Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
“No, that won’t do.” Indy tuts, furrowing her brow.
“Don’t mope,” she says, face already in her suitcase, which is balanced on the toilet seat. “I have another idea.”
We’ve been in here far longer than I care to spend in the tour bus bathroom, but I can’t deny the reprieve from that front lounge is relieving.
Halloran and I kissed three nights ago, which means for the past seventy-two hours the memory of his lips on mine has distracted me from every single thing I’ve attempted to do.
I’m amazed I can successfully put one foot in front of the other, let alone sing “I’m sheltered by the warmth of my baby’s breath, hot and quiet on my neck” to him before a rabid audience of thousands.
If this is having a crush, I want no part of it.
I need a receipt. Returning for a full refund, please and thank you.
It’s not that he hasn’t tried to speak to me—I’ve just had my hands full with Agatha Christie and Conor’s Mario Kart tutelage and playing the Once soundtrack on repeat…
I am painfully aware that hiding from him isn’t mature, and also isn’t a sustainable long-term plan, but it’s the best I’ve got since I can’t exactly ask Indy or Molly for advice, nor can I bring myself to call Everly and admit what a terrific mistake I’ve made.
The only person I’d ever share any of this with is my mom, whom I haven’t called in a week.
Not after I almost told her all the selfish things I’d been feeling.
How conflicted I was about missing home and Mike and all I’ve given up to care for her.
At this point I’m bottling up so many unpleasant feelings I’m going to need a wine cellar to store them.
“It’s just one party,” I say to Indy, yanking the dress overhead and nearly suffocating on all the fabric. “Can’t I wear that miniskirt I wore in Atlantic City?”
“It’s not just one party—it’s your first-ever record label party. And at Rhett Barber’s house no less. I promise, you’ve never seen anything like this.” She puts her hands on her hips as she appraises me in my underwear. “So, no, you can’t.”
She has a point: When will I get another chance to attend a party at a country music star’s personal home? My mom would annihilate me if she knew I’d skipped it. Plus, I’ve never seen such a bossy side of Indy. Like a no-nonsense chipmunk. I think I love it.
“Fine,” I lament. “What next?”
Indy digs deeper through her suitcase. I catch a flying silk top before it lands on the floor.
“Nice save,” she breathes. “I don’t even want to think about the last time this bathroom was cleaned.”
Images of a wasted Conor attempting to pee and missing by a mile flood my mind. My toes curl in Indy’s borrowed pink stilettos. “Good point. Can we wrap this up?”
Before Indy can respond, a knock sounds on the other side of the door.
“Occupied,” Indy calls out at the same time I yell, “Just a minute!”
“It’s me, losers,” Molly says behind the plastic. “I’m coming in.”
Before I can shriek and cover myself Indy opens the door and Molly scoots inside.
There was hardly enough room in here for Indy and me. With Molly’s addition, I’m practically being big spooned by the shower door. Molly doesn’t seem to mind, hopping up onto the sink and perching there like a hummingbird.
“I like this stripper fit,” Molly deadpans. “Very baby hooker.”
I look down at myself, folding my arms over my nonexistent chest. The bra I’m wearing is virtually a tankini. My floral thong has bows on the sides. When I look back at Molly, she winks, the piercing in her brow crinkling.
“Here we go,” Indy says, fishing out a purple minidress. Lint has gathered between the sequins and my nose itches on sight. “If I give you a padded bra, you could fill it out nicely.”
The dress shimmers aggressively under the fluorescent lights, and I recoil. “I’m really a cozy sweater kind of gal. That may be too much of a leap.”
I don’t even want to go to this tonight.
All I need to cure my crush is to curl up in my coffin bunk and read my book.
Or maybe watch West Side Story on my phone and let Maria sing my anxieties away.
Not a party that doesn’t even start until eleven, during which I will once again play chaperone to my gaggle of lovable yet witlessly inebriated friends.
Speaking of—
The knock that sounds as I continue to gawk at the sequined atrocity is somehow both speedier and less intimidating than Molly’s.
We all answer at the same time: “One second, please!” “Go away.” “Who is it?”
Then I sneeze and Molly rocks back with the high-pitched sound. “That’s it. I’m buying you Claritin.”
“She’s fine,” Indy says.
“I’m fine,” I say, in unison.
A voice shouts from the other side of the door, “It’s Lionel!”
“We’re giving Clementine a movie makeover,” Indy shouts back.
Wonderful. I was worried the entire state of Pennsylvania wouldn’t know about my fashion ineptitude.
“She’s fine the way she is,” calls Grayson from what sounds like the bunks. I rub my temples.
“Ooh, can I help?” Lionel asks.
“Absolutely not,” I snip at Indy. “I’m naked. No.”
“He’s gay,” Molly adds, bored.
I am not swayed. “So?”
Indy nods. “And very good in a crisis.”
Now this is a crisis ? Lionel cheers from the other side of the too-thin door and Indy lets him in. There are now four of us cramped into this minuscule bathroom. Lionel squeegees past me to stand in the open shower because there is truly no other room.
“Great heels,” he says.
“Thanks.” Indy beams.
I appraise Lionel. Despite his attire—the kid is still in his rumpled suit and Skechers—maybe he can actually help me. “Tell her I cannot wear that dress. It’s too much sparkle.”
“She’s right,” Lionel decides. “That’ll wash her out. And it’s too heavy for her height.”
Phew.
“You need something light and slinky,” Lionel instructs.
Despite the ruddy glow of his cheeks that tells me he’s been taking shots with the guys again, he’s back in his PA form.
No-nonsense, ready to tackle any problem.
“The black dress you wore on Joe Jennings’s show did wonders for your complexion. ”
Indy studies her bag. “I don’t own anything black.”
The bus turns up some kind of hill and we all brace ourselves on the walls. My stomach lurches.
“What about this?” Molly says, looking down at herself. Molly’s dress is almost exactly what Lionel described. A silk mid-length slip with a low back and deep V in the front where her lacy black bra peeks out. Teensy spaghetti straps barely hold the thing together.
“Wait, it’s perfect,” Indy breathes, in awe.
“No,” I start, mind reeling. “I can’t—”
Molly hops off the sink in one graceful motion, pushing me into Indy, who braces herself on the wall, then pulls the dress easily overhead.
I try not to gawk, but Molly is so beautiful it hurts my eyes.
Her golden skin is rich and smooth, her body toned in ways mine will never be no matter how many times I redownload the Nike Training Club app.
Her belly button is pierced through, as are her nipples, which I notice thanks to the entirely see-through lace set she’s wearing.
She throws the dress over my head before I can object.
Another knock sounds. Goddamnit.
“I need to piss,” Grayson calls out.
“I’m not clothed,” I screech from inside the dark silk cocoon.
“Neither is Molly,” Lionel announces, trying to help.
“Okay, now you gotta let me in,” Grayson growls from the other side.
My face contorts and Indy catches the expression. “Go away,” she yells.
“Molls.” Pete sounds like he’s somewhere beside Grayson. “Time to go!”
“Then go,” she calls back. “I’m not your babysitter.”
“Pete, can you find my purse?” Indy yells into the door.
This is a fever dream. I’m experiencing sensory overload. I slide the dress down swiftly. I can’t even see myself in the mirror because Lionel’s blocking it, but it’s fine. I just want out of this bathroom.
“Good?” I ask the jury.
“Your bra.” Molly grimaces. “Off.”
“I can’t go without a bra .”
“Oh, come on.” She’s still so very naked.
“You don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” Indy adds, ever the support system.
“But the bra looks hideous,” Lionel says, in the same caring tone. “Really, it does.”
“Why are all the hens in there?” I hear Conor call out. “We gotta head!”
Before I can think much more about it I strip off the comfy bralette and feel cool bus AC on my back.
“Here,” Indy says, putting sleek gold hoops in my ears and a swipe of gloss across my lips, motioning for me to mush them together. I do as instructed.
“And here,” Molly adds, running a bit of her eyeliner across my lids. While my eyes are closed I feel Lionel mussing up my hair. The aerosol noise of hair spray sounds and I inhale sticky chemicals.
When the three of them step aside and I open my eyes, I’m rewarded with the only decent part of the movie makeover moment. Lionel, Indy, and even Molly gasp in delight.
“You are smoking hot,” Molly says, approving.
“Magnificent. Beyond. I have to take some pics.” Indy is beaming. “It’s so cute, my heels, Molly’s dress—it’s like you’re our love child.”
“And I creative directed the whole thing,” Lionel adds. “Lest you forget.”
“Who says lest ?” Molly asks, opening the door, still in her bra and underwear.
“Christ, Molls.” I hear Pete sigh. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“Yes,” she purrs.
Indy and Lionel follow suit and I finally get a look at myself in the smudged mirror.
And…they’re right. I have never looked this good in my life.
The black dress hangs off me like I’m some kind of gloomy Grecian goddess.
For the first time I’m grateful for my smaller chest, as the deep V accentuates my collarbone and neck.
It’s sexy and a little dirty but still simple and refined.
My hair and makeup are rocker-chic—also known as done in a tour bus bathroom—but my earrings and pink heels are girlish and unmistakably Indy.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, a rush of confidence crackles through me.
I feel beautiful.