Or maybe it was one of the boys. Not Dave, of course, since he’d felt just as awkward about the poster and knew how much I didn’t want my name out there.
Andres? Not a chance since he didn’t like the poster at all. He would never call attention to something that put me with Dave. Max avoided social media like the plague. Graeme? Darren? Maybe even Chris who was convalescing at home and probably wouldn’t know my aversion to media? Could he have shared it innocently, thinking he was helping the band?
It didn’t take long to get to ground zero of my identification. It was buried in the (still trending) #Wiretap tweets.
Hey! I know that girl with Will Davidson. That’s Vanessa Capri! #Rosewood #TimesSquare #Wiretap
Posted by Emmie Somerville, fellow Rosewood student and Dave’s ex. I didn’t know her that well—our planning of the year-end party where the band had played was the only time we’d ever talked. Her roommate, Brooklyn, I knew from the equestrian team, but even she was something of a mystery. Other than her huge crush on our coach—no mystery in that.
Emmie’s tweet didn’t sound mad or mention that she thought we were really together, but still, the cat was let out of the bag with her one message. It had been retweeted over two hundred times already in just a few minutes (she had almost as big a social media reach as Sandy, plus: the trending thing) and I already had a ton of new followers, even though I was barely active online. I really only had accounts to lurk and keep on top of news.
But now I was news.
And what came along with that were a lot of catty messages. Like how I was a desperate groupie, how I wasn’t hot enough to be with an up-and-coming rock star like Will Davidson, grandson of the legend Strutts Dempsey.
Ouch. I knew trolls could get super mean and very personal without thought to the people they were talking about (and no appreciation for even making sure they were saying things that were true) and I shouldn’t let it get to me, but...
Swiping away the sudden tears, I put my phone down, wondering where we were. I wasn’t about to turn the Wi-Fi back on to pinpoint our location on Google, but the gentle swaying of the bus told me we were still on the road. Also, by the fact that it was barely four a.m., we were likely a few hours from Chicago yet.
I wished Sandy was up and thought about texting her, but didn’t want to turn my phone back on. I pulled my privacy curtain open enough to stick my head out, but when I twisted my neck to look at the bunk beside mine, her curtain was closed and there was no light escaping the edges that would tell me she was up watching TV or following social media.
Curses flew around in my head as I fought more tears—I really needed a friend right now, if only just to hug me and reassure me those mean tweets didn’t matter. But I didn’t want to wake Sandy; not only was she a bear when she got woken up, but I didn’t want to interrupt her much-needed rest.
I was about to tuck myself back into my bunk when I noticed the curtain across the aisle from me—Dave’s—was open a little, enough to see the shine of two eyes looking at me.
His hand appeared and he gave a little wave. I waved back, hoping he couldn’t see I was crying. Then he pulled his curtain all the way open and hopped down from his bunk, landing silently on his toes. He was wearing plaid flannel pajama pants and a tight gray t-shirt, his feet bare. He nodded toward the front of the bus, clearly indicating I should join him.
I shook my head, not ready to talk about it with him—especially him, my supposed boyfriend. The one I wasn’t hot enough for.
It was the middle of the night and I was sleepy and upset—I needed a girlfriend to vent to and cry on, not a boy. And if I was going to vent and cry on a boy, it should be Andres, my actual soon-to-be boyfriend. Definitely not Dave.
He crossed his arms and leaned back against the bunks, a move I recognized as his way of not taking no for an answer. God, he was persistent. I almost laughed, thinking how much alike we were sometimes.
I probably could have just closed my curtain and ignored him and he’d have respected that I didn’t want to get into it here and now. But in that second, I thought that maybe it was better to talk about this; just the two of us before it became a thing involving everyone. That would be the mature thing to do. And I guess as tour manager, I needed to be mature. Even when all I wanted to do was yell and stomp my feet at the unfairness at being dragged into the vortex of horribly unfair and bitchy mean girl tweets.
I rolled my eyes and opened my curtain all the way before I kicked my legs out and rolled onto my stomach. As I did, I quickly wiped my face on my sheet, hopefully eradicating all evidence of my tears before climbing down. I still hadn’t completely mastered getting in and out of my bunk gracefully (especially with the bus moving) but at least I didn’t crack my head or fall. Once I was upright and had turned toward him, I followed Dave to the front of the bus where he sat on one of the leather couches and patted the spot beside him.
I had thought to greet Gary, but he was used to driving on tours and was probably in the zone up front in his big captain’s chair. In fact, as I dropped into the spot next to Dave, I heard soft singing drifting toward us from the driver’s seat. I couldn’t help but smile as I recognized the song he was butchering as being one of U2’s. He might love the music Dad produced, but he was an old-schooler at heart.
Dave tapped a finger on my thigh, getting my attention. “Hey.”
“Sorry,” I said, my voice as low as I could make it. I jerked my thumb toward the front of the bus. “Gary’s singing.”
Dave cocked his head and listened. He smiled and then seemed to change gears, taking a deep breath, his chest expanding until his upper arm touched mine, before he said, “So...”
I just nodded. What was there to say, really?
“I guess it’s out,” Dave said. “About the poster, I mean.”
Okay, so there was that to say. I nodded again.
“And people think you and I are dating.”
I looked at him. “Yep. As expected.” Though I hadn’t expected to be identified. Though now that it had happened so quickly, I realized I’d been kidding myself if I actually thought it wouldn’t get out.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It wasn’t your idea for me to be in the picture. Not your fault that someone screwed up and showed our faces. Not you who tweeted it was me. None of this is your fault.”
He didn’t seem reassured. “You probably knew this would happen, huh?”
Maybe not so quickly but of course I did. “Yeah.”
“Your dad shouldn’t have put those posters out.”
I shrugged and looked down at my hands, picking at a hangnail. Too late now. I almost felt bad for my father because he was going to lose it when he woke up to what had happened.
“On the upside,” Dave said, making me look up at him because I so wanted to find an upside. “Once I leave tour, it’ll die down.”
He was probably right, but I cringed as I could almost feel my phone filling up with more mean and vitriolic posts and messages, it wasn’t much consolation at that very moment.
“I’m not that horrible am I?” he was joking, trying to lighten the mood, and I appreciated him for it, but it didn’t work. Not even a little.
I snorted humorlessly. “No,” I said. “You’re not that horrible. But...it makes things complicated. It’s...” I sighed.
“Andy,” he said. And for the first time since we’d started on tour and Dave and I had managed to move forward after he’d caught Andres and I making out at my dad’s beach house, I heard an edge to his voice.
“It’s not that,” I said. Which was only partially a lie. Andres was part of it, but only a small part.
“What is it, then?”
I glanced up at Dave and saw only concern in his eyes and not anger. I couldn’t deal with concern right now—I’d almost rather he was mad. I looked down again and shook my head.
“Hey,” he said, a finger coming to my chin and gently angling my face up toward him. “What’s wr
ong?”
I didn’t want to tell him. But then I thought about everything he’d told me before we were even friends. The stuff about his grandfather that he’d trusted me with. At the time, I’d hoped that talking about it had made him feel better, if only a tiny bit.
Did he have that same hope right now? I’d offered to be his confidant; did he want to be mine? More than that, didn’t I owe him my trust?
I never wanted to talk about my mother and what had happened with anyone. Not even my dad who already knew the story. But then, in that very moment, I realized I did want to talk about it with Dave.
Maybe it was because it was dark and the middle of the night and I was feeling raw and vulnerable already. But I felt safe in that moment, cocooned in the plush leather sofa, Dave sitting so close that parts of his body were touching parts of mine. I knew he would listen and just be there for me. No judgment.
“I...” I blew out a breath and forced the words past my tight throat. “The media had a field day with me and my dad a while back, with...” My breath hitched just then. Damn. I swiped at the sudden tears with my thumb and then felt Dave’s arm slide across my back, pulling me into his chest.
“With your mom?”
I pulled away and looked up into his eyes. “You know?”
He looked a little guilty as he shrugged. “When you first told me about your dad, way back when, I Googled him. Anyway, that stuff came up; it was...big news for a while, right?”
No one knew that better than me. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you knew.” Maybe I was surprised that he had known but had never said anything. Although, really, what was he supposed to say? You don’t bring that kind of thing up in polite conversation.
He pulled me back in again so my face was pressed against his warm chest. His shirt smelled nice and was soft; perfect for snuggling into. A pang of guilt washed over me as I thought that it should be Andres comforting me, but reminded myself that Dave was just being a good friend. If I’d been sitting there with Andres, snuggled into his chest with his arm around me, I knew it wouldn’t be about comfort. At least, not for very long. Maybe it was best that a friend was with me now. That was what I really needed, anyway.
“I wasn’t digging,” Dave said, his voice rumbling under my cheek. “It was just...hard to miss the stories about your mom. Though I’m not sure how much of what I read was true. Hard to tell with the tabloids how much of the story got blown up out of proportion.”
I took a stuttering breath and rolled my face a little, letting his shirt absorb more of my tears before I even realized what I was doing. Then, I (guiltily) told myself he had signed up for it when he’d pulled me in against his chest.
“Probably most of what you read was true,” I said. “Mom hooked up with Dad’s most successful—and youngest—client and then decided to run off with him to the Caribbean in his private jet. Except joke was on her—their plane crashed in the middle of the ocean, killing them both. The crew of the jet, too, which is probably the worst part—they didn’t deserve it.”
It was a long, awkward moment before Dave squeezed me more tightly into him and said, “I’m really sorry, Nessa.”
I shrugged. “I’m fine. It gutted my dad, though. Like, seriously messed him up. He made that kid and then the little jerk stole his wife. The mother of his daughter. I think he was more pissed about that than anything.”
“Well if it’s any consolation, your dad seems okay. Happy, even.”
“He says he’s made peace with it. That’s what a fortune in therapy can do.” I laughed, though it came out more a sob than anything. Then I added, “At least he never had to pay alimony.”
Worst joke ever. The second it was out of my mouth, I was sorry. Now I could add shame to the list of emotions going on inside me at that moment. The only saving grace was that my dad hadn’t been sitting there to hear it.
There was a very long pause before Dave spoke again, his voice even softer than before. “Did you...never mind.”
For some reason his unasked question felt important. I pushed up and looked at him, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. “What?”
“Nothing. None of my business.”
I sniffled and took a deep breath, hoping to ward off hiccups before I said. “Are you kidding? It’s midnight confession time; may as well spit it out. Who knows; I might even answer.”
He exhaled. “Did you ever get any therapy?”
Great. Now he thought I was nuts. Whatever. “A little. But after what she did and the fact that I never got to tell her how pissed I was because she went and got herself killed, I think I have a right to hold onto some anger.”
It sounded bitter and pathetic even to my own ears when I said it out loud like that. Thankfully he didn’t push the therapy thing, especially as I was staring at him, almost challenging him to. But then his eyes widened. “Wait. This is really why you say you don’t like musicians.”
No hiding from that truth. Not now that I was emotionally laid bare on that sofa. I nodded, wrapping my arms around my middle until he pulled me into him again. That totally obliterated the floodgates and I began to sob, like, ugly cry sob, on his shoulder.
“Shhhh,” he said into my ear as he rubbed my back. “It’s okay, Nessa.”
I don’t know how long I stayed there, blubbering on him, but it was long enough that when I finally pulled away there weren’t just a couple of drops but a big, dark, wet splotch on his shirt. I cringed. “Sorry,” I said, my voice pretty much a squeak as I jutted my chin toward his shoulder.
He frowned as he looked down and then shrugged. “It’s just tears. If it was snot, that would be different.”
“It’s totally snot,” I said, my face deadpan. “It’s what you signed up for when you dragged me out of my bunk and made me tell you all my secrets. Jerk.”
He narrowed his eyes and then couldn’t keep it up, his mouth splitting into a grin as he bumped me with his shoulder.
“Thanks, though,” I said, feeling stupid for losing it on him and also surprisingly lighter at the same time.
His smile dissolved as he looked at me intently. “It’s totally fine. That’s a lot to go through. Knowing you, I bet you kept a lot in to be strong for your dad.”
I nodded because he was right. I’d kept it all in. I’d even managed to not cry at the funeral while my dad completely fell apart, practically draping himself over the casket that didn’t even hold her body since they’d never recovered it.
Although maybe my reaction at the service had more to do with the shock and anger overwhelming my grief. I still hadn’t allowed myself to feel grief. Even these many years later.
“I’m still mad at her,” I admitted. “But I don’t think about it a lot.”
Dave’s fingers rose to my face, wiping a stray tear away.
“But yeah,” I went on when he didn’t say anything and the silence became awkward. He seemed focused on watching me and not saying anything—was it a tactic to make me talk? If it was, it worked. “That’s why I hate the media. That’s why I avoid musicians. That’s why I keep my life away from the business.” I snorted, realizing only too late how loud it was. Pitching my voice low, I added, “I mean, I try to. Of course, here I am.”
“Your dad doesn’t avoid it.”
I shrugged. “He loves it too much.”
“It shows. And he’s freaking good at it, too.”
“He makes dreams come true,” I said, my heart aching, but now with pride. Because no matter how much my mother had screwed things up for us, Dad would never let her take that away from him.
Dave cleared his throat and said, “Yes he does.” Then he smiled and in the dim light, I saw the shine of tears in his eyes.
“Oh God,” I said, putting a bracing hand on his chest and pushing back from him. “No. Don’t even. If you start crying, I swear, I will never be able to turn off the waterworks. Stop it right now. Think of something else. Immediately.”
He nodded and let out a quick breath through his nose. Th
en his eyes drifted down to my mouth and he leaned forward just a little and, for one crazy second, I thought—no, I was sure, more sure than I’d ever been about anything—he was going to kiss me.
Chemistry
The air seemed to still around us as I waited those long milliseconds for his lips to touch mine, but then there was a sudden ruckus from the bunks. I gasped as I turned my head to see Sandy’s curtain get yanked open and her head poke out sideways, her long and tangled hair trailing out from her head toward the floor two bunks below. She looked like a very angry caterpillar and I had to fight the urge to laugh.
“What the hell?” she hissed in a half-whisper, half whine. “It’s the middle of the freaking night!”
“Sorry,” I whispered, trying to calm my pounding heart at what had almost just happened. At being caught doing what had almost just happened. “We’re...”
I glanced at Dave. What were we doing, anyway? Besides the last few moments, which I wasn’t about to try to describe.
He looked at me incredulously and then turned back to Sandy and whispered, “Just chatting about the gig, that’s all. Neither of us could sleep.”
“Yeah, well, some of us would like to sleep, so shut the hell up.”
Before we could promise to keep it down, she’d let out an exasperated sigh and yanked her curtain back across her bunk.
I cringed and looked at Dave, feeling like the kid who’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. His expression looked like he felt the same.
Suddenly, we both burst out laughing. I slapped one palm over my mouth and the other over his, because God help us both if she came out again.
I shook my head and sent a telepathic message to Dave: no more laughing. And: she will seriously kill us in our bunks.
Dave nodded and darted his eyes down toward my hand, his normal-length, but somehow still sexy, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks before he then looked up at me. This move was his own telepathic message that said: can you move your hand now?
Going on Tour Page 7