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Vince scoots over, and I wedge myself back onto the couch. Our thighs are touching. I could feel the body heat radiating off him. I am close enough to see the stubble on his cheeks and the spots where his neck tattoo has faded.
Despite myself, I hold my breath. Whatever product he uses in his hair smells like citrus, maybe lemon? His curls brush my shoulder as I open my laptop.
Calm down! He’s your co-worker!I chastise myself as I open my email. I confirm our load-in time with the venue and then email Liza, my friend who’s a makeup artist and stylist, who is doing Priya’s hair and makeup tonight.
I watch the blue of the sky blend with the grey of the highway, the colors smudge like a watercolor painting.
I elbow Vince. “That’s a good one!” I point. We’ve started keeping track of our favorite unhinged billboards. Driving for such long periods can get monotonous, with books and podcasts.
“Call 1-877-WHYGOD?” Vince reads.
“Do you think it’ll tell you you’re going to hell or that you need Jesus?”
“Hmmm, if I called, they’d know I was going to hell,” Vince quips.
“Why? Are they psychic?” I taunt.
“Not that. It’s an aura thing. I went to a Catholic school, and all the nuns hated me on sight. Granted, I did break a statue of the Virgin Mary and then glued her head on backward.”
I laugh. “Okay, so it makes sense if you weren’t their favorite person. How old were you?”
“Seven. And I used one of those shitty glue sticks, not actual craft glue. The Blessed Mother didn’t stand a chance.”
“I bet you were a terror when you were a kid,” I say.
I keep telling myself to keep my distance from Vince: a scatter-brained, womanizing himbo. But we’re spending eighteen hours a day in close proximity. It would be weird if I didn’t get to know him.
Plus, once I push past his manic scatter-brained energy and questionable eating habits, Vince is cool. He’s sweeter than I expected he would be. He misses his dog, a retired racingGreyhound named Violet, and the hours I thought he would fill with booze and women are usually spent meditating or running.
Vince shrugs. “I feel for my mother if that’s what you’re asking. What about you? What were you like as a kid?” he asks.
“I was quiet. My best friend Alison did most of the talking. We were in the same kindergarten class, and then that summer, she moved into the apartment building where I lived, and … I tour-managed her through elementary school.”
Vince laughs. “What did that entail?”
“Um, a lot of running around and keeping a tally of how many Girl Scout cookies she sold while I stood there silently clutching the order forms.”
“I bet you had a spreadsheet.”
“I was nine, but if I had access to Excel then, you bet your ass I would have made a spreadsheet.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I peek at the screen; it is Allison trying to FaceTime me.
“Speaking of,” I say, getting up and carefully making my way back to my bunk.
“Hey, Al!”
“Hey! I’m on my break at the market.” My phone glitches as Alison appears, wearing a white cowboy hat and sipping something out of a Styrofoam cup.
Allison works selling up-cycled vintage garments at various art markets in California and as a contract designer for Thistle Threads, an up-and-coming indie band that recently dressed the cast of 'Were Are They Now'for their season two premiere.
“What are you selling today?” I ask.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Allison jostles her phone and flips the camera around to show me a rack full of denim jackets; the sleeves are fashioned out of various vintage bandanas.
“Those are sick!” I say.
“And then these have the back panels.” Allison shoves some clothes aside and zooms in on denim jackets with embroidered tulle backs; the fabric is thin and gauzy, almost translucent.
