Page 18 of If Not for My Baby
“Do ye mind keeping it down?” he asks, softly yet sternly. He’s looking right at Grayson. “I’ve got a bad one.”
“Course, Tommy,” Wren says easily, before Grayson can respond. “In fact, I’m off to bed myself. Night, critters.”
“Night, Mommy.” Molly pouts.
Pete snorts his amusement from under his cap, awake after all.
Halloran gives Wren a weak smile but makes no attempt at eye contact with me. I definitely have done something to annoy him and hate how self-conscious I feel about it. He finishes pouring his tea, hot steam curling into the lounge and fogging up his glasses some, and then heads back down the hallway into his room. The door shuts before any of us say another word.
Grayson snorts. “For a guy who sings about getting drunk too often and waking up with the setting sun, he sure acts like someone’s granny.”
Indy chuckles, but I can’t be the only one to sense some bite in his tone.
“What’s the deal with the tea thing?”
“Halloran doesn’t sing without a mug nearby,” Molly tells me. “Fans caught on and now they ask him if it’s Lyons or Barry’s.”
Indy jumps in as she stands to leave. “They’re Irish tea brands. It’s like a Coke or Pepsi situation.”
“Don’t let Conor hear you make that comparison,” Grayson warns, rising from his lounger, too. “You’ll get an earful.”
We tidy the space as a group and I’m pleased to discover none of the band seem to be cliché rock ’n’ roll slobs save for Conor, apparently, who’s been asleep for the last hour anyway.
On my way back to the bunks, I just can’t help myself—I’ve been body-snatched by some kind of nosy tea detective—I hang back until everyone’s in bed and all the front loungelights click off. When all I can hear is the rhythmic rumble of the bus tires beneath us, I open the small drawer below the coffee maker.
Rows of red tea cartons stare back at me.
Barry’s.
Seven
A week in, theKingfishertouris going far better than that first night in Memphis. Tonight’s crowd in Raleigh is just as rowdy, and bigger than the ones in Atlanta and Charlotte combined, but I’m less nervous now that I know what I’m doing. Halloran’s performance hasn’t lost its effect on me quite yet, but I’m not left on the verge of tears anymore, and I haven’t missed a cue since that first night, so I’m counting both of those as wins.
What I haven’t grown used to, though, is life on the road. Every new city reframes 90 percent of what I knew about the world. Each bustling main street and unique landscape reminds me just what a pinprick I was seeing things through. In Cherry Grove, our neighbors still call me valedictorian. Among the band, I’m winning games of Never Have I Ever with not a single finger down. I’ve just seen and done so much less than every other person here.
And the self-doubt’s gotnothingon the unrelenting exhaustion. I need constant reminders on what day it is and ifI’ve eaten yet. It’s not the performances so much—in high school I’d sing, dance,andact in a two-hour show each night, and finish withmoreenergy than when I began. No, it’s bus life.
My bunk is right beneath Molly’s, and most nights she and Pete fool around like their sole intention is to tear through the flimsy mattress until they land on top of me. Molly’s got no shame, and Pete is audiblythrilledto be with that woman. Even when the two lovebirds have exhausted themselves and begin to snore, I can hear Wren, Conor, and Grayson playing cards and sipping beers until the sun comes up.
And yet no noise can compare to the rattling of the bus along the uneven roads from the confines of my squashed little bunk. Just thinking about another seven weeks of this is giving me wrinkles. Which is why I have to renege on the oath I swore to go out with Indy and Molly tonight.
“Please don’t hate me,” I beg as we make our way out of the venue and into the cool night air. Cars honk at the blockade and fans scream down the block for Halloran. “I swear, in Richmond, I am all yours.”
“There’s no nightlife there,” Indy huffs. “And this is the bar Kurt Cobain punched that guy from Pearl Jam at!”
“Allegedly,” Molly adds, staring at her sleek black nails as we walk.
“Allegedly,” Indy amends.
I can’t help my grin. These two are the oddest pair. Indy is practically a human hummingbird and Molly may or may not be a witch. But they are inseparable, and I’m sincerely honored to have been adopted by them so quickly.
“ ’Scuse me.” Halloran brushes past a roadie to my left and his eyes find mine for the briefest moment. He’s got his hood up over his head, and his hair is half cloaking his face. He looks like a handsome, mournful druid. His eyes are endless. “Hey.”
His deep voice still sends my stomach plummeting. Not just the depth of it, but how gentle his speaking voice is compared to that rich heaviness with which he sings.
I open my mouth to respond and find empty word bubbles float over my head. A cursor, blinking.
His brows pull together. A beat of pure confusion on both of our parts. Why can’t I talk? We’re both thinking it, and I’m the one who should have the answer. His hand nearly reaches for me as if in concern. But then he’s ushered at a fast clip through the crowd to avoid the mania, until he ducks into a town car with Jen.
