Page 61 of If Not for My Baby
“I don’t know about that,” I tell him. “Haven’t you heard? Lightweights have more fun.”
Tom brushes past me to toss his tea bag in the trash, and I’m shocked when his knuckle grazes the small of my back above my sweatpants. His hand lingers there, sweeping deliciously back and forth where nobody can see. I grasp the counter to stay upright.
Conor turns around. “Shall we?”
Tom’s hand drops from my body. “Yeah.” It comes out in the wrong register. He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses. “Yeah. I think I’ve cracked the verse now.”
Conor is none the wiser. “Brilliant.”
Tom follows him back into the suite. When the door closes my entire body slumps. The spot where he touched me is so hot it’s branding my skin. This kind of reaction to a person can’t be normal. I need a psych eval.
“One ten,” Wren says, toothpick still held between her teeth.
“Clem,” Grayson coos. “Isn’t that adorable.”
His brown eyes are lit with something charged, something possessive. I briefly debate acting as if the nickname is weird or unwelcome, but can’t bring myself to do it.
“I’m trying to give everyone nicknames,” Indy says easily. “Do you prefer Gray or Keys?”
“Donotcall me Keys.”
“How about Georgia?” Molly offers, eyes on the spinning rainbow road on the screen.
While Grayson grumbles about how even Keys is better than Georgia, I sneak a glance at Indy—she kind of saved my butt. When our eyes meet, hers are lit with mischief and I know she knows.
To my surprise, it’s a relief. I offer her a weak smile and mentally prepare for the grilling I’m about to receive whenever we are next alone.
—
By the time we head in for sound check I can hardly keep my eyes open. I down the dregs of Molly’s coffee—black, no sugar, vile—and then work up the courage to ask Lionel for one of my own, which he fetches for me instantly. I forget I’m a real member of this band—that I’ve earned my keep.
After sound check I finally get a chance to call my mom back. She’s fine: Willow has befriended a squirrel on our street, no drunk texts to exes, pain is neither better nor worse, Beth and Mike don’t ship Fox and Scully enough—but I cannot bring myself to tell her about Tom and me. We’ve graduatedfrom fear of admitting my lack of professionalism to fear that she’ll start looking at engagement rings online. When we hang up my guilt is so bone-deep I ache.
But tonight’s concert is our first stadium show. Twenty thousand people, in an arena used for hockey matches and basketball games and top-forty pop stars with glitter-coated backup dancers. I’m not nervous, but I am acutely aware of how simple Tom’s show is. Diffused lights, fake rain, some delicate shadow work, and plenty of fog. But it’s mostly him, guitar in hand, and the band in the background swaying behind stand-up mics and instruments in our jeans and white T-shirts.
“Clementine!” Jen’s voice snaps me back to the present. Behind wisps of steam from my coffee, I find her pretty head poking into the dressing room. “Can you run this IEM to Tom’s greenroom? Lionel’s dealing with a front-of-house issue and Pete’s got a rigging crisis.” She blows a hair from her face as she mutters, “Because why should anything ever be easy?”
Molly doesn’t look up from her eyeliner and Wren is on the phone.
“Of course,” I say, hurrying to grab the earphone from her. Jen is off so quick her sharp haircut nearly slices my fingers off.I am humbled by the reminder that while I may be a real part of the band, I’m still easily the lowest-ranking one.
The hallway vibrates with barely contained energy. The crowd is rowdy just beyond these walls, cheering for a local opener I’ve forgotten the name of. Engineers and venue PAs speed-walk past one another, carrying all manner of ropes andequipment. The air is thick with anticipation and artificial fog. My bones tingle. Tired as I am, I cannot wait to sing. I cannot wait to sing withhim.
The private greenroom door is ajar and when I open it, Tom is slumped in a leather armchair he hardly fits in. His limbs are all too long, and it’s not helped by the jitters sending his knees up and down like rubber balls.
“You okay?”
“Sure,” he says, though his voice is tight. “What’re you doin’ here?’
I close the door behind me and we are swallowed by silence. Those are some seriously thick walls. This “greenroom” isn’t really a greenroom. The actual private lounge is being used by the rest of the band as we speak. Tom’s in more of a refurbished storage closet, with two stiff leather chairs and a table between them that seems like it used to be patio furniture.
Weak light from one low-hanging lamp filters out, painting his eyes a darkened evergreen. A limp bar slants against the wall, stocked with water bottles.
“Jen needed me to bring you a new in-ear monitor.” I hand him the IEM. “Are you sure you’re okay?” I’ve never seen him so pale, which is saying something.
“Nerves,” he says, running a hand over his mouth. “It never used to happen.” He leans forward as if he’s going to say more or stand from his chair, but does neither.
My heart cracks a bit. I wonder if that’s why he never hangs out with the rest of the band before the shows.
