Page 15 of Ordinary Secrets

I senseit before it comes. From behind, Liz’s bubbly energy fires through my head like little pellets. Her heels clack rapidly across the backstage floor until her front slams against my back. The zense in my chest tingles as I fall forward off my barstool and catch myself right before the guitar in my lap hits the carpet.

Not even for a second does Liz release her arms from my torso. “Hey there, T-Bear!”

“Seriously, Liz? You act like you didn’t just see me all day yesterday.”And every other day.Dramatically, I pry myself out of her grasp, pretending she’s a slimy slug.

With a huff, I plant my ass back onto the barstool. Once Kevin’s guitar is repositioned over my thighs, I go back to changing the strings for him. He’s been saying that he needs new strings, but he hasn’t had the time to do it with all the stuff going on with his mom, so I figured I could help.

I twist the knob for the E string a few times. “You still trying to get that T-Bear thing to stick?”

Liz has been calling me that for the last few weeks. “I’m not trying. It’s already stuck.”

I throw my head back and groan.

“Ya know,” she sings in her soprano voice, “I only call you that because ya hate it.”

“I don’t hate it,” I grumble. “I just don’t prefer it.”

“Whatever.” She narrows her eyes playfully. “You secretly like it.”

“Do not.” I do, not that I’ll admit it out loud.

Liz is the only person I allow to call me silly names. She wears yellow every day of her life while she struts around the Earth spreading joy to everyone in sight. Even the people who don’t deserve it—like me. For that, she can call me any stupid name in the book.

With a swoop, Liz flings her purse onto the sectional couch shoved against the wall, then heads to the mini bar for a bottle of water.

Our backstage area is one big room with our instruments lining the perimeter. In the middle sits a large open space where we like to rehearse. Down the hall in the back are some bathrooms. Across from those is our recording studio, where I’ve occasionally brought women in for a good time. I haven’t done that for a while, because the last time I did, the redhead I invited in used teeth. My dick was sore for a week. Never again.

Liz claims a spot on the couch and pulls her yellow satin gloves off by the fingertips. The gloves flop onto the coffee table. I’ve come to appreciate the short moments when Liz’s hands are bare. It doesn’t happen often—only when it’s just us.

It takes me another minute to finish tuning Kevin’s guitar. With a flick of my wrist, the instrument hovers through the air, back to its stand. Then I join Liz on the sectional, resting an arm across the back.

She tucks one of her cherry-brown curls behind an ear. “Sooo, I read some of the comments on last week’s music video.”

“I thought we decided you weren’t gonna read online comments anymore?”

“I didn’t wear gloves for that video shoot,” she says a little defensively. “I wanted to see what the fans’ theories were.”

“And?”

She chuckles. “The best theory was that I’ve been replaced by an alien clone and aliens are allergic to gloves.”

I let out a loudha!“Yep. That makes way more sense than the fact that you did your scenes alone, so you didn’t need hand protection.”

“I know, right?”

Over our four years as a band, our fans have drummed up hundreds of wild theories as to why Liz always wears gloves. While most people accept her excuse of being a germaphobe, many others like to spread theories about her having robotic hands or that she’s hiding Hispanic gang tattoos.

It used to bother Liz. Now she owns it as her thing. Our sassy band manager, Monique, says that having a “thing” is great for branding. It gives people something to recognize Liz by. It’s endearing when our hardcore fans come to our shows wearing satin gloves of their own. Monique has suggested that we slap our band logo onto some gloves and sell them as merchandise, but Liz refuses to monetize her curse, fearing that if she does, it’ll get worse. I don’t blame her. I’d feel the same.

“I sense three people coming.” I point at Liz’s gloves. They fly off the coffee table and land in her lap.

“Thanks, T.” She doesn’t hesitate to slip into them as Kevin swings the back door open. Sunlight radiates into the room while he holds the door wide for Marcus and Emmy to enter.

“Grant!” Marcus shouts. Our fans have labeled our drummer as the tough guy of our band because he’s a tall, broad-shouldered Black man with a “Come at me, bruh!” resting face. On the inside, though, he’s a softy, especially when it comes to his girlfriend. “Lemme ask you somethin’. If, before you walkinto a gas station, you ask your girl if she wants a snack and she saysno, can she get mad at you for not buyin’ her a snack?”

I cock my eyebrows up. “No?”

Marcus turns to Emmy, who’s barely a step behind him. “See, babe?”

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