a/n: hello ffn! very excited to be (finally) posting something i've been working on for some time now. not quite sure how many parts this is going to be (maybe 2-3), BUT i hope you enjoy. sending love and hugs to anyone who reads this!
PART ONE
Westchester County, NY
Bacon sizzles and spits on my plate. I drag a slice underneath two unblinking yellow yolks, and jerk the crust off of my toast to give the face a pair of pointed eyebrows. My breakfast surrenders a full-fledged grin, and I smile back.
I carry my plate to the kitchen table with the Sunday comics tucked under my arm. Todd always gives me grief because I still read the comics, but he owns two pairs of Crocs, so usually I feel like it's in my best interest to ignore him. I reach for the bacon as soon as I set down my plate, gracelessly drawing one end into my mouth. The white fat that runs through the middle is chewy—just how I like it.
The slap of bare feet on kitchen tile pulls me out of the Agnes strip. I glance up, and Olivia Ryan's upper lip puckers smarmily. Even her stance—glossy talons perched on her waist, right hip popped to one side—is patronizing.
"What is that?" she challenges me in a voice awash with disbelief. I carefully readjust the position of the half-eaten bacon on my plate.
"A smiley face. See?" I point out the egg eyes, bread eyebrows, and bacon smile with a finger coated in residual grease. "Smiley breakfast plates are kind of my thing."
"I thought music was your thing," she deadpans. Olivia couldn't have looked more unimpressed if she tried.
"Yeah, but it's second to making smiling breakfasts. Music was my fallback, really," I explain sarcastically.
Olivia Ryan is dating Todd, my younger brother and second-rate roommate. He must have told her I was a big-shot popstar, because she was sickeningly sweet the first time we met. I guess I fell outrageously short of her expectations, because ever since she discovered that I open for Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park on Wednesday nights with a six-song set list, she's treated me the way she treats gum on the underside of her shoe.
"It doesn't have a nose," she states in a clipped voice, still ogling my plate.
"I ran out of Cheerios."
"What happened to its mouth?"
"I got hungry."
Olivia exhales noisily through her nose, lifting her gaze to the ceiling in an I-really-have-nothing-left-to-say-to-you sort of way. Fortunately, Todd chooses this moment to lope gracelessly down the stairs and slip into the kitchen, wearing an offensively sheer wife beater and a tiny pair of boxers. He presses his mouth to Olivia's temple, drawing an arm around her waist and pulling her against his side. Finally, her stoic, blasé expression cracks. She tucks her head under his chin, smiling affectionately.
"Disgusting," I gripe audibly, casting my eyes down towards my breakfast. I'm lying, though, and Todd knows it. They're sweet together, and as obnoxious as Olivia can be, she makes him happy. Happier than you are, a voice in my head chastises smugly. I repress the urge to frown. I released an EP last December, and I've been touring with Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park for three months, playing minor gigs in-between when I can find them. I'm doing fine, I remind myself, Better than most aspiring artists, anyway.
I push the eggs around with my fork, tearing the face apart—but not before Todd catches a glimpse of my plate. "Smiley breakfasts, Claire? Real mature." Then his gaze flits to the newspaper, and his impish grin swells, consuming his entire face. "Comics too? Classic." Todd likes to tease me about living in the past—smiley breakfasts and Sunday comics were an exciting staple of our otherwise monotonous childhood—but I don't think there's anything wrong with seeking comfort.
"You're a nut, Todd Lyons."
He untangles himself from Olivia and reaches across the table to filch what's left of the bacon off my plate. He aims one greasy tip towards my face, jabbing emphatically at the air before tossing it into his mouth. "Good luck tonight, sis. Drive safe."
"Mmm," I reply absentmindedly, turning away again to escape the traumatizing visual of Todd driving his tongue into Olivia's mouth. Still, a hollow twinge in my chest—from something other than disgust—makes me set my fork down. My breakfast stares up at me blankly.
xxx
Ramsey, Pennsylvania
The drive to Blacksburg, Virginia takes over eight hours, but Dempsey begins to snore thirty minutes in. He lies sprawled across the bottom bunk, gangly limbs projecting over every edge. A trail of drool leaks out of the corner of his mouth, pooling inside a depression in the mattress.
I try to stick it out, mostly because I can't muster the willpower to move. I'm halfway through composing an email to Double Door in Chicago, practically begging to reserve space for a show in August, when Dempsey emits a particularly noisy grunt. Even the hair that hangs heavy like drapes over his face flutters. Exasperated, I snap my laptop shut and uncross my legs, rising from sofa. I tuck a bottle of Waiakea under my arm as I leave. Apparently it's ionized and sourced from volcanoes in Hawaii, but I have a hard time buying into artesian water crap. My agent says it'll help my voice and calls it high-end hydration—I call it asshole-water.
I make my way to the front of the tour bus, where Josh and Derrick sit in front of the television playing Skyrim. Once Derrick tried earnestly to explain it to me, but he'd lost me after his "level 65 Imperial Nightingale became a werewolf, destroying the Dark Brotherhood." I know better than to distract them in the middle of a game now, so I sink into a seat by the window and draw my phone out of my pocket. I have a single text from Todd—a picture of him and Olivia looking deliriously happy at the Rockefeller State Park Preserve.
Six-mile hike today. Didn't even break a sweat, the message below reads. I enlarge the photo reluctantly. Her arms are wound so tight around his waist that I find myself feeling genuinely concerned for Todd's wellbeing. A theatrical snort is all it takes for Josh and Derrick to pause their game and turn around.
"What?" Derrick demands, pinching his upper lip between his fingers impatiently.
"Just a picture of my brother and his she-devil girlfriend. It's nothing."
Josh extends an open palm, and I toss him my phone. "She's kinda hot, C," he muses, before handing it over to Derrick.
"She's terrible," I protest dramatically, pulling my legs into my chest.
"You jealous, C? At least Todd's got somebody to keep his bed warm."
Isn't that the truth, I think begrudgingly. Still, I shake my head insistently as I retrieve my phone from Derrick. "We're performers, we don't have time to date," I remind them hastily. It's a mantra I've repeated a thousand times—so familiar, it's like reciting my phone number.
"Speak for yourself," Derrick objects with a full-fledged grin. "I intend on being happily married and a father of three by the age of 30."
"That gives you, what, five years? Good luck, buddy."
"No, I'm serious! And I expect fucking stellar wedding gifts—I'm talking decorative bird cages, a Harley Davidson Street 500, and a full trunk of cash!"
"What the hell are you going to do with a decorative bird cage, jackass?"
I met Fatty Kidney and the Blessed Park last June at Bonnaroo. They were originally set to play between Songhoy Blues and Matt McCarthy, but a blip in the lineup placed them directly after me at the Cinema Tent. Dempsey came up to me after my set, only a little stoned, to applaud my performance. Drained, sweaty, and unbelievably flattered, I stuck around to watch them perform. They were brassy but romantic, pounding rock with bluesy embellishments—I loved it. Later that month, when they asked me to open for their tour, I cried for three hours. Todd and I treated ourselves to Chinese takeout that night, and he didn't even make fun of me when I arranged my vegetable Lo Mein into a smiley face with broccoli eyebrows.
Josh knocks me out of my reverie by flinging his Xbox remote at my face.
"OW, what the—"
"I propose a toast," he declares, digging a six-pack out from under the sofa. He distributes a can of Natty Light to each of us and pops his tab.
"What're we toasting?"
"Music. Shitty beer. Skyrim."
"Two shows in Blacksburg, Virginia," Derrick chimes in readily, tipping his head back to take a voracious gulp.
"And your brother's girlfriend!" Josh concludes cheerfully. "To Olivia!"
"Amen," Derrick agrees with an uneven snigger.
Unbelievable. I roll my eyes melodramatically, but can't fight the smile itching at the corners of my mouth.
xxx
Blacksburg, Virginia
After my tech run-through at the venue, I have two hours to eat dinner. I pitch Dempsey, Josh, and Derrick what I hope looks like an encouraging wave before I sling my purse over one shoulder and head outside. The air is humid and sticky, even now in April. It feels nice—warm weather means summer, and summer means more ticket sales.
The walk to the grey, dimly-lit diner I found on Yelp takes me nearly half an hour. I step inside and glance at myself in the mirror that hangs in the lobby—my face is patchy and pink, framed by a mass of pale yellow flyaways. I pull a face at my reflection, but recover hastily when I notice that the woman beside me looks seriously alarmed. A little mortified, I order broccoli cheddar soup with a side of fries, before sinking into a booth in the back right corner. I open my phone to three new messages from Todd.
T: Break a leg tonight!
T: P.S. I have something to tell you.
T: P.P.S. No, I haven't been arrested. So relax.
I toy with the cap of my Waiakea, absentmindedly digging its grooves into the pad of my thumb, before I reply.
C: Hit me with it, I can handle it.
C: P.S. Unless you've knocked up your girlfriend, in which case I absolutely cannot handle it so PLEASE lie to me.
C: P.P.S. Like literally, I'd rather get thrown in jail than have to support Olivia through the process of conceiving her devil-child.
His response is almost instantaneous.
T: Okay, fuck you.
T: I'll call you later tonight. Around midnight-ish?
I confirm, just as my order number is called from behind the counter. I eat slowly and inattentively, tracing lazy smiley faces with my fries in ketchup. My mind is trained so intently on the tour that I barely taste my food.
I perform once a week—twice here in Blacksburg, though it's the only exception—but I have no definitive plans post-tour. My agent says I finally have the funds and audience base to headline a tour, but even thinking about it sends a zip of panic down my spine. Touring with the boys is chaotic and loud and silly and exciting. It's gaming remote cords snarled with my dirty laundry, and sheets that haven't been washed in so long they're tinged pale brown, and sticky jeans that smell of beer. And it's anything but lonely.
In my head, I've visualized what a solo tour would look like: quiet meals and empty buses and forgetting a lyric during a run-through only to have no one standing in the wings to laugh about it with.
I don't realize how much time has passed until Dempsey's face lights up my phone, accompanied by the gentle buzz of my ringtone.
"Claire, where are you?"
"What?" I lift my eyes to the red plastic clock suspended from a bent nail on the wall. It reads half-past six. "Crap, I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—coming now!" I blurt hastily, the phone tucked between my ear and shoulder as I pool my dirty napkins together. In my panicked haste, I practically assault my waitress with my credit card.
On my way out, one last glance at the clock confirms that I'll have to call a cab. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Get your shit together, Claire Lyons, I berate myself furiously, in disbelief that I could have been so careless. After twenty-four years of life, I have become extremely familiar with my impressive range of bad habits: I pick at my cuticles until they're pink and puffy, I impulsively buy cute underwear that I never use, and sometimes I forget to flush to toilet. But I am never, ever late.
When I reach the corner of the block, I punch my address into the app. A jarring DING alerts me that my driver—some guy named Cameron in a silver Honda Civic—will arrive in three minutes. I spend the entirety of those three minutes gnawing anxiously on my cuticles.
After what feels like a century and a half, the car pulls up alongside the curb, and I practically fling myself inside. "26 Hubbard Street, please!"
The driver, Cameron, meets my gaze in the rearview mirror before glancing away to shift gears. "You going to that show tonight?"
"Something like that," I say stiffly, keeping my eyes trained on the blinking time on his dashboard. 6:39.
"Something like that," he echoes, puzzled.
I pinch my lower lip between two fingers—a habit I picked up from Derrick—in exasperation. "I may or may not be the opening act." 6:40.
"Oh, sick!" He exclaims. He jerks his head around to face me briefly, a full-fledged grin nearly splitting his face. He looks young—my age maybe, if not younger—with bright round eyes, a pointed nose, and black hair clipped short. Objectively speaking, a voice in my head croons, he's kind of cute. "I'm Cam."
"Claire."
"Blacksburg's a college town, you know," he says after a beat of silence. "Go Hokies! Should be a fun show."
"I guess so."
Retrospectively, I could not have sounded less enthused if I'd tried. "What?" He asks distractedly, tossing several glances over his shoulder in an effort to merge into the left lane. "Bad undergrad memories? Throw up too many times in a frat basement, or what?"
I tug my eyes away from his dashboard (6:41) and force myself to relax. "Not really. I only threw up twice, thank you very much." He laughs—a big, hearty, candid laugh that fills the car. "I'm just tense right now, I guess. I'm supposed to be at the venue in four minutes."
He hums thoughtfully. "Want some candy? It always helps me relax." He digs around in the glove compartment before extracting a faded Ziploc bag and thrusting it into the air triumphantly.
They're Sour Patch Kids, beaded with sugar granules that I know will sting my sensitive molars. I take the bag anyway, and instinctively arrange seven gummies into a smiley face on my thigh. "Thanks."
"So," Cam muses, slowing to a stop a quiet intersection, "You only here for the night?"
"Uh, yeah. Usually we only play one show, but we're double-booked at this venue. Like you said—college town."
"So you'll be around tomorrow, then?" He feigns innocence about as well as I can pretend to like Olivia. I narrow my eyes at his tone.
"Don't."
"Huh?"
"Flirt with me—don't."
I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date. It's what I've been telling myself for the last three years. I haven't gone on a date since my twenty-first birthday, when the bar ran a tab on my card after Kemp Hurley "forgot his wallet" and ordered twelve Jack & Cokes. Incidentally, that was also the first (and last) night I ever punched someone. Whatever. Dating is for people who have nothing else going for them. People like sourpuss Olivia Ryan, whose passions in life include Instagram and juice cleanses. I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date. I don't have time to date.
Cam's vociferous grunt of protest draws me out of my reverie. "I'm not flirting with you," he objects, aghast, as if he can't believe I even had the nerve to suggest it. He pauses, tapping his thumb gently against the wheel. "You got a boyfriend, or something?"
"No."
"Okay."
"Do you have a girlfriend?" I blurt reflexively after a beat of silence. I feel myself flush, so I rest my cheek against the window glass, icy from the air conditioning.
"Nope," he responds cheerfully, flicking on the turn signal.
"Okay."
"Okay."
I pop a Sour Patch Kid into my mouth just to have something to do. 6:44. 6:45. 6:46. By the time we reach the back entrance of the venue, I've broken out in a lateness-induced sweat that definitely has nothing to do with the decent-looking, wide-grin-bearing cab driver.
"Hey, good luck tonight." Cam sticks his head out of the window with a sweet smile.
"Thanks." I feel suddenly and inexplicably nauseous, but I attribute it to pre-show nerves, and force a smile.
"Yup." He meets my gaze briefly, opening his mouth to say something else before clinching it shut resolutely. Instead, he offers a gentle wave, draws his head back inside the car, and rolls up the window.
His car pulls away from the curb and makes an immediate left, leaving a cloud of smoke in his wake.
