Page 32 of I Just Want to be Yours

Brian pats me on the shoulder as we switch places. “Take this right,” he tells Dave as he collapses into the seat.

We still have time before the next stop, but that doesn’t make Dave any less annoyed about the prospect of another detour.

Brian continues to give Dave directions while my fingers pluck at the strings, but I’m barely playing. I’m distracted, counting the minutes we’re wasting and reading the different street signs as we squeeze down the narrow city streets.

Dave takes another turn and grumbles under his breath, “I better be able to drive this thing out of here.”

“You will. You will.” Brian gives Dave a few reassuring pats on the back, and I bite back a smile at the way Dave’s entire body tenses. He’s over Brian’s surprises, but in the past forty-eight hours, none of Brian’s surprises have been bad. He’s given us free beer, took us all out to dinner last night, and he supplied the RV we’re all in, free of charge. If you ask me, I’ll take whatever else he has hidden up his sleeve. “Stop here,” Brian says as he leans forward and lays on the horn in front of a random apartment building.

Moments later, a girl bounds down the stairs holding a cardboard box and wearing a lime green backpack. She looks to be about my age, and once she runs up the RV steps to pop her head in, I see I’m right. Her bright green eyes bounce to each of us before she pulls back the hood of her rain jacket, revealing pink hair that she has up in a messy bun. A silver septum piercing rests just above her broad grin, a smile that I have no doubt could bring an army of men to their knees. She’s pretty.She’s not Margot. But she’s pretty.

My hands stop playing as Brian stands to face the rest of us. “Everyone, this is Mya. She’ll handle all the merchandise at the shows.”

Mya props the box on her knee so she can wave.

“But we don’t have any merch,” Marty says, his dark eyebrows cinched as he stares at the girl.

“Well, this isn’t the only box I have,” Mya says with a laugh. She nods over her shoulder. “The rest is still inside.”

Brian takes the box from her and opens the lid. Reaching in, he quickly tosses all of us a T-shirt. They’re black with our band’s logo printed on the front. It’s the same . . . but also different. Like she took our band name and somehow made it better—sharper. Even though the colors are mostly made up of white, the design pops against the soft black material.

“Holy shit,” Brady says as he lets out a slow whistle, and it feels like he stole the words out of my mouth. We have merch. We are officially a band with merchandise available for purchase at shows because there are people who would buy it. I try to let that sink in as my eyes trail from the T-shirt I’m holding up to the girl who supplied them.

Mya says, “I had to make those on my Cricut to hold us over, but when I order more from the printer, they’ll probably look better.”

I think we’re all in shock, coming to the same realization that we have shirts, because none of us move until Mya says, “So . . . do you guys want to help with the other boxes or . . .?”

Her words are like a jolt of electricity through the RV, and we all jump to our feet. As we pass her, Brian calls out each of our names to introduce us. “Dave, Marty, Brady, and last but not least, Jackson.”

Mya smiles at each of the guys as they pass, and when her green eyes land on me, she repeats my name with a nod like she approves.

Everything about this feels like a dream. This doesn’t feel like my life. Maybe because, up until a few days ago, thiswasn’tmy life. My life this summer revolved around Margot, which was amazing. But I can’t lie. This feels pretty amazing, too.

18

margot

“Still not too much?”Karah’s voice calls with a hint of amusement from somewhere as I storm through the front door.

I don’t take the time to stop and look for her before ducking into my office, and even though I’m having my doubts about my overpacked schedule, I call back, “The perfect amount!”

Collapsing into my desk chair, I smooth my hair back and catch my breath. My inbox pings in front of me, and my heart plummets. It’s a message from our editor. Derek’s cooking may be magic, but getting an email from him is always a heavy dose of reality. It always means you’ll have to do more. More work. More revisions. Moresomething.

I click on the message and start to read, my jaw going slack. Staring at the screen, I blink a few times before coming to my senses and getting to my feet. The entire walk to Derek’s office, my hands are clenched into fists at my sides.

I stop in his doorway. “Seriously, Derek?”

Karah’s voice travels from her office. “I told you she wouldn’t be happy about it.”

I glare at the short, broad man with dark hair sitting behind the desk. “You thought I’d behappyabout the fact that you’re completely ditching my story and making me write a new one?”

He leans back in his computer chair, the plastic creaking beneath the strain of his weight. “Listen, the bookstore piece you wrote is good, but it’s fluff.”

I cross my arms. “Aren’t most of our stories ‘fluff?’ Small businesses, local heroes,Tampa’s oldest dog?”

He points a warning finger at me. “Don’t you dare say anything about Bandit.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shake my head. “I’m just saying, a lot of our pieces follow a similar formula. Why interview the corporate white tie who owns most of the city?” That’s what his email wanted. For me to abandon my article on the local bookstore, and instead, write an entire feature on some old, rich, white guy.

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