by Avon Gale
“Well, you said you were gonna audition for Juilliard and you did.” At Sawyer’s surprised glance, Vix shrugged. “I remember now. You were sad because some orchestra girls were making fun of you, and I gave you a cigarette that you totally wasted by pretending to smoke. Talk about pretentious.”
“That’s not pretentious, that’s high school,” Sawyer said pertly.
“Well, speaking of playing my own music, I am having a bitch of a time coming up with music for this song.” Vix stomped out her cigarette again and flipped the pad open to show Sawyer. “I’ve actually been working on some version of it since high school, funnily enough. No melody I ever come up with sounds quite right.”
Sawyer looked down at the lyrics, but they were hard to read in Vix’s scrawl—the ink was smeared on the page and some of the words were scratched out. “You’ll find it when it’s right.”
“Now who’s being pretentious?” Vix teased, closing the notebook and sticking it back in her jeans. She hooked her arm through Sawyer’s. “Let’s go take that to the van and find a place to get some food. I’m starving, and that menu at MilkBoy . . . you want to talk about pretentious, find the guy who wrote that.”
Sawyer let Vix lead her toward the van. Behind them, smoke lingered in the alley.
“Hey, Victoria, you remember me? We met in San Antonio two years ago. You opened for Swallowtail at the Fillmore,” the guy, who introduced himself as Brad, slurred, sliding over closer to Vix. He smelled unpleasantly of sweat and beer, his eyes blurry and glittering in that way that meant he was a few drinks too many over buzzed. He was cute, she supposed, or would be if he weren’t drunk and thinking he was coming across as hot and confident. She knew the type.
There were two kinds of guys who hit on her after a show. The first were the dudes who acted overconfident to impress her, which never worked. The second were eager and earnest, telling her how they “respected her as a musician” and “wondered how she could write music so profound when she was so young.” Neither approach worked to get her into bed, or at least, they hadn’t for a long time. She tended to fuck other musicians, simply because they knew what was up. And sleeping with fans was generally a bad idea. Oh, men could get away with it without a fraction of the judgmental bullshit a woman would suffer. Vix knew all about double standards.
Vix met a lot of people on tour, and while sometimes she remembered faces, she didn’t often remember anything else. This guy, though—he wasn’t familiar, exactly, but she remembered that tour with Swallowtail. She’d spent the night with the lead singer, Temple Keats, and they’d had a threesome with . . . ugh. This guy? Really? Man, that was not a high point in her hookup career. She peered at Brad and wondered if maybe he’d been cuter two years ago. She hoped so.
“Right, Swallowtail show. They’re a great band.” She lifted her drink. She usually liked meeting her fans after a show at the bar, but tonight she was tired. Tired, and acutely aware of Sawyer next to her. Pretty Sawyer, who managed to look lovely and perky in the dingy lighting of the crowded basement bar.
Their venue was a small place in Charlottesville, Virginia, called The Southern. They’d been the headliners, which was always great, and the three hundred–capacity venue had nearly been full. It helped that it was a Saturday night. Vix took a sip of her vodka cranberry and glanced over at Sawyer. Sawyer always wore her hair down during shows, and Vix had no idea how it managed to look so glossy and shiny and never frizz like her own. She grinned at Vix, a little smile that seemed to imply shared secrets, and Vix tuned out the bar, Brad, and the admittedly pleasant memory of Temple Keats.
“I remember the after-party more than the show,” Brad said, leaning closer. Vix inadvertently leaned away, into Sawyer. Sawyer’s skin was warm against her own, and she could smell Sawyer’s hair—which also always smelled good, because Sawyer was magic, apparently. Vix kept her drink up as a barrier between herself and her intrepid suitor, who was not reading a single clue in her body language that said, Go away.
This might be one of those times when she was going to have to lay it out there and say, I’m not going to sleep with you.
“You think maybe you’re up for another round?” Brad continued, giving Vix what she assumed was supposed to be a seductive smile. It made him look like a drunk frat boy, which was the last thing Vix found sexy. Before she could say anything, he gestured over at Sawyer. “Your fiddle player can come play my fiddle if she wants.”
“What an attractive and generous offer,” Vix murmured, sipping her vodka. She doubted Brad heard her. She glanced over at Sawyer with a raised brow.
“This fiddle player politely declines,” Sawyer said in a low voice. She didn’t look particularly freaked out or bothered, just uninterested. The way she always looked around men who were hitting on her, Vix had noticed. She didn’t think Sawyer was naïve enough not to get what was going on, but she never looked interested.
“I think we’re good.” Vix subtly shifted her weight closer to Sawyer. She certainly smelled better than Brad, and she’d been nursing that same beer for about twenty minutes now. Sawyer wasn’t much of a drinker. “But thanks.” The guy was a fan. Or, wait, was he? Maybe he was only here because of that ill-advised threesome.
“Aw, come on, Victoria,” he said, not taking the hint. Also, no one called her by her first name. He winked. “It was fun, yeah?”
I seem to remember you came in about four seconds when Temple and I were kissing and kept saying “I can’t believe this is happening,” but sure. Fun. “Life’s full of adventures,” she said. “Just not tonight.” That was good. Maybe she should put that in a song. Her fingers itched to pull out her notebook, but it was in the greenroom. The one place she didn’t bring it was on stage, too worried she’d lose it.
“I get it,” said Brad, with a knowing look between her and Sawyer. “Hey, she’s hot. I wouldn’t be into the D, either.”
Sawyer huffed indignantly next to her. “Did he actually say that?”
Yes, yes he had. Vix considered throwing her drink in his face, but it was a good vodka-cran. “Probably time for you to go,” she told Brad. “Thanks for coming out.” With that, she turned so her back was to him and she was facing Sawyer.
She rolled her eyes. Sawyer smiled.
Behind her, she heard Brad mutter “Slut,” and wondered if she was going to have to call security.
“I wasn’t a slut when he was getting off watching me go down on Temple Keats,” she murmured into her raised drink. “But whatever.” She waited a few seconds, then asked Sawyer, “Is he gone?”
Sawyer was staring at her, wide-eyed, a strange look on her face. “Um,” she said. “What?”
“Our would-be D,” Vix clarified, amused. “Is he gone?”
“Oh, he— Yeah. He’s gone.” Sawyer was still staring at her.
“What?” Vix put her drink down and swirled her straw around the slowly melting ice. It was hot down here; shouldn’t a basement be cooler than this? Despite most of the crowd having dispersed for the larger bar upstairs, it still felt crowded. Though less so, now that Brad had fucked off. She relaxed. “You’re judging me for my bad taste, aren’t you? I know. I can’t defend myself, other than show you a picture of Temple Keats from Swallowtail so you can see why it was totally worth it.” She grinned and pulled out her cell phone.
“You . . . with women?”
Surprised, Vix looked up at her. She’d never made a secret she was bisexual, and in fact, had a bisexual pride flag tattooed on her arm. “Yeah, I’m bi. Did you not know that?”
“I don’t— No,” Sawyer mumbled, ducking her head so her face was covered by her hair. She did that a lot. “I must have missed that.”
Vix reached out and smoothed Sawyer’s hair back so she could see Sawyer’s profile. She put her phone on the bar, suddenly uninterested in finding a picture of Temple Keats. “Are we cool?”
It had never occurred to Vix that Sawyer might have a problem with her being bi. The idea was more upsetting than
Brad’s ill-executed seduction technique or his throwing slut at her as an insult.
Sawyer nodded, but she wasn’t looking at Vix. “Sure.”
“Hey.” Vix realized she was still holding Sawyer’s hair and felt a little ridiculous. “Can you look at me, though?”
Sawyer did. She was blushing. Vix let go of her hair. “Have you never met a real, live bisexual in the wild or something?” She kept her tone light. She would not let this be a problem. Of all the things Sawyer might have had a problem with on tour, Vix would have called the truck stop showers before Vix’s bisexuality.
“I’m a lesbian,” Sawyer blurted. “I mean. I think I am.”
Vix had not expected that, but her internal reaction of yessss was probably not appropriate given the second part of that sentence. “You think you are?”
Sawyer nodded. “I had a boyfriend at Juilliard but that . . . that wasn’t really . . . It didn’t work out. And I think it’s because I like women. But I haven’t ever . . . It’s a working theory, at the moment.”
“‘A working theory.’” Vix smiled. That was cute, but she didn’t want to make light of what was clearly an issue Sawyer was working through. “It’s cool, obviously. Hey, our last fiddle player was gay, I’m bi, and Connor’s ace, so we’re a queer-friendly band, here.” She reached out and put a hand on Sawyer’s arm. It was trembling. “Do you want to get out of here? It’s loud and I’m not sure Brad won’t think a few beers will change our mind . . . especially if he somehow found out you like girls. Men like him seem to think that’s the only reason we exist.”
Sawyer nodded, and Vix tossed back the rest of her drink and pocketed her phone again. Sawyer left her beer mostly unfinished and pushed away from the bar. They moved through the crowds and up the stairs, emerging into the sticky, humid Virginia summer night. The Southern was in a busy downtown area, full of well-lit streets and restaurants that were still open despite the hour.
“Did you want to talk about it?” Vix asked, at length, as they fell into a comfortable pace. Sawyer was a lot taller than Vix and had slowed her pace so Vix wasn’t out of breath and trying to keep up. She lit a cigarette. “We don’t have to. I thought maybe you’d want to.”
“I do, but I don’t know what to say.” Sawyer pulled her hair back and secured it with a ponytail holder from around her wrist. She made the “sloppy ponytail” look like a hairstyle on Pinterest. “How long have you known you were bi?”
“Since tenth grade. I came home and informed my parents.” Vix shook her head, taking a drag of her cigarette. “They thought it was a phase. I think they still do. When they met Jeff, they were like, ‘Oh, what happened to being a lesbian?’ and I told them I was still bi, but they thought I was saying it to be edgy. A lot of people think that, actually.” Vix glanced over at Sawyer. “I’m not trying to be edgy. That’s what the purple hair and the tattoos are for.”
Sawyer smiled briefly. She was wearing one of her summer dresses and cowboy boots, jingly bracelets on her arms, shoulders bare and skin faintly dewy with sweat. Vix was in a washed-out lace tank top and jeans with biker boots, her faded purple hair a mess as always. It did not look like a Pinterest hairstyle. Unless it was a “before” picture.
She wondered if she should tell Sawyer she’d suspected about the lesbian thing. Probably not. Also, it hadn’t been so much suspected as hoped.
“I met Patrick at school. He plays the viola, and he’s a year ahead of me.” Sawyer shook her head, her ponytail bouncing pertly. “Anyway, I’d never really dated anyone, and I thought I should probably try. He was nice, we got along well, and since we didn’t play the same instrument, there wasn’t a lot of competition or any of that.”
Vix did not think she would have done well at a place like Juilliard. She couldn’t handle choir in the fifth grade, which was the last time she’d tried to sing with other people that weren’t her band. She’d gotten in trouble for singing too loud, and after her response of “but the other girls aren’t very good,” they’d decided she wasn’t choir material.
“He was my first for everything. I’d kissed a guy when I was fifteen, but that was about it.” Sawyer made a face. “Sex with Patrick was about as exciting as that first kiss, which I remember being wet and kind of gross.”
“That’s how I remember Brad,” Vix joked, and they exchanged a fist bump beneath the streetlight as they waited to cross the street. “So you didn’t think maybe you were into girls at all?”
“Actually . . .” Sawyer glanced at her. “I think I got an idea the day I, uh. Met you.”
Vix threw her arms up in the air. “Turning girls to the dark side since the early aughts.”
Sawyer made a strangled noise, part laugh and part shhh, and punched Vix lightly on the shoulder. “I mean, obviously, I’d felt . . . that way . . . about girls before, I just didn’t realize it.”
Vix nodded. “I know that story. I thought everyone felt the same way I did about their female friends until I realized, no, that wasn’t true. And, honestly, I didn’t have that many friends. My brother was the outgoing one, not me. But yeah, that makes sense, and hey, I’m still gonna be flattered.”
They crossed the street and then headed back the way they’d come, examining the businesses they passed. There were the same variety of restaurants and bars on this side, a few closed boutiques and one open tattoo shop.
“So you and Patrick from Juilliard called it quits?”
Sawyer sighed. “Yeah. He was cheating on me, actually. With a cellist.”
“So he was—”
“Stringing me along?” Sawyer laughed at Vix’s put-out expression. “You’re late to that party, Vix.”
Sawyer’s understated sense of humor was one thing Vix liked about her. The way her bare legs looked in those boots was another. “That’s me, forever late. It’s why my hair’s always a mess.”
“I think that’s because you never brush it.” Sawyer smiled at her. “I can’t believe you’re making jokes about my heartache.”
“Didn’t you say he was lousy in bed?”
“No, but he was.” Sawyer winced. “Maybe that’s not fair. I think we weren’t on the same page.”
“Or you were, and you both wanted a girl,” Vix added. She sobered, not wanting Sawyer to think she wasn’t taking this seriously. “Hey, I’m not making fun of you. I know how confusing this can be, that’s all.”
“I know. I didn’t think you were.” Sawyer paused. “Or no, I did, but you weren’t making fun of me to be mean.”
“I’m around guys most of the time,” Vix agreed. “Teasing is a sign of affection.”
“You dated Jeff, right? And y’all are still friends?”
Apparently it was Vix’s time to tell stories. “Yeah. We met in high school, and he was my first too. He was this cool, older guy who liked to jam with me, and I was really into him. Also my parents hated him, so that was a bonus.”
“You don’t get along with your family?”
Vix caught sight of their reflections in the window of a closed chocolate shop. Sawyer looking tall and gorgeous, her looking like a short, hot mess. “I don’t not get along with them, which really played havoc with my teenage rebellion phase. They didn’t take me seriously. About anything, not only the bisexual thing. Eventually, they gave in about Jeff.” She rolled her eyes. “They made it hard to rebel, which I’m sure was on purpose. I love them, you know, but I don’t go home much, and when I do, I stay at Jeff’s. My parents don’t seem to know what to do with me, so.” She shrugged. “They might still think Jeff and I are together, for all I know.”
“How come you’re not? If you don’t mind telling me,” Sawyer added quickly. She cast a wistful glance at a closed ice cream shop. “I wish that place was open.”
“Maybe we can find someplace with desserts,” Vix suggested. “If not, we could swing by McDonald’s for a shake.”
“So not the same and you know it.”
It wasn’t, and she did. “Jeff and I are really good f
riends. Touring together was great, but the relationship part . . . I don’t know. It seemed like too much, I guess. I was young, right out of high school, and trust me, the places we started out playing? I dreamed about venues like The Southern. It was a lot of stress, and besides, we hardly had any privacy.” Vix smiled, remembering those days of hurried handjobs in the van, the time she’d sucked Jeff off while he was driving. They’d almost run into a semi, and that was the last time she’d done that.
“You guys are still friends, though.”
“Oh, sure,” Vix agreed. “He was someone who got me. I told him about the bisexual thing, and he was fine with it. Of course, he was fine with me ‘experimenting.’” She shook her head. “Like I said, guys seem to think bisexual women exist so they can watch them with other girls and then fuck them after.”
“The male gaze,” Sawyer said wisely, nodding. “I had a friend at Juilliard who was into reading women’s studies books . . . what are you doing?”
Vix had stopped and pulled out her phone. “Sorry, I like ‘The Male Gaze’ as a song title.”
“Oh.” Sawyer didn’t say anything else, letting Vix type the message to herself, send it, and pocket her phone again.
“So, yeah, that’s basically it. We were fighting all the time, and it was causing a lot of stress and tension with the rest of the band. One day I realized that I could have a relationship with Jeff or I could have my band, and it wasn’t hard to pick one. We broke up ‘officially’”—she made air quotes—“when we were going to record our first actual album. Things were weird at first, and I can’t say we didn’t give each other the silent treatment and act like children about it, but we had a heart-to-heart one night and got over it.” She smiled. “Since then, things have been great. We’re lucky, though. That kind of thing can seriously ruin a band. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times in this industry, and I haven’t been in that long. Comparatively.”
“Well, I think it’s great you guys can still be friends,” Sawyer said. “I sort of want to hit Patrick over the head with his viola. Like, he couldn’t have told me he was into Olive the cellist and broken up with me? Ugh.”