Chapter Nine
Nine
It doesn’t dawn on me until I curl up in the front lounge next to Indy and crack open the only book I brought on the road— And Then There Were None —that it may be too late.
I’m only three pages into the book, but I’ve looked back at Halloran’s suite door six times and counting.
On the seventh, Wren says from the lounger, “You’re gonna give yourself whiplash… What’re you looking for back there?”
I mumble something about my bunk curtain and am lucky Wren doesn’t seem to care much either way.
You do not want him, I tell myself. And it’s true—I’m just curious to see the rest of the band through Halloran’s eyes.
What does he think of the way Molly ignores Pete all day, but after one drink snuggles up to him like she’s not the kind of girl to wear spider rings on both hands?
Does he actually dislike Grayson or did I imagine that tension between them?
Does he find Indy as adorable as I do? And if so…
does that irk me as much as I think it does?
Shut it down, inner-me yells. This is dangerous territory.
This isn’t a single dad who hits on me at the Happy Tortilla.
This is the height of unattainable: Rock.
Star. He has his pick of women. My flat chest and bug eyes are not doing it for him.
Plus, two a.m. hallway heart-to-hearts aside, I hardly know the guy.
This entire thing is fabricated by my hormones and his sinful height and mouthwatering voice.
Still, I’ve dog-eared every page in my book just to do something with my hands. Might not be a good sign.
I’m in my bunk watching compilations of the best Tony acceptance speeches when I hear Conor and Halloran laughing through the thin walls of his suite.
I press my ear up to the wall—an act that barely requires me to move because I’m essentially in a coffin—and strain to hear what’s so funny.
I’m ravenously curious. I want to crawl inside his head and take a look at the machinery.
What’s worthy of that big laugh? What makes him feel depleted?
How much space is occupied by soil and sunlight and trees and bogs? I just want to know everything.
I’ve never had a thought like that before. Not a good sign at all.
—
A few days later I wake past noon in a Charleston, West Virginia, hotel room with “If Not for My Baby” playing in my head.
It’s a recent development I’ve attempted to make peace with, like when you binge-read a mystery and dream of the suspects.
Molly’s bed is empty, which is no surprise.
At this point they should just get her and Pete a room of their own and let Indy and me stay together.
Through the window I watch birds soar over the river that runs through the capital. They flit amid golden sunlight and rows of poplar trees. Though I’ve heard enough road songs to know the negative connotation of another day, another city , that part of tour life happens to suit me just fine.
I shower quickly, pack up, and scarf down some minibar lunch (okay, fine, some M there’s plenty worth bein’ moved by.”
Before I can respond, the bus lurches to a stop and not a minute later the doors crank open, allowing Jen and Lionel to pop inside.
“Okay, team,” Jen says, eyes on her phone.
“Night’s free, but, Tom, we have an early morning.
The Morning Show with Joe Jennings is filmed live at seven, so the car will be at the hotel to pick you up at five.
Indy and Lionel, be ready then, too, please.
Tom, he’ll interview you in front of the studio audience, and then you’ll do two songs, ‘Halcyon’ and ‘If Not for My Baby.’?” Jen puts her phone away to appraise the rest of us.
“Sound check for our show here is the next day at noon. And then we’ll leave straight for Pittsburgh. Copy?”
We all mumble our agreement before I hurry back to grab my suitcase from below my bunk. But I’m pumped. A free hotel room night will be the perfect way to get my mind off of—
“Clementine,” Jen calls from the front lounge. “Can I speak with you?”
If the twist in my gut is any indication, she might as well have said time for your root canal .
I’m sure I’m in trouble, though I cannot fathom for what.
I scoot past the rest of the band and follow Jen off the bus and down the block a ways, Lionel hot on my tail because of course he is.
I wonder absently if Lionel sleeps each night at the foot of Jen’s bed.
Not even the refreshingly cool evening air and dusky sunlight filtering through the striped hotel awning can quiet my racing heart. I do not like making mistakes, and based on Jen’s facial expression, I’ve done just that.
And it gets worse:
Waiting for us a few feet from the bus is Halloran.
He’s thrown on a jean jacket and dark green baseball cap, I’m assuming to hide from fans who might recognize him, but all it’s done is make him look like the kind of sensitive, six-six man women hope to meet in vintage bookstores.
The gentle breeze whipping his man bun and buttery light slanting against the strong slope of his nose are not helping my burgeoning attraction.
“Hi,” he says to me, mimicking my earlier greeting.
Is he flirting with me? Aren’t I in trouble?
I don’t feel like I have a decent handle on the situation and it’s only making my stomach knot itself further.
I pick at my cuticle until it’s raw. A shadow crosses Halloran’s face, but I can only look at Jen, who stares pointedly at the both of us.
Does she know somehow that just a few days ago we were halfway undressed talking about orgasms in the middle of the night?