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“Whatever,” I mutter. “I’m tired. If you’re doing your weird orgasm competition tonight, don’t be too loud.”
I ignore their irritating amusement as I escape down the hall to the bathroom. They’re being ridiculous. I get that I’m not exactly a bundle of joy—or even on the joy spectrum—but in love? How does a person even look in love? That makes no sense.
I lock myself in the bathroom to regain my cool—and stop cold.
Staring back at me from the vanity mirror is a total stranger. Paige was right. There’s something in that guy’s face I don’t recognize. It’s a… fine, it’s a glow. A ray of light.
It’s… hope.
I take a deep breath and study the rare tug of a smile I can’t seem to shut down no matter how hard I try to tilt it back where it belongs.
Okay, so maybe I am glowing. Maybe a few layers of cynic have been burned away to reveal a hint of something brighter.
I guess that’s what happens when your dark cloud crashes into the fucking sun.
1—INTERSTATE 80 (LARINDA’S BUS, ONE YEAR LATER)
LARINDA
I made a huge mistake.
“Come on, Larry. What do we always say?”
Steve claps his hands with each syllable, but that’s not the problem. He’s wearing his “wild” pajamas, which is the bigger issue. “Wild” pajamas equals “wild” night which is not a thing I feel like having right now. On my tour bus. On the way to the first stop of our North American River of Heartbreaks Tour. His official bunk is on the crew bus, but he was worried about my nerves and begged me to let him take this leg of the journey on mine. I said yes, which means…
I made a huge mistake.
“There’s no boring in touring,” I sigh out in answer to his question. Although my tone says touring is only boring. Ugh. I’m such a gloomy gloom-bucket tonight.
The reason? Obviously, it’s because I’m exhausted and a little nervous. After all, the first stop on a tour is always nerve-wracking. The expectations are astronomical, the kinks haven’t even been found yet, let alone ironed out, and… so many other things that are total lies and not why I’m moping more than my little brother at someone else’s birthday party.
The real reason I’m a gloom-bucket is because the person sitting on the couch in my private bus is my assistant, Steve Beltzer, and not my producer, Val Andrews.
You may be wondering why that small fact puts so much boring in touring. The answer is something I can’t admit. Well, not right now. Probably not ever if my label has anything to say about it. And they do. Literally. That directive was explicitly communicated in a two-hour phone call with my manager where top execs whined in incredible detail about a tiny incident forever ago when I might have dated a previous producer, then broken up with said producer a week before the album was supposed to drop, thus triggering a messy PR situation and messier legal battle.
Three years later, they’re still upset about this. Talk about holding a grudge. Geez. What is it they say about bygones? (No, really. I can’t remember. Something about more bygones, I think? Also, what exactly is a bygone?)
Anyway, when the label agreed (very reluctantly) to let me work with a new producer for this album, it was made abundantly clear that the no-producer-in-your-pants directive was still very much in play—more so, actually, when they found out my new producer was twenty-two and completely unknown. At that point, the directive become more of a, shall we say, royal decree on pain of death? Apparently, they were already taking a huge risk on “this kid,” and had no interest in additional risks like, as a random example, what might have happened that other time three years ago.
A year later, it seems this is still their opinion, based on last week’s passive-aggressive message from the label’s COO wishing me luck on the tour and affirming how much easier album releases are when they don’t involve ill-fated romances with producers.
Seriously, though. The whole thing is totally ridiculous because it’s not like there’s any chance I’d fall for a guy who’s super talented, incredibly sweet, always adorable and sometimes straight-up hot. Hilarious, deep, kind, and most of all, totally genuine in a world that utterly lacks integrity. Yep, Val is the polar opposite of Jarvis McKinnley, my ex-boyfriend/country music star/person I’m supposed to be pretend-dating right now.
So instead of spending this evening with the guy who makes my body hum and lungs explode whenever we’re together (which is a lot), I get a night of Steve and his “wild” pajamas. To be fair, they are really cute. The shorts are short enough to make my Grammie Jane blush, and there’s a leopard-print bear paw print on each butt cheek. (And yes, as I’m saying that I realize there are inherent zoological challenges with “leopard-print bear paws.”)
“Seriously, sweetie. You’re stressing me out. How about an almond? What flavor do you want?”
He sifts through the packets of flavored nuts like he’s running his fingers through bath water in a sexy perfume ad.
“Ooh! Blueberry! You want a blueberry almond, Larry?”
My sour mood immediately places blueberry almonds in the same logic prison as leopard bears.
“I don’t like when almonds try to be fruit,” I mumble.
Steve frowns. “You like hazelnut coffee and that’s a nut trying to be…” His point fizzles out as he gets lost in that botanical mystery.
Back to my problems.
