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“It’s fine,” she replies, filling her plate with fruit.
The band sits together at a long wooden table. Lyndsey picks at a stale croissant. I can’t help myself. My eyes focus on her lips.
We eat, and an uncomfortable silence descends upon the table, only punctuated by fans who can’t read the room and ask for pictures.
I smile with closed lips, but part of it feels good to have women still fawning over me when I feel like garbage. One woman slips her number into the pocket of my shirt. I find it later when riding the elevator back up to my room.
There’s a knock on the door; I open it and wonder if I’m dreaming when Lyndsey’s standing before me.
“Wanna do laundry?” she asks. It’s a peace offering.
“Um, sure thing,” I mumble. I stumble into my room in a daze and grab my suitcase full of dirty clothes.
We call a car to the laundromat. The car ride is painfully awkward, worse than when Lyndsey and I met. At this point, I’d almost prefer if she was a stranger. But then again, would I?
Lyndsey and I pick washers on opposite sides of the laundromat. I load my dirty clothes into one and throw my shirt in for good measure. I’m still wearing a tank top underneath, and when in Rome.
Lyndsey and I orbit each other in silence, like ghosts. She tosses her wet clothes into the dryer above my washer.
“Hey, Lynds?” I ask. The pet name slips out, and Lyndsey blushes.
“I mean, uh, Lyndsey. Could you do me a huge favor and throw my clothes in the drier, too?
Chapter 17
Lyndsey
A Laundromat in New Orleans, LA
Ireach in the washer to throw Vince’s wet clothes into the drier next to mine when a tiny scrap of paper falls out of one of his shirts.
I peer closer, guessing it’s a receipt, but I recognize it as a phone number. Anger surges through me like wildfire. My heart crawls up my throat. My stomach clenches. I can feel tears building behind my eyes.
What an asshole!
It looked like Vince was having a tough time with our break-up, but I guess not. With each item that goes in, I slam them down with force, relishing in the satisfying thud I load hisclothes into the drier and “forget” to press start. It’s an honest mistake.
Eventually, Vince notices, but by the time he starts the load, our Uber to take us to the venue is arriving. He shoves his damp clothes into a suitcase and follows me out the door.
“The fucking drier didn’t work. Was your stuff okay?” he asks.
I shrug, “Oh, how weird. Yeah, my stuff was fine.”
Later that night, in the green room, Vince squelches whenever he moves.
“Vince, you’re pruning up, man. Your feet look shriveled.”
“It’s my pants,” he huffs, “The drier fucked up.”
“Damn,” Apollo says, “It sucks to be you.”
“Thank you, captain, fucking obvious,” Vince grumbles. I can’t help but feel a little vindicated.
My phone buzzes with a text from Allison, and I contemplate ignoring it. We’re in a bit of a fight right now. I thought Allison would be on my side during the break-up; Vince is her uncle, after all. Instead, she’s stupidly optimistic about the whole thing. She gave me her “blessing” and said that no one ever hangs out with their uncles anyway.
I hoped she would’ve seen my logic, that Vince and Allison were now simply too close, and that this only proves that Vince and I are in different stages of our lives. But no, she had to go ahead and be insanely well-adjusted and “believe in love,” and now I look like an asshole.
I checked the text.
