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I hope not.
“Well,” Dave says, turning to face me. “If it doesn’t work out, you’ll meet plenty of girls to help pick that ego up off the floor.”
“Yeah.” I scuff my foot against the dingy van floor.
I can still feel his eyes on me, and when I look up again, he has that same knowing smile. “But you don’t want other girls.”
I shake my head. “Not even a little.”
The bark of laughter that comes from Dave’s mouth is enough to make me laugh, too.
“What’s going on in here?” Marty asks as he pokes his head into the van. He has his guitar slung over his back because we haven’t figured out where he should store it yet.
Dave gives me a sideways glance before shrugging and shaking his head. “Don’t look at me.”
Marty’s eyes jump to me instead, and I say, “We were talking about Margot.” I don’t mind talking to Dave about stuff, but I’m still on the fence about Marty.
He gives me an overly sympathetic look. “Is the puppy feeling a little lovesick?”
And there it is, the reason I don’t want to talk to him.
“Hey,” Dave says, holding up a hand. “Lay off. If it weren’t for that so-called puppy, we never would have nailed this tour.”
I frown, my eyebrows furrowing. “I doubt that.” The band had already written and recorded most of their songs before I joined. I can’t take credit for any of this.
But Dave’s eyes bulge, and he enthusiastically nods. “Yeah, man. No shit. Someone at that first gig sent Sidecar’s manager an article about you joining the band. He was scouting out some of the bands in the area and said he chose American Thieves because of it.” He pauses, waiting for me to understand before continuing. “It wasn’t our music, it wasn’t our lyrics, it was you. He loved our ‘new dynamic.’”
“An article?” I ask with a dubious lift of my brow. “Why would anyone write an article about me?” I’m pretty sure Dave’s electric energy is what draws people to the stage.
“Here. I’ll show you.” He pulls out his phone before pointing at Marty over his shoulder. “It’s not like this asshole was drawing anyone in. We haven’t had such a big turnout until you showed up. They’re all Jackson groupies.”
Pushing off the platform, I scoff and shake my head. “Sure.” Dave holds his phone out for me to take, and I stop breathing when I see the familiar header and formatting of Margot’s blog. “Let me see that.” I practically snatch the phone from his hands and skim the article.
American Thieves and their refreshing new dynamic.
This local treasure of a band has always found success within the city limits. Anyone can see the dedication shining in their fans’ eyes as they line the front of the stage. But tonight, this beloved local group debuted their new guitarist, and it’s clear he’ll have them crossing state lines in no time.
The article goes on to talk about some of our hits and which songs were her favorite. It’s a raving review from the girl I could have sworn hated me back then. How did I never see this? Scrolling back to the top, I check the date. It looks like she posted it a couple of days after the show.
She wrote about me.
This must have happened before I found out about her blog. I only ever looked at her most recent posts, and I definitely never saw this. If I had . . . fuck. I can’t even think about how this might have changed things. She supported me . . . she’s always supported me—even when I was the last person she wanted to be around.
Handing Dave back his phone, I try to hide the fact that the van suddenly feels like it’s spinning. “Thanks.”
“See!” Dave says with a grin. “We’ve got you to thank for all of this!”
I give him a weak smile before stepping out of the van. He’s wrong. I have Margot to thank for this. She’s the reason my dreams are coming true, and she did it all while I was having fun making her life a living hell. I blink, trying to understand how it’s even possible. My palms sweat, and I wipe them against my jeans as Dave calls out, “Load up!”
Running a hand through my hair, I let out a breath. It was all her, from the very beginning. I put my headphones back on and let Taylor fucking Swift bring me a little bit closer to the girl who used to be just across the hall.
61
margot
Over three hours on a train has given my nerves plenty of time to ramp up. My knee bounces in the back of the car as the driver weaves in and out of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Add driving in Chicago as one of the things I hate most in this world. Holy shit, I’ve never seen so many cars. Letting out a huff, I say, “Can you just pull over here?” to my Uber driver. I’ll walk the rest of the way. It will be faster than dealing with the chaos.
The cold wind whips my hair as I step out of the car and onto the sidewalk. The bustle of the busy streets feels overwhelming at first, but there’s also something easing about being one among many. I pull my coat tighter around me, and blend with the rest of the people walking in the same direction.
