by Rae Kennedy
Colin is sitting there, his black notebook open on the table in front of him. His eyes are closed holding a black pen between his teeth. I should go back to my bunk so I don’t disturb him, but his eyes shoot open just as I start to shuffle backward.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Come sit.” His eyes on me are more intense than normal. I can almost see the storm swirling in them as he comes back from wherever he was just a moment ago, lost in his head.
I take small steps to the table and sit across from him.
“Are you writing?”
“Yeah. Well, trying.”
I hold up the crossword puzzles. “I’ll just be here working on this puzzle I started three days ago, silently berating myself for still not knowing the answer to four down. I’ll try not to distract you.”
“Don’t think that’s possible,” he says, gazing at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking but he's biting the inside of his cheek. “I'm glad you’re here, actually. This is the song I’ve been working on that I wanted your help with.”
“Really?” I hadn’t been sure he was serious about that.
“Yeah. I mean, if you want to. Rick says the label will want a ballad for the album. That’s not the sort of thing I usually write.”
“Um, sure, I’ll look at it. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Sell yourself short. You’ve got a lot to offer. Own it.”
He slides the black book across the table to me.
About half of a page is written in his neat black lettering, some lines crossed out and rewritten. The rest of the spread is blank, pristine, waiting.
I drowned the truth in her lies and ignored all the signs
And with each goodbye I took more of the blame
So she found it easier and easier to just slip away
I notice Colin across from me, fidgeting with his hands on the table and rubbing his face.
“Do you want something to drink? I’m going to get something to drink.” Colin gets up and opens the little fridge in the kitchen area.
“Sure.”
“Water or juice? I assume you don’t want a beer.”
“Juice is good.” I give him a small smile.
He sets a bottle of orange juice for me and a water for him on the table. Then, instead of sitting where he was before, he slides in next to me and the cushion lets out a little sigh.
“Is this about your last girlfriend?” I hate the idea.
“Sort of. It’s actually kind of about my last three relationships.” He leans closer. “I want it to be about broken trust and betrayal. But I also want it to be about moving forward and being vulnerable to love again.” He looks away. “I don’t know. I need help with that part.”
“I think it’s great. I’m in.”
He looks at me and his eyes look like they’re smiling—even if his pouty lips haven’t moved.
“I have a basic idea for the melody, something like this—” He taps out a short beat pattern with his finger on the table and then hums a mixture of rising and falling notes, short then drawn out. Beautiful. Being this close to him, I can almost feel the vibrations in his chest and it gives me goosebumps.
“Morning. Or whatever the fuck time it is.” Dean walks out in a torn T-shirt and sweatpants, rubbing his eyes.
Logan follows, yawning and scratching his side, his shirt pulled up just enough to reveal tanned skin and a spattering of dark hair just below his belly button.
They come to sit across from us just as Colin closes his notebook and opens my book of crossword puzzles to the last one—my nemesis.
He slides closer to me, his arm going around my shoulder. Play along, Gracie. But don’t be weird! I lean back against him, my shoulder into his chest, and try to relax in the feel of his warm body against mine. He welcomes the contact, immediately molding around me. He wraps both arms across my front and presses the lightest of kisses to my shoulder before resting his chin there. His warm breath is at my cheek, the stubble on his jaw lightly tickling my neck.
I take a sip of orange juice in hopes it will calm the flush I feel all over.
“Slinky,” Colin says.
“What?”
“That’s the answer to four down. Slinky.”
* * *
The key card doesn’t shake in his tattooed fingers, nor does he fumble with the door handle. He’s not nervous about it at all, so why should I be?
Colin opens the door to our hotel room—our, as in his and mine, together, sharing—carrying his duffle bag on one shoulder and rolling my suitcase behind him.
The curtains are pulled away from the large picture window, afternoon sunlight filling the room. The curtains are a pretty cerulean blue along with the throw pillows on the beds, but everything else is white or cream or beige. In the corner is a little countertop area with a sink, small fridge, and coffee station, which is good because we’re going to be staying here for a week. Yep. Colin and I are sharing a room for seven days. He made sure to get a room with two queens and obviously, I’m cool with it. I’m cool with all of it. Obviously.
“I’m going to go take a shower and then we’ve got some stuff to do before the show tonight. Do you need in the bathroom first?” Colin asks as he sets our bags down between the two beds.
“No, go ahead.”
He reaches over his head and pulls the back of his shirt, removing it in one fluid motion so he’s all thick arms and flexing abs and smooth skin covered in ink. If I took my shirt off that way I’d end up twisting my arms like a pretzel around my head and be trapped.
I don’t know why I’m staring—he ends up shirtless by the end of every concert, it’s not like I’m newly acquainted with a shirtless Colin. But this time feels different—he’s not on stage in front of a crowd of fans and he has to know I’m watching. An audience of one.
He walks away from me toward the bathroom. He has tattoos up around his shoulders and neck, but most of his back is clear, smooth skin and long, sinewy lines that lead down to two dimples just above his waistband.
I turn on the television so it doesn’t look like I’ve noticed he’s left the bathroom door open a few inches. But l totally notice. The water is running and he leans over the sink to shave before getting in the shower. No big deal. He’s literally naked on the other side of the wall, but I’m fine. Totally cool.
He sings in the shower.
It takes me a minute to realize he’s singing the words to “Time After Time”. Our song. Can fake relationships have songs? Well, ours does. And he’s singing our song. While he’s naked in the next room.
He comes out of the bathroom in just black boxer briefs, drying his hair off with a fluffy white towel, water droplets still glistening on his chest.
Okay. Maybe I’m not cool. I’m not cool at all. In fact, my skin might as well be on fire, and how am I going to handle this for the next seven days, let alone the rest of the summer?
I avert my eyes and end up fixating on a little dent in the wall next to the dresser to avoid watching him while he dresses. I try to think about anything else. My mind wanders to last night, and the conversation I overheard between him and Logan.
“I was thinking that maybe we could tell the guys about us, so that we only have to lie to Jace and the Donkey Lips guys.”
“I thought about that—”
I hear the rustle of jeans, but I still don’t look at him.
“—and we can tell them if you want, but in my experience, the fewer people who know about a secret, the better. If we tell one of the twins, the other will basically know immediately. I don’t know how it works, it’s like osmosis. And Joey, well, he can’t keep a secret to save his life. Get a drop of alcohol in him and he’ll tell anybody anything.”
“Oh. All right. It’s just that I’m a terrible liar and I hate keeping things from people.” Funny, I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.
&nbs
p; “That’s a good quality to have.” He comes to stand in front of me. “It’s best to keep any lie as close to the truth as possible and keep it simple. That way you don’t have to stress about who you’ve told what or how to act in different situations. So”—he dips his head down to make eye contact with me—“let’s just keep it simple. When we’re in this room, we’re just you and me. And when we’re out there, we’re us.”
“Okay.” Us. Simple. Right.
He leans in closer and his knuckles press into the mattress on either side of my knees. “But if you want to end this, just tell me. I’ll give you the most amicable break-up ever.”
I give him a small smile.
“You want to come to the pre-show stuff with us? It probably won’t be that exciting but it’ll be better than staying here alone, unless you wanted to rest or something.”
“Um, sure.” I look down at my old jeans and varsity cheer tank top. “Should I change?”
He stands and steps toward the door, holding his hand out in invitation. “You look perfect to me.”
* * *
Colin is doing this thing where he holds my hand everywhere, and whenever we have to separate, he kisses my cheek and gives my hand a little squeeze. He does it when they have to go in for a radio interview, before their meeting with the stage manager, before mic check, and before he gets ready to go on stage.
The venue is tiny. The crowd is packed tight and extra wild tonight and Colin’s performance is even more intense than usual. The music feeding off the frenzy of the crowd, the crowd devouring of the energy of the music. He loses his shirt early, throwing it into the audience who screams in return. At one point he turns to me, our eyes locking as he sings the lyrics. I can see the words etched in black, slanted letters in his notebook:
My little monster wants to come out and play
but I have to keep him at bay
at bay
at bay
at bay
His eyes are ravenous. He bites his lip before turning back to the crowd.
After the show, I hang back by security as the guys are rushed by fans. They sign shirts and hats and arms while making small talk and thanking them for coming to the show, it’s like whack-a-mole. One fan retreats and two more pop up.
Jace is kneeling on the ground in front of a girl with her skirt flipped up revealing a neon pink thong as he signs her right butt cheek.
No one bats an eye at this. I look over at Colin—he’s still half naked having literally lost his shirt during the performance—holding up his fat black marker just as a woman pulls down the front of her shirt to reveal a breast to him. Nipple and everything.
He glances over his shoulder to me and I quickly turn away. I don’t want to play the role of jealous girlfriend. I can’t be jealous. I’m literally not his girlfriend. But I look back when I hear him tell her to cover up. He autographs near her collarbone while she pouts.
* * *
“Sorry about that,” he says when we get back to our room.
He fishes through his bag to find a shirt so we can meet up with everyone for dinner.
“It’s fine. We’re not actually dating. I’m not jealous or anything.”
“I didn’t say you were. But outside this room, we’re together, remember? Out there, I’m going to treat you like I would a girlfriend.”
He puts on a dark gray shirt and I watch it cascade over his chest and abs as he comes to me.
“If we were really together, would you care if I was looking at anther chick’s tit after a show?”
I don’t know how to answer. I look up at him, worrying the inside of my lip, and he comes closer still.
“It’s not a trick question, Gray. If I was your boyfriend, would that bother you?” The tips of his fingers brush gently along my arm to my elbow.
“Yes.”
“There you go. That’s why I wouldn’t do it.” His fingertips trail softly down to my hand, slipping between my fingers. He squeezes my hand as they interlock. “Ready to go?”
* * *
The next several days are pretty low key. We sleep in late and then go to the recording studio. The recording studio is fine—it’s basically a tan room with no windows and I end up sitting in a spinning chair for several hours with my knees tucked up, twirling in the corner.
I manage to get Logan alone when we both go to the vending machine in the hallway outside the tiny room on hour four of day two of recording. I awkwardly try to ask him if we’re still cool and explain the Colin thing happened really fast and out of nowhere.
Keep the lie as close to the truth as possible, right?
He insists that we are totally fine, our friendship not in danger. He offers me one of his peanut butter cups and I just want to hug him. Then he steals half my Skittles. So, yeah. We’re fine.
Colin is laser-focused on the music. Every tweak or suggestion gets another take. And each time he sings with the same amount of emotion, the same power in his voice. I can tell he’s exhausted every night when we leave the studio. But once the music business stuff is over, he puts all of his focus on me.
It’s weird.
It’s wonderful.
He’s almost always right by my side. Always touching me. Usually, it’s holding my hand or an arm around my waist. The quickest of pecks to my cheek. My favorite is when we’re sitting next to each other at dinner and he runs his hand up and down my arm. Touching me in the softest, most innocent ways seems like second nature to him.
I, however, am still awkward as fuck about it. When we sit together and his arm is wrapped around me, I try the hand on the leg thing again. But this time I make sure my hand is as low as it will go—like, basically his knee—and it’s working. Sort of. It’s a work in progress.
All the other guys go out partying at night, but Colin and I go back to the room, where absolutely no touching occurs. He hums while he brushes his teeth and sings in the shower and sleeps in only tight boxer briefs.
On the last day of recording, I’m in my usual spot in the back corner, not paying much attention. The guys are all standing in a circle with the two sound guys that work here and apparently Rick, their manager, is on speakerphone.
“Rick, we don’t want to do it that way.”
Colin is bent over the table, his brow creased and shaking his head. The voice on the other end of the phone is hard for me to make out, but whatever he’s saying makes Colin clench his jaw and start rubbing the back of his neck. Everything about his posture is hard, tense. I think of how soft his finger strokes are against my skin and I want nothing more than to walk up to him and wrap my arms around him. Hold him against me, comfort him and feel his body relax against mine.
I mean, a girlfriend would totally do that. But I’m not his girlfriend. He probably won’t want me to interrupt. He’s working and I’ll just be in the way.
But for some reason I’m getting up from my chair. And my feet are moving toward him. I come up behind him and extend my hand to touch his back but hesitate. What if he tells me to go back to my seat? What if—
Without even turning around, as if he senses me, he reaches back for me. Welcoming me. Wanting me.
I place my hand on his back as I close the space between us. I wrap myself around him and he holds me tight against his chest. He lets out a long exhale, and I can feel the tension in his muscles ease as I rub lightly up his back.
He kisses the top of my head and whispers into my hair, “Thank you.”
* * *
The mirror is still half fogged up from my hot shower as I braid my wet hair. All of the guys are waiting on us. Colin is waiting outside the door for me. It’s our last night before going back on the road and Logan convinced us to go out tonight. They’ve gone to this bar the last couple of nights and he assures me I won’t get carded if I walk in with them.
My fingers don’t seem to be working right and my thick hair is not cooperating. The longer these two damn braids take the more nervous I get. I don’t know why I'm so nervous.
Maybe it’s because I sent off all of my jeans to the hotel’s laundry service and all I have to wear tonight are skirts or that teeny black dress Kyla packed for me.
I put on the high-waisted denim skirt and a floral crop top. It’s probably my longest skirt but it still only comes to mid-thigh. It’s fine—my cheer skirt was way shorter than this and I walked around with all the confidence in the world. I was the shit. But my legs aren’t as toned as when I was cheerleading every day either.
Knock it off. You are the shit. The. Shit. Own it.
Colin stands from his perch at the end of the bed when I step out. He looks tall standing there in his dark jeans. His black V-neck shirt dips low enough to show off the fierce eagle tattoo on his chest.
He touches one of my braids, sliding down to the end and twisting my hair in his fingers.
“These are cute,” he says and he almost sounds mischievous.
“Thanks.”
It seems like he holds on tighter to my hand as we walk through the bar to our table in the back. It’s a huge round table, half surrounded by a shiny mahogany-colored booth. The other half has extra chairs pulled around it to fit our whole party. Colin and I are snug together in the middle of the booth and everyone just barely fits. But after rounds of various appetizers, entrees, beer and cocktails later, the guys have accumulated more guests.
Jace comes back from the bathroom with a girl on his arm. Logan invites a couple girls from the bar to come sit with us, and even Joey—emboldened from several Jack and Cokes—is chatting up a girl near the hostess stand.
When he comes back with her and there’s literally no room to even pull up a stool, Colin grabs me by the hips and lifts me onto his lap to make space.
It’s fine.
Just sitting on Colin’s freaking lap.
I instinctively grip his thighs to steady myself. They’re firm and strong in my grasp and I try not to squeeze them. I just sip my mojito. No big deal.
He rests his head on my shoulder, his hands lightly on my hips.
I’m going to need another drink for this.
Logan ends up buying several bottles as the night goes on. He regales us with many stories. The girls from the bar are enthralled. I’ve heard most of them before. Joey has turned bright orange and giggly—sure signs he needs to call it a night soon.