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“It’s not luggage. It’s equipment.”
“And what is your profession exactly?”
“I work with a band.”
“Are you a teacher? Is it a marching band?”
“No,” I snap, my frustration mounting.
“Give me back my eyeliner, asshole,” Priya hisses.
“No, let me see it!”
“Why? So, you can keep up your emo act?”
“No, I was looking to switch things up a bit,” Vince mumbles.
I gesture to Vince and Priya that I’m on the phone, hoping they’ll take the hint. Vince pauses, and Priya takes the opportunity to wrench the eyeliner pencil out of his hand.
I finished on the phone, and Vince and Priya are still going at it. The next three hours are an agonizing montage of complete chaos as we all discover what we left behind on the bus.
That night, Henry winds up onstage wearing swim trunks and a T-shirt because he forgot to grab pants. Apollo’s wearing his last clean pair of jeans and a red polo, and Priya looks amazing, though she looks like she’s plotting Vince’s murder. Vince is morose in his leather pants, hunched forward as he plugs his bass into the amp.
The lights dim, and the crowd goes wild, but tonight, it doesn’t feel magical. It feels like a never-ending series of problems that I’m left alone to solve because the people I thought would support me are too busy fighting.
Briefly, I’m furious at Priya. I know Vince loves to sulk, but Priya’s been the picture of composure and poise this entire tour. That pop star comment must have hurt her.
Then, I’m pissed at Vince. He can’t just go around lashing out at everyone around him because he’s miserable. I don’t get the luxury of complaining or sulking. If I stop doing my job, the tour stops.
Priya and Vince channel their grievances into an electric set. The tension between them only ups the theatrics of Priya’s performance. She’s determined to prove him wrong, so she doesn’t miss a note. During the assortment of break-up songs about absentee lovers, Priya stares Vince down the entire time, silently asking him what he did wrong.
Chapter 16
Vince
New Orleans, LA
New Orleans is one of my favorite cities in America, and I can’t enjoy it.
The beignet Henry brings me the morning after we get there tastes like sawdust. The sun’s too bright, and I’m sweating through my clothes.
They had to order an extra part for the bus, so we’re still stuck flying everywhere, and if one more security agent pats down my hair, I will snap their neck.
I would say I’m angry, but anger requires effort and passion.
I’m numb.
I feel like I’m watching a movie about my life from above, yelling at the screen and asking the main guy why he’s being such a dick to everyone. But I can’t stop being a dick.
I snap at everyone. My short fuse is now non-existent, probably because I haven’t slept a wink in the past three weeks.
The minute I close my eyes, I dream of Lyndsey, but we’re always separate. We’re in separate lines at the airport. We’re running on two separate trails, and I can hear the sound of her footfalls, but I can’t find her, no matter how hard I search.
But when I wake up, it’s more depressing because Lyndsey’s there, and she’sfine.She’s annoyingly calm about everything. I haven’t heard her cry once. Her strategy is to pretend I never existed. If only it were that easy, there’s no going back to my life before Lyndsey Vynse.
I pass her in line at the buffet for breakfast at the hotel, accidentally elbowing her as I reach for the granola.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
