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Well, I’m giving the worst interview ever, and cream soda just dribbled down my chin. Awesome.
“It’s…” I wipe my mouth and try again, placing my can down. “The thing is… do you remember puberty?”
Beckett frowns. “All too well, unfortunately.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, relieved. “Exactly. Okay, so, for me, it goes back to that. To puberty.”
The green room is still loud, thank god, buzzing with ten different conversations. Someone gets a drink from the vending machine, the bulky machine grumbling, while someone else plays a dumb prank video on full volume on their phone. My complete humiliation is drowned out.
My voice still drops quieter. And my face is hotter than the concrete outside, but this is easier when I pretend it’s just Beckett who can hear me; that there’s no sneaky recording device listening. He could change my name for his book, right? Save me from my own humiliating confessions?
I owe him this. He wanted an interview, and I said I could help him.
It helps that Beckett hasn’t laughed at me. He’s nodding along, interested, one arm outstretched with the fingers tapping lightly on the table.
“Go on.”
First, another sip of cream soda. I’m down to the last sloshy inch at the bottom of the can.
“Okay.” I stifle a tiny burp, horrified, and Beckett’s mouth twitches with humor, but he doesn’t say anything. “Oops. Sorry. Okay, so I got my period pretty early. I’d just turned eleven. And, um, I was this gangly, awkward kid with gap teeth and prickly legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave until I was thirteen. She said it would be bad for my self esteem.”
So was being called Hairy Mary in Gym, but whatever—I like to pretend that I’ve moved on. Forgive and forget and all that.
“Then my hips got wider but my boobs didn’t grow, and the acne started, and I just, I felt like… like a stranger in my own body. Like an alien among the humans. Soul Obsession helped me with that.”
Beckett tilts his head, considering. He hasn’t scoffed once, thank god, not even about my period or acne or hairy legs. And I guess that’s because he’s a man, a mature adult—so yeah, it’s a low bar for him to clear, but I still want to crawl into his lap and never leave. To have him stroke my hair and tell me I’m not repulsive. I’m normal.
“Because of the lyrics?” he asks. “Some fans have said that Soul Obsession songs are empowering.Girl, You Shine, for example.”
“No. I mean—they are empowering, sure, but that’s not why they helped. For me, it was because I suddenly had something in common with the other girls. An easy way to make friends. We were all misfits in our own way, but we had this shared love.”
And gosh, the relief of that! It makes me dizzy now to remember it.
“We could all sing along together, read fan fiction, take online quizzes about which Soul Obsession guy would be our soulmate.”
A muscle flexes in Beckett’s jaw, but he nods encouragingly. “And you still love these men? You still have that… passion? You’re here for their reunion tour after all, with a VIP pass.”
It’s one of those moments where it feels like there’s another question hidden beneath his words. Shifting in my chair, I wet my lips. Need to say this right.
“I still love theband. Their music will always be important to me, just like the friends I made through fan groups. And sure, I daydreamed once or twice about coming here tonight and meeting the guys, and like, falling in love—”
Beckett clears his throat, drawing his hand back across the table. Panicked, I snatch for it, tangling our fingers together before I even know what I’m doing.
“No, wait! That was before.” My pulse thuds in my wrists, but Beckett’s not pulling away. He lets me cling to his hand, one eyebrow raised. “That was before, okay? And now I’m here in this green room, only a few tables away, and I don’t feel anything—not for the band members, anyway. Those were just silly daydreams… but I still love Soul Obsession with all my heart. Does that make sense?”
One juddering heartbeat.
Then two.
Three.
Until finally, at long last, a blunt thumb traces gently over my knuckle. “Not for the band members,” Beckett repeats slowly.
A red-hot blush crawls up my throat. Busted.
But he’s holding my hand again. Playing with my fingers, studying them like they’re fascinating, and this can’t be how normal interviews go. I can’t be alone in feeling this connection. Right?
It’s just—it’s too strong, too overwhelming, and surely Beckett must feel this too. Or else why is he pressing our thumbs together like that, measuring his big, pale one against mine? You don’t do that with strangers!
