Chapter 8. #2
Wily gets up from the machine. “Just forget I said anything. I don’t care who you’re seeing.
” He pitches his towel at the used bin in the corner.
“Just make sure they care who they’re seeing.
Music always comes first, you said? Hope they know that.
” He snorts. “All we need’s another brokenhearted psycho fan when you eventually end it.
” He heads for the door, then stops. “Now I feel like a shit-stirrer, and I’m not,” he mutters under his breath.
“Leave that to Emmett.” He turns. “Two more shows were added while you were gone, by the way. One show the day after tomorrow. Another the day after that. Next day off isn’t until …
whatever’s four days from now. Never know what fucking day it is anymore.
” After one last hesitation, he mutters, “Sorry about all this. I hate drama.”
Then Wily truly leaves.
And I’m truly alone.
Well, except for Miss Wonders who can’t stop insisting how her daily serum will shed ten years off my skin.
And the nagging echo in my ears of what Wily just said—and just made me say. The music always comes first … All we need’s another brokenhearted psycho fan when you eventually end it …
I have no plan on ending it with Timothy. Not even close. And I don’t plan on going rogue. Can’t I have both? Haven’t I sacrificed enough for this career? For these people I love and work with?
For Ian?
That’s when my phone moos at me.
I fumble with it, drop the damned thing on the treadmill, pick it back up, sigh with relief it isn’t shattered, then slap it to my ear. “Timothy,” I say after taking a deep, necessary breath.
“Hey there, Not-Little A. Made it back to your hotel safely?”
Just the sound of his voice is sweet, precious relief. I leave the suffocating gym that stinks of old sweat and rubber. “Yeah,” I say the moment I’m outside of it. “Back, safe and sound.”
“Wasn’t sure if it was … too clingy of me to call. Kinda worried about it. I gave it lots of thought. Too much thought.”
I find myself smiling, strolling through the hallway. It’s cute, how neurotic he is. I can literally see the expressions playing over his face without him being here. “You’re sayin’ that to a guy who just made friends in your town with a stray cat and a duck.”
He laughs into the phone, which makes my heart explode all over the place.
I’ve taken a seat in front of a vending machine, back against the wall.
One of the lights by the window is flickering on and off, and the other one’s out completely.
Only the calm glow from the machine on my face. Dim lighting: just my vibe.
“Well, okay, making a family out of animals,” he admits, “is a bit weird. But I like that kinda weird. I like your weird. I like you.”
He says it all so fast, the last phrase catches us both off-guard.
“I mean, I didn’t mean to say I like you. I just …” He takes a breath. He needs it. “But … I do like you. That isn’t so crazy to say. I enjoy spending time with you. I’d … like to think you enjoyed your time here, too. Nothing weird about that.”
“Nothing at all,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m teasing him too badly.
“Exactly. Glad you agree.” After a moment’s pause, he adds, “I did find another song, by the way. I got brave, took a dive, and now I’m a fan of ‘Play Along’, too.”
I make a mental note. “Got it.”
“But I swear, nothing will compare to that first song I heard. I wish he’d release it so I can stream the heck out of it every night. What’d you say it was called? Anyway, I keep humming it, and …”
I hear sheets rustling. He must be in bed.
I’d kill to be in that bed with him right now.
Not in a sexual way. I just want to be close to him.
I want him to say these things to me in a way that doesn’t involve checking over my shoulder every five minutes to see if some asshole’s got a camera out.
I want to be completely free with him. Zero need for caution.
Just us in a room talking music and metaphors.
And I want to know why he’s itching so badly to escape that town. I kept sensing all day today that he’s holding back. Is it to do with his parents? I wonder what they’re really like.
I bet they’re not as bad as he says.
“Y’know what I mean?” he asks.
Shit. I was zoned out the whole time imagining us in the same bed together. Again. “In time, I’ll get you into all the songs,” I say back, hoping I’m in the ballpark. Wily’s words are still tugging on my brain. My focus is all over the damned place. “We can sing ‘em together.”
“Do you sing well?”
I press my lips together to suppress another smile. Not that he can see it, but you can hear smiles, too. “Maybe.”
“Don’t get shy on me now,” he says through a laugh. “C’mon. What other secret talents are you hiding from me?”
I shrug. “I can down a package of Oreos in thirty seconds,” I say after gazing at the vending machine.
“Pfft, big deal. I used to do that every week before an exam.”
I choke back a laugh, reminded yet again that I’m talking to a college student.
I keep forgetting his age. There are a handful of years between us, though neither of us bring it up.
Maybe because he seems so much older than he is.
Or I seem younger. “I can solve a Rubik’s Cube in thirty seconds,” I try again.
“What’s with you and thirty seconds?”
“Guess I’m just really good with my fingers.” After the words come out, I realize they sound dirty. “That, uh … wasn’t supposed to mean anything. I just meant ‘cause I play guitar.”
“Oh, really? You play guitar?”
I freeze.
I’m back on my feet. Pacing around the vending machine. At a loss. Feeling stupid. My brain must really be shot tonight.
“That makes sense,” he reasons out so calmly, my pacing feels like such a comical overreaction.
“After watching Karate Kid as a … well .. as a kid … I begged my parents to let me take karate classes. But Spruce didn’t really have anything like that ten years ago.
” He senses I’m not following. “So obviously being a huge Chase Holt fan, you probably took up guitar at some point for fun.”
I stop. I could take the out he just gave me. “Um …”
“Or do I have it backwards? Were you already playing guitar? Sorry to presume.” He chuckles at himself. “Not everything in your life has to be about Chase Holt, I do realize.”
This is getting tricky. “I just love playin’ the guitar. Soothes me like nothin’ else.” That sounds like a safe answer, right? Relying on the truth without spilling the whole truth. “Took lessons when I was a teen.”
“I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
You already have, I’m desperate to say. This is not fucking easy. Every word that comes out of my mouth makes me feel ickier. “I’d like that,” I tell him anyway, deciding to interpret this as: Someday soon, you’ll know exactly who I am, and all of this dancin’ around the truth won’t be necessary.
Then I wonder if that’s true at all. Will I ever tell him? Would I ever want him to know who I am?
Would that scare him away from me forever?
“When are you coming back?” he asks, a touch softer.
Maybe he’s nervous that I wasn’t planning to. He doesn’t want to presume. “In about four days,” I tell him.
“Four?”
He’s surprised. How do I explain this? “There were a few more shows added. So …” I go quiet and squeeze shut my eyes.
How do I finish this sentence? That I’m choosing Chase Holt concerts over seeing him?
Is this really gonna fly? What kind of deranged, super-obsessed fan boy am I trying to portray here?
I’ve already gotten tickets to these last-minute shows?
I’m astounded when Timothy exclaims, “Oh, that sounds cool! How exciting! Even more of something you love!” He chuckles at that. “Well, you’ve definitely gotta go to them, then.”
I blink. “Uh, right.”
“His concerts can’t happen without you there!”
I’m already sick of the unintended double meanings that keep spilling from his cute mouth.
“Right … of course they can’t,” I say back, accidentally adding to said double meanings, clutching my chest and taking a fistful of my shirt while considering in a very real way whether I should just rip the bandage off now and tell him everything or keep up this agonizing charade.
I’m afraid to lose him. Obviously that’s what this is.
Even if he’s okay with the deception. Even if he understands. Something tells me he will understand. He’s bright and patient and considerate and fucking sensitive. Why wouldn’t he?
But does he want to invite my crazy into his small-town calm?
He’s just a college kid home for the summer in his peaceful, completely undisturbed corner of Texas.
He’s making the best of his structured life in a house warmed by parental love, even if that love is sometimes a tad much.
I imagine his overbearing parents listening in at the door of his every phone conversation with me.
And if they knew he was seeing Chase Holt …
If they knew what he risks just by being seen with me …
I can’t fuckin’ lose him.
“I’ve got a lot of shifts at T&S’s next few days,” he goes on, “so I guess this sorta works out, right? And, I mean …” His voice shifts. “I didn’t mean to … uh … presume you’d want to drive all the way out here the next time you’re free. It’s okay if once was enough.”
If once was enough …? “Of course I do,” I blurt out before I can help it. Then I realize how thirsty I just sounded. I let go of my shirt—yes I was still clutching a fistful—and speak calmer. “How else am I gonna know how Little A and Kit-Cat are doin’?”
I hear more sheets twisting, like he just rolled over. “You … seriously named the cat, too …?”
“They deserve names, y’know.”
“Well … your Kit-Cat is probably some farm cat that snuck out through a tear in the fence. Happens all the time. My neighbor has about seven strays that regularly visit her back porch.”
Neighbor … “Do you live on a farm yourself?” I ask. That would totally fit a caring and devoted guy like him.
“Uh … well … no, I don’t.”
Hmm, okay, scratch that. “But your neighbors are farmers?”
“One of them. Far away.”
“So your neighbors are … far apart?”
“I, uh, yeah, I guess.”
For some reason, I pictured him in one of the suburbs I drove through on the outskirts of town. Now I’m envisioning open space. “Does that get lonely?”
“Uh … yeah, sometimes.” He clears his throat. “I used to wish I lived closer to town so I could walk everywhere. It’s just … my, uh, parents and their … business …” Then he clears his throat—again. “Y’know what? Let’s not talk about this. It’s boring.”
“Absolutely nothing is boring about you.”
“Nah, it really is. I’d rather talk about you.”
“Why do you always do that?” I ask him, approaching one of the vending machines.
“Do what?”
“Minimize yourself. Noticed it right away, back when we first met. In that back hallway, even while in tears, you kept … talkin’ yourself down, like you didn’t deserve to take up space.”
“It’s … I just didn’t feel like … I mean …” He sighs, frustrated.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” I assure him, sliding a few dollars in and tapping the keypad.
“Don’t mean to judge. I sometimes talk myself down, too.
It’s normal. I’m just tryin’ to tell you …
” I take a breath and smile. “You don’t have to talk yourself down with me.
Not even a teeny bit. Take up all the space you want. ”
“Space …” he murmurs.
The machine groans. My precious package of Oreos squirms as the coil twists to free it—then sticks, half-hanging, stuck. I give the machine a polite bump of my fist. Then a less polite bump. Then a downright rude one. “You serious?”
“Are you at a snack machine or something?”
“A snack prison, apparently.” I shove my shoulder into it with force. The thing rocks. My snack does not. “Damned Oreos.”
“I wish I hadn’t scared away your cat. Might be long gone by now, halfway to Fairview. I can be pretty scary, y’know.”
I take another mental note to look up this Fairview town he’s referenced more than once before shoving my shoulder into the machine. The Oreos stay put. “Hope that Kit-Cat avoids the cars, if that’s the case.” Another shove. No luck. “It ain’t safe out there on the open road.”
“Your sweetness toward little animals is next-level adorable. Have you always been this protective?”
I smile. “Only over things I care about.” Another shove.
“Like Oreos?”
“Or you,” I say—then freeze.
Did I mean to say that?
A figure appears around the corner: the front desk clerk. “Sir, you can’t do that. If you’re having trouble with—” He freezes as recognition dawns on him. “Wait a sec. Are you Chase Holt??”
I don’t let the second syllable of that question come out of his lips before I’ve hung up on Timothy.
I grimace, clenching shut my eyes. “Yeah.”
“Sorry, sir. Mr. Holt, sir. The, uh … machine has a tendency … actually, y’know what?
” He comes up to the machine himself and, with a weird sort of side maneuver that looks a lot like humping it with mild sexual passion, my Oreos dislodge and tumble down.
He reaches in, gets it out, then presents it to me with both hands like it’s a prized artifact.
“H-Here you are, Mr. Holt, sir. I’m a … I’m a huge fan.
I … I love your work. Ever since Hate Me.
I can’t believe I’m looking at you. I can’t believe you’re you, and you’re here.
I mean, I knew you’re here, but you’re you, and you’re here! ”
“I’m me, and I’m here,” I agree, then peer down at the Oreos, still outstretched with both his hands.
After a second’s hesitation, I reach for the pen in his shirt pocket instead—startling him, eyes going as wide as his face—and autograph the white area on the Oreo packaging.
I tuck his pen back into his pocket, glance at his nametag, then say, “Thanks for bein’ a fan, Justin,” before heading off, leaving him staring, unable to blink, breathe, or speak.
By the time my phone moos at me again, I’m back in my room. After a long, deep breath enters and vacates my lungs, I sit on the edge of my bed, pray I hung up fast enough, then answer. “Hey.”
“Think we got disconnected,” he says. “Phone just cut off. Did you get what you wanted, by the way?”
I smile with relief, then lie back on the bed, the crisp, cool sheets welcoming me like a hug. “Sure did.”
“Four days sounds like forever.”
“Sure does.”
“I’m glad you picked up. To be honest … I wasn’t ready for this phone call to end just yet.”
I grin. “Me neither.”