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Ethan just raised an eyebrow and went back to browsing through clothes that all looked pretty much the same.
“You know it’s not really about them thinking you know about fashion, right?”
“Huh? What’s it about, then?”
“Have you seen the show?”
I shook my head. “I know it’s about fashion design, though, so—what?”
Ethan was shaking his head at me. “Are you being for real right now?”
My heart beat faster at his words. “I—yeah. Or, I mean, I know they just probably ask random celebrity people or whatever, if that’s what you mean. I’m not clueless. I just…there are thousands of those people who are all about fashion, so I don’t get why they’d ask me out of all those people. Since I’m not,” I finished weakly.
In the last hour I had become aware that some kind of gulf had opened between Ethan and me—no, that there had apparently been a gulf that I hadn’t known was there. And we were speaking to one another across it. I felt exquisitely uncomfortable because he was looking at me like I had something that he wanted. And I couldn’t tell him that the desire went both ways.
I bit my lip as his gaze raked over me, then nervously ran a hand through my hair, but my fingers got tangled. I dropped my gaze to the floor and saw that I was standing with one foot resting on the other, a gawky flamingo that could topple at any moment.
When Ethan’s voice came again it was softer, but laced with something dark I couldn’t place. “You really hate it, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “The fame. The attention. You actually, for real hate it.”
I nodded, and raked my hair behind my ear.
“I fucking hate it so much, Ethan.” My voice was rough and low and I felt like I was going to crack open. “I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I…didn’t get it. We…” He trailed off, glancing uncomfortably around the empty shop.
“You what?”
“We thought it was part of your…thing. Reluctant rock star or whatever. Part of the persona.”
“What persona?”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, I get it, Theo.” His voice was gentle—almost soothing—and he took me by the elbow and led me out of the store by the arm.
We ducked into a coffee shop on the corner, and when people started snapping pictures as we waited for our drinks, Ethan watched me but didn’t say anything. When our coffees were ready, he just led me back outside and we started walking again. I forced myself to relax, and grabbed the hat out of my pocket, shoving it over my hair.
“So, you all basically think I’m a dick, huh,” I said. It was out of my mouth before I could even think about it.
“No. None of us think that. Well, okay, Ven sometimes thinks everyone’s a dick.” I nodded at that because, sure. “It’s hard when we all put the work in but you get all the attention,” he said.
“But I—”
“I know you don’t ask for it, Theo. I know you don’t do anything to encourage it. But that’s how it works because you’re the lead singer and because you’re gorgeous. Sorry, it’s just the way things go. And we know that. Doesn’t mean it’s not frustrating sometimes.”
“Yeah, okay, I know. I get that.”
“You also get that you’re…really good, right?”
He’d stopped me with an outstretched arm.
“What?”
“I don’t know what to say to you sometimes, man. Because I really can’t read you at all. Shit, it’s been years we’ve been doing this thing, and I still didn’t get until today that you legit don’t want to be famous. I know you’re an adult and all, but sometimes you just act so fuckin’ naïve about shit. At first I thought it was willful, you know? Like, you didn’t want shit to be true so you refused to believe it. But now…” He bit his lip. “So, anyway, I’m telling you, in case this is one of those things that you randomly don’t know. You’re a fucking amazing singer and a really exceptional songwriter. Period.”
Warmth washed through me and I could feel myself hunching my shoulders. I’d heard it from a million fans, but none of it meant as much as hearing it from my own bandmate. I had no words to express how much I’d needed to hear it.
“I know Ven gives you shit about songs a lot, but that’s just the way he works, you know? But no matter the other shit about being famous or whatever, you’re a great fucking musician. Okay?”
“I—okay,” I mumbled. “Thank you. Thanks, Ethan.”
“Okay.” He thumped me on the back and we kept walking.
“So are you,” I added, belatedly enough that it sounded like a knee-jerk “you-too” compliment return. “Your drumming is always my favorite thing about our songs.”
“Thanks, man,” he said, and he sounded touched enough that I guess the truth of my words had shone through despite their awkwardness.
