to one person, can be disgusting to others,” I pause, looking down at my own hands. And, then, because I can’t help myself, I add, “Like your fans.”
I don’t have the guts to look at him. After a few seconds, he hooks his fingers under my chin and gently turns my head around. I close my eyes, stubbornly, but open them again when he takes too long to say or do anything.
“In my subjective opinion,” he says, without any hint of sarcasm, “you are absolutely beautiful.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I could say I think he’s beautiful, too. I do. He is. He knows he is, and that’s the difference between the two of us.
I remove his hand from my face, holding it in mine, and kiss him. If anything, just to break the intensity of his eyes on me. He lets me, and it’s already different than five minutes ago. All the heat and hurry are gone. It’s soft, slow, calm. It’s… familiar.
He rests his forehead against mine when we break apart—another thing that’s becoming familiar. I open my eyes, but his remain closed. I just watch him.
“Becky,” he whispers, making my heart leap inside my chest. That’s the only way he’s ever said my real name—whispering. “Will I ever see you again?”
The question takes me by surprise. I don’t move, though. I don’t want him to open his eyes, I don’t want him looking at me while I hesitate. I think he doesn’t want to look at me while I hesitate. I haven’t thought about this. I mean, I thought about this—whatever it is—ending. But I didn’t think about it not ending. Will he ever see me again?
I hope so.
I do want to see him again. But wanting and doing are two very different things. We lead such crazy lives. The same life choices that made us find each other might be the ones that prevent us to ever meet again. And even if we do meet, it will never be the same. We’ll never be the same people we are now, the same people we were when we met. We will never be able to replicate whatever spell fell over us during this tour. Still… will he ever see me again?
I hope so. I hope so. Oh, God, I hope so.
“I hope so,” I say it out loud.
He smiles, small and shy at first, then bright and wide. He opens his eyes, his forehead still against mine. He’s surprised to see I’m watching him. I smile. And we kiss.
***
“Okay, guys,” I shout in the mic, drying my face with the sleeve of my shirt. “I wanna thank every single one of you for being such a fantastic crowd!” They cheer loudly. “This has been an incredible tour. Thanks for learning the lyrics, for singing your hearts out and for letting us entertain you. I hope to see some of your faces at our next concert,” I point to a few random people and they scream. “But this is not the end yet! You know what’s coming next, don’t you?” I ask and the place explodes.
I sit at the piano and start the intro of She’s Not Mine while The Hacks walk on stage. I look up and kind of stop playing, staring in shock. And then I laugh—they’re all wearing purple wigs, in different lengths and styles. They look ridiculous! It’s so cool! I’ve never been more flattered. We start to play but I can’t concentrate, I can’t stop turning around and looking at them and laughing. Halfway through the song I abandon my position to take selfies with them. I know I won’t have another chance—Todd will never put on the wig again to let me take a stupid photo with him, so I take advantage while I can.
The song ends and I ask them to keep the wigs for our last one. The crowd supports me, so they oblige. I can’t wait to see the videos of this night.
Our second song ends, we take a bow and walk off stage. That’s it. It’s over. Twelve days, eight shows, six cities. We’re done.
Tyler says something about us to the crowd, but I can’t hear it—I’m too busy screaming and hugging Pete.
“We’ve made it!” he shouts in my ear.
“We’ve made it!” I shout back.
Lindsey hugs us, too, and then we all hug Neil when he comes over with a few bottles of beer.
“Congratulations, guys!” He raises his bottle and we cheer. “You’ve been great.”
“Thank you so much for the opportunity, mate! We’ll never forget it.” Pete pats his shoulder.
“Well, it’s not really me you have to thank,” Neil remarks, looking out to the stage.
I follow his
gaze and let my eyes rest on him. I watch as he prances around, jumps, whips his hair, bangs the keys of the piano—he still very much looks like an inflatable tube man, yet I still very much can’t look at anyone else. It’s so weird. How, among millions of similar videos and bands on the Internet, did he find me? How, when being in such separate genres, did this gig work out? How, after years of scaring people away, did I let him in?
Tyler sits on the piano, preparing for one of their slower and cheesier songs. He looks up and when he sees I’m watching, he starts to sing directly to me. I smile. I hate this song. Yet, by now, I know the lyrics by heart, so I start to sing along. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and I get more confident. I sing louder. I start to perform. I use my bottle as a microphone and really go for it, feeling the pain of the mellow chords and depressive lyrics. Then, he starts to laugh. He looks down, at his own hands, never stopping playing, but he’s out of it. He can’t sing it anymore. I ruined it. Victory.
“Nice job,” Pete says from behind me.
“Thanks.” I turn around and we click our glass bottles together.
“So…” he raises his eyebrows slightly, glancing at the stage and then back at me.
“So?” I ask innocently.
“Come on!” he insists, tugging at my sleeve. “Give me something!”
I try my best not to smile, but seeing him show his nosy side again makes me happy. Yeah, yeah, I said it. I’m happy.
“You already know all there is to know,” I roll my eyes.
“The only thing I know is a stupid score,” he complains. “I want details!”
“Gross!” I frown.
“Pleeeaaase!” he chants, making me laugh.
I look around to make sure everyone else is out of earshot. It’s not like I’m going to give him an R-rated report. I still don’t want anyone listening to me talk about Tyler, though.
“He is… like…” I stutter, already feeling my face hot. Pete’s grin encourages me to continue, though. “He’s a lot more gentle than I thought he’d be.”
“In bed?” he asks, making me give him an exasperated look.
“In everything,” I answer. The way he kisses me, the way he touches me, even the way he talks to me. It’s all so… I don’t know… sweet. Sickening, at times. I still like it, though, although I’ll never admit it out loud.
Pete stares at me, waiting for more information, but I suddenly don’t want to give him any. I shrug, making him roll his eyes.
“So, where do you stand now?” he asks. I’m not sure what he means by it.
“I don’t know,” I say, looking back out to the stage.
“I think he likes you,” he says after a while, close to my ear. I can’t help but smile. Because I know he likes me.
That reminds me of a conversation I had with a different Hackley brother. My eyes dart to him, behind his drums, lost in the song, eyes closed, hair wet. I look around again, searching for Lindsey. She’s standing next to Jake and they’re talking—this is my chance.
“Your turn,” I turn to Pete.
“My turn?” he frowns.
“Yes,” I nod. “I want details.”
He keeps frowning, like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I raise my eyebrows, giving him the same suggestive look he gave me.
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“For fuck’s sake!” I say, looking around once again. “I know that you kissed Tristan, okay?”
“Well, I told you,” he argues. I can’t believe him.
“No, you didn’t!”
“I did! Didn’t I?” he pauses, thinking for a second. “Gee… it must have slipped my mind.”
“Was it that bad?” I joke. Now, he’s the one getting flustered.
“How did you find out, then?” he tries to dodge my question.
“He told me,” I say, to his absolute surprise. “Lindsey mentioned it, too.”
He glances at her, then, that deeply sad look back to his eyes. I regret mentioning it. His thing with Tris is not the same as my thing with Tyler. I should have known.
I poke his side—the unbruised one—making him look back at me. He sighs.
“Where do you stand now?” I reciprocate the question.
“I don’t know,” he shrugs, looking at the stage behind me. “I think I like him.”
I bite my tongue not to give him a snarky answer. Because I know he likes him. It’s pretty obvious. But, then…
“And Linds?” I ask. He looks back at me.
“I like her, too,” he says.
“What about love?”
“Here you come with this love stuff again,” he frowns.
“I just want to know!” I argue. Although, now, by his answer, I already do.
“Well, I want to know, too,” he complains. “I’d love to know.”
I sigh. I hate seeing him like this. I wish there was something I could do, for both of them. For the three of them.
“Pete?”
“What now?” he widens his eyes, already irritated.
“I love you,” I say. It melts all his annoyance. He pulls me closer, hugging me tightly.
“I know.”
***
Tyler manages to avoid my teasing gaze for the rest of his concert. But when it ends, after they take their bows and thank the crowd, he runs towards me, holds my face with both hands and kisses me. In front of everyone. It’s salty, and hot, and I get a little grossed out when I touch his wet t-shirt. Still, I kiss him back. I can’t not do it.
“Come on, guys!” I hear Tristan complaining. “Just because we know it’s happening, doesn’t mean we need to watch it.”
“Speak for yourself, I’m quite enjoying it,” Pete says, making us both laugh and break the kiss.
“This is a weird friendship,” Tyler jokes.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet. You better get used to it.” Pete winks at Tyler as he walks past us, and his choice of words doesn’t go unnoticed.
Tyler looks back at me with a funny expression. Then he takes my hand and we follow the others to the dressing room to have a commemorative round of beers and hang out for a few minutes.
Backstage is crowded, more than any other day. There are Hacks fans, some celebrities—both that I have and haven’t seen before —, label people, some members of the press. It’s hard to navigate our way around, but Neil manages to cram us all inside a room. And Tyler’s hand never leaves mine.
“Okay, now that I have you all here,” Neil says over everyone else’s chatter, making us shut up, “I have a few words to say.”
“Speech, speech, speech,” people start to chant, making him roll his eyes.
“I just want to thank you all for what has been an incredible tour. To Jake and Seth, who have worked harder than any of us combined,” he points to them and there’s a round of applause. “To the Hackley boys, it’s always a delight to spend so much time staring at your handsome faces.” Someone wolf-whistles, making me roll my eyes.
“I’m so glad that’s your highlight for us,” Tyler complains jokingly.
“And to Becky and Pete,” Neil continues, ignoring him, “who for some nonsensical reason haven’t yet named their stellar act, you’ve really brought it. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for you in the music business.”
People cheer again, making me uncomfortable.
“Hopefully, a lot of money,” Tristan leans in, whispering in my ear. I laugh.
“Let me take the opportunity to thank you all, too, on behalf of the whole band,” Todd interrupts and I have to make an effort not to roll my eyes.
“Yes, Neil, you’re the real MVP,” Tristan says, making Neil wave a hand in the air.
“I also want to take the opportunity to address you, Becky,” I jump at the sound of my own name coming from Todd’s mouth. “I owe you an apology. I crossed a line yesterday, I shouldn’t have meddled in your personal life like that. It was really inappropriate.”
I just stare, paral
yzed. I can hear people start to murmur, asking themselves what he’s talking about. Why the hell did he choose this moment to apologize? I glance at Neil, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Well, we have to thank you, too,” Pete breaks the awkward silence. “I guess,” he adds, making people laugh. “Thanks to the band for fighting for us,” he says, looking solely at Tyler, “thanks to the label for believing we could pull it off, and thank you, Neil. For everything else.”
There’s a second of heavy silence after that. Neil nods, raising his bottle. Everyone in the room follows suit.
“To unforgettable memories and new friendships!” he toasts and we all drink.
Since it’s our last show, Neil suggests it’s a good idea for us to go out and talk to the fans, take pics and autograph stuff. The Hacks go first, so their psychos can go away and we’ll have just our few lovely fans to meet afterwards.
Neil makes us wait a few minutes after the Hackley boys and their fans leave before we go. I think he’s aware there’s a part of their fandom that already hates me with a passion, so he wants to make sure they’re not the ones to greet us when we step outside.
As expected, the group waiting for us is small and lovely. We start to go around, chatting easily and taking photos. And then someone catches my attention.
“Hey, just Becky,” he says, a large grin on his face.
My heart beats faster. I can barely conceal my astonishment to see him here—it’s really him. Patrick. The nurse. He reaches out a hand to greet me and smiles and—oh, Gosh—I had forgotten how handsome he is. He’s even more handsome without his scrubs and in his everyday clothes.
“You’re here,” I say dumbly.
“I am,” he chuckles. “I told you I’d come.”
He did. I didn’t think he would, though. I thought it was just a pointless flirt. Well, to me, it was pointless. I’m not sure what it was for him.
We stare at each other in silence for a while until Pete catches up with us and Patrick introduces himself. They start to chat, as Pete asks him how do we know each other and Patrick explains how we met. I can feel Pete’s change of stance upon the knowledge that this is the nurse. The cute nurse I told him all about on the phone. Oh, God.