“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, but he’s not apologizing for kissing me. No, that I’m sorry is the kind that precludes a request for clarification. He tucks his hands into his pockets and cocks his head to one side, his brow furrowing. “What exactly are you referring to?”
I wiggle one finger back and forth, gesturing between us. “This. What just happened. That can’t happen again.”
He pulls one hand out of his pocket to scratch his head, a cartoonishly confused boy. “Uh … I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to be dating, with engagement and marriage on the table pretty quickly. Right? Doesn’t that mean there’ll have to be a whole lot more of that? And you kissed me back.”
Forcing myself to stay centered, calm, in control, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes, that’s all correct. You are correct. But what happens in public, in front of the cameras, that can’t translate to our private time.” I wave my hands around, searching for the right words, because I’ve already hurt him once tonight when I criticized his YouTube channel, and from the way the confusion on his face is morphing into hurt, I’m doing it again. Which isn’t my goal. In fact, that’s the primary driver behind this boundary—protecting us both from unnecessary pain.
“Look.” I step closer, pleading with him for understanding with my eyes. “I know. It seems stupid, right? But … we’re stuck with each other for quite a while. A year, maybe two, enough time for us both to get established. That’s our deal, right?”
“Right,” he acknowledges, his brow lower now, the hurt replaced with something that looks a lot more like frustration.
“Well …” I lick my lips, which I realize is a mistake when his eyes track the movement with the same avid stare as a lion picking out the weakest gazelle. Closing my eyes, I force myself to go on. Maybe if I can’t see him, I won’t notice the way he looks at me. And if I can’t see the way he looks at me, I can ignore the way it makes me feel. And then I can actually say what I need to say. “If we do this, kiss, have sex, see where this leads, and then we realize that it doesn’t lead anywhere, and then we fight and want to break up but we can’t, then we’ll both be miserable.” I open my eyes, hoping he’ll see that I’m trying to look out for both of our best interests right now. “I want us to be friends through this. We both know this isn’t forever. But I don’t want us to wind up hating each other by the time it’s over.”
His piercing blue eyes bounce back and forth between mine. He takes a breath and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but he lets out the breath on a sigh, closes his mouth, and nods instead. “Sure. That … that makes sense, I guess. If that’s what you want, we can do that.” He picks up his phone from the couch and checks the time. “I should probably head home. Is it okay if I wait in here until my ride gets here?”
“Of course.” But it’s the longest ten minutes of my life. We make awkward, stilted conversation for most of it, until he stands, about to leave, the sheet music I gave him in hand.
He holds it up. “I’ll work on this tonight. Can I sing it for you tomorrow? Get some notes? Make sure I’m heading the right direction?”
“Of course,” I say again, relief that he’s not mad flooding through me. That he’s willing to take my suggestions and actually wants my help. “That’s what I’m here for, right?”
“Right.” He opens the door, then pulls me to the threshold, giving me a hug and a stunningly brief kiss on the lips. “Cameras,” he whispers, before releasing me and striding toward the waiting car. I stand in the open doorway and watch him climb in and drive away without a backward glance.
Right. Cameras.
Colt calls me the next afternoon. “You ready?” he asks by way of greeting.
“For what?” I’ve been binging Community for at least the fifteenth time, so I’m having trouble accessing our last conversation. Partly because I’ve largely wanted to block it out.
He chuckles, and the warm sound sends goosebumps rippling over my arms. This boy is too dangerous for his own good, getting me all tingly with just a tiny laugh. “For the song you gave me to work on last night. I told you I’d play it for you today. You said okay.”
“Oh, uh. You want to do it over the phone?” Phones are terrible transmitters of sound. At least for this.
“We could switch to FaceTime if you prefer.”
I look down at my ratty tank top that’s barely covering my left breast because it’s a little big and I’ve been wallowing on the couch. I haven’t showered yet, so my hair is sticking up in a million different directions. “Uh, no no. No video chat. Not right now.”
He chuckles again, damn him. “Having a lazy day?”
“Something like that,” I respond, my voice prim.
“How about this, I can make it to your place in … forty-five minutes. That give you enough time?”
I blink a few times. “Uh, yeah?”
“Great. See you then.” And he hangs up. Just like that.
What the hell just happened?
Colt just invited himself over is what just happened. And he’s going to sing to me. A love song. A love song that I gave him to sing.
I take a minute to cover my face with my hands and groan aloud. “What the fuck am I doing with this boy?”
But if he’s going to be here in less than an hour, I need to take a shower. And put on clothes that will keep my nipples covered without me deliberately uncovering them.
Turning off the TV, I go straight to the bathroom, taking my time shaving all the important bits while I’m in the shower. I don’t know why, exactly. It’s not like he’s going to see my hairless bits. I made that clear last night. And he agreed.
Nevertheless, I spend all the time and energy I normally would getting ready for a real date. Even though this isn’t a date. This is Colt coming to my place. To work on music. He wants my input. He wants to get himself to the point of being able to have a career. He might even want me to help him make a video of him singing the song I gave him so he can upload it to his YouTube channel.
What he really needs are some good original songs. And a well thought out social media plan. If he really wants to leverage our relationship into his own contract, building his own fan base will only help him. And it’ll give him options. If he’s dead set on a music career come hell or high water, he can always go indie, even if he’d rather have the backing of a label. At least as an indie, you have more control. And less chance of getting completely screwed over.
Like me. I didn’t notice the morality clause in our contract. None of us did. They liked our alt-rock sound and our edgy pixie vibe. But we had to be good little girls and not rock the boat too hard. Even before the accident, they were squawking about cutting us loose after too many racy pictures where we were recognizable appeared in the tabloids while touring with Cataclysm. The only reason they hadn’t canceled us before the accident was because Mason had stopped throwing afterparties, and our agent had assured the label on our behalf that we wouldn’t be showing up in the press like that again.
Truth be told, we didn’t show up in the press like that again. There were no grainy half-naked pictures of any of us. At least not any new ones. But when the accident happened, they dug up all the old ones and paired them with images of the mangled cars and the person who was killed. And well, there was no coming back from that. Not as a group. Trying to do it on my own is a long shot at best, but Delores thinks my career might be salvageable.