His compadres have disappeared into a matching SUV that trails us like a shadow as we peel out of the lot, away from the mob. I sit back against my seat with a rattled sigh. Francesca warned me the press were hungry for the Wildwood story, but I never imagined it would be this much of a circus. There must’ve been a hundred of them snapping pictures of us. Maybe more.
From the front seat, Francesca shoots me anI-told-you-solook before pulling out her phone and checking her email. In the bucket seat beside mine, Ryder stares out his tinted window, seemingly lost in thought. His jaw is clenched tight, the vein in his jugular pounding rhythmically. I want to reach out to him, to take his hand in mine and thank him for being my protector — from the paparazzi, from Eileen’s probing questions. But memories of the expression on his face when we sang together stop me in my tracks.
Sheer, unadulterated longing… and something else. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on that made my heart lurch inside my chest.
It was just… a moment,I try to convince myself.Don’t make it more than that. Don’t forget that in four months, you’ll be gone and he’ll be a stranger again.
We drive back to Route 66 in total, unrelenting quiet. Francesca leaves the two of us at the bank of elevators. When we’re finally alone, enclosed in the small ascending box, I wait for him to shatter the silence. But Ryder doesn’t say a single word to me. Not even a goodbye when he departs onto the seventh floor, stalking down the hall without once glancing back.
Alone, I stare up at the ceiling, blinking back tears and cursing the conflicted heart beating rapidly inside my chest.
* * *
Time shiftsinto fast-forward as our weeks before the tour dwindle to days, then hours. Our rehearsals have moved upstairs from the soundproofed ground-level rooms to the auditorium on the third floor, where we can get a better handle on the acoustics of a real stage and sort out any remaining kinks in our performance. It was only last night, on the eve of our debut, that Francesca — who’s been monitoring our progress with meticulous notes since our very first rehearsal — finally declared us ready to play for actual audiences, instead of the Route 66 employees she routinely harangues into listening.
Just in time, too. Six hours from now, we’ll be at the Rose Bowl, playing for ninety-thousand people.
Ninety. Fudging. Thousand.
The number is far too large to wrap my head around. When I agreed to do this tour, I figured we’d spend most nights playing to a half-stacked house — that they’d have to bring in fake walls to block off the unfilled sections of our stadiums.
If only.
The day ourEileen Showinterview aired, our fans crashed the Route 66 website in a mad rush to buy tickets. The tour now is sold out in almost every city, from Tucson to Tampa. Lincoln, who’s been tracking the surging re-sale prices with glee, informed us last night that premium seats are currently going for four, five, even six times their initial value.
In a word:insanity.
Between press appearances and nonstop rehearsals, there hasn’t been much down time to do anything but crash into my bed each night, too tired even to dream. I know things are only going to get busier, with the tour officially underway, but at least the interviews are over.
Since we appeared onThe Eileen Show,Ryder and I have done three more daytime television sit-downs — following the same script almost to the word. In front of the adoring audiences, he’s his old self: undeniably charming and endlessly confidant. But each time we return to Route 66, he seems just a bit more distant.
There’s a wall between us that wasn’t there before, graffitied with the wordsJUST FRIENDSin permanent spray-paint. The only time I see a spark of life in those mismatched eyes is when they’re burning into mine while we sing together. It flames out into darkness the moment our fingers leave the strings and the lyrics taper off beneath the rattle of applause.
Last night, he barely spoke to me at all when we wrapped up our final rehearsal, agreeing to meet at the venue this afternoon. I had to bite my lip to keep from asking if he wanted to ride over together.
This is what you wanted,I tell myself so many times, it loses all meaning.
An hour before we’re set to show up for soundcheck, I’m pacing treads in my carpet, too nervous to stay still. My packed suitcase sits by the door, ready to be whisked onto the tour bus by one of Francesca’s minions after tonight’s show. I glance around at the penthouse I’ve called home for the past three weeks, already dreading the loss of my private refuge.
Starting tonight, there’ll be no place to escape to if I need to pull myself together. Personal space on a cramped sleeper coach is pretty much nonexistent.
The knock at my door makes my feet falter and my mind blank.
I’m not expecting anyone.
I walk to it, heart in my throat. Full of hope, against all logic, as my hands close on the knob and I pull open the panel…
“Eeeeeek!” With a roar of delight, Carly careens across the threshold. Her suitcase clatters to the floor as she practically tackles me in a hug. Her arms are so tight I can’t breathe.
“You came,” I manage to wheeze, hardly believing it. “You actually came.”
“Of course I came, you idiot! Isn’t that why you sent me that plane ticket and asked me to tag along on this tour of yours?”
“Well,yes, but I didn’t think you’d actually drop everything to come.”
“Think again! You needed a lifeline, and I wasn’t about to turn down a free trip… or a chance to see my best friend again.” She releases her crushing hold, but only so she can glare at me properly. “You know, a head’s up about you coming back from the dead would’ve been nice. Last I heard, you were still hiding out on Cape Cod like some tragic heroine in a Bronte novel, wailing at the wind and moaning at the moors and heaving your bosom at the ill-crossed stars.”
I scowl. “I was notmoaning! There was nowailing! And I most certainly was not doing anything with my bosom that could be described asheaving!”