The crowd is on the edge of their seats. I can feel the excitement in the air. Those baby fine hairs on the back of my arms stand on end as if electrified as I head toward the chorus. And then I look at Josh and realize something: I wrote these words about him. I thought I was writing it about my career, about how I’d choose a different life. But no, it was simply him. He’s what I would choose.
The song is still brief, since I’ve only got two verses. It ends quickly and then people are jumping to their feet, clapping for me, and it means more than any standing ovation in a sold-out arena ever has because they’re actually clapping for me. For Ilina Andreyev, the nobody daughter of a fuck-up who is falling for the wrong guy.
“That was amazing,” says a woman, gripping my arms as I walk off the stage to get back to Josh. “Don’t let all that talent go to waste.”
I smile at her but I’m shaking, so high from the experience I feel like I can barely put one foot in front of the other. I stumble forward, past all the back pats and the shoulder slaps and fall against Josh, standing near our table, like he’s home base, like nothing can hurt me if he’s near.
His arms wrap around me. “You were perfect, Ilina Andreyev,” he says quietly.
I could argue that it could have been better, that I went into the first verse too late, but I don’t. In an imperfect life, it—and this moment—are as close to perfect as I’ve ever come.
We walk back to our wing slowly. The breeze rustles through the palms, the crickets chirp. I wish we were running in the morning but our flight leaves too early.
“So what are you gonna do?” he asks as we walk into the elevator.
I blink up at him, unable to imagine any question he isn’t the center of. Am I going to tell him how I feel? Am I going to think about him every single day after we leave here? “Do?” I repeat.
“With the song,” he says, and something inside me deflates. But really, what did I think he might ask me? “Are you going to push to add it to the new album?”
I give him a sad smile. In order for that to happen, I’d have to fight for it, and then it would get turned into overproduced garbage, and I’d have to share the writing credit with four assholes the record label brings in to ‘help’ and it’s my song. Plus, it would never be a single. It would be the song everyone skips past to get to the next Naked. “Nah. It would never work.”
“I don’t get you,” he says. “You aren’t happy with the way things are going. Your manager is a dick. You’ve been pushed into singing shit you hate, and you just keep signing up for more of it. Why not just step off the bus and get on a new one, going somewhere you want to be?”
I blink up at him. He’s co-opted my theory about love, but I guess it works here as well as there. “Because I know where this bus goes. That one could lead me to a super bad section of town and dump me there.”
We’ve reached my door. It strikes me this may be our last moment alone, and I want to say something big to him, but the words just don’t come. “Thanks for making me get out there tonight,” I tell him instead. “I’m glad I did it.”
His eyes hold mine and he bites his lip. “Drew,” he says. He pushes a hand through his hair. “I—”
Just then my door opens and Six stands there, looking between the two of us. “What’s going on?” he asks. The question is mild, containing only the barest hint of suspicion. It’s simply guilt that has me feeling like I was just caught at something.
“Nothing,” I say. My eyes dart to Josh’s. “Good night,” I whisper as I walk past Six into the room. My steps drag. There is something so deeply wrong with the fact that I’m here rather than with Josh right now.
Six shuts the door and attempts to hug me. “Don’t,” I snap. “You were awful to me and your mother left in tears. A hug might fix this with her, but it fixes nothing with me.”
I storm away to get ready for bed, and it’s only after I slide between the sheets that he joins me again, wrapping an arm around my waist. All I can think of is Josh’s arm, Josh’s broad chest pressed to my back. I take small breaths through my nose, desperate to get through this last night and get back home.
“Drew,” Six whispers. “I’m sorry, okay? I messed up. I know I messed up. I was an asshole. But you’re what I want. You’ve always been what I wanted and I just didn’t…I wasn’t ready, okay? I wasn’t ready and now I am. It’s going to be different from now on.”
“It’s late,” I reply. He’s drunk and I don’t want this to turn into a fight and I definitely don’t want to find myself going to the front desk and asking for my own room. “Can we discuss this tomorrow?”
He pulls me closer. I have to force myself to stay in place. “Yes, baby,” he says. “Anything you want. From here on, you make the rules.”
It’s not until he’s asleep that I grab my pillow and head to the couch. Six makes a mess of everything, but I do too. Which of us really wreaked more havoc on this trip? Which of us was the reason Sloane left, which of us is the reason Beth never managed to bring her boys together?
Maybe we’re a perfect match after all. We both ruin everything we touch.
31
DREW
February 2nd
The sun has just come up when we assemble in front of the hotel to head to the airport. Six is careful with me, sweet and solicitous.
He opens the van’s front door. “She gets carsick,” he tells the driver, pressing his lips to my forehead. “She needs to ride up here with you.”
I climb into the front seat, feeling like I could easily burst into tears at any moment. Inside me, there’s a wire pulled taut, and my throat aches with the effort it takes to keep it from snapping. I stare out the window saying goodbye to this island, wishing I could replay a thousand moments I’ve had these past days—and every single one of them was with Josh.
He’s in the back right now, with his father grilling him about his schedule these next few weeks. The idea that Josh and I will be on the same coast and not see each other seems impossible to me, but what would I even say? Hey, I’m ending this with your brother. Want to get a drink before you leave for a year?
Even if I could somehow come up with the right words—and there is really no clean, acceptable way to hit on your ex’s brother—it would be futile anyhow. He’s leaving, he could never tell his family, and I can barely picture the amount of blame that would be bandied about if people knew I’d ditched Six for his brother. We view men like wayward little boys, but we judge women the way we do ourselves: as harshly as possible. It’s hard enough handling the judgment I get over things I haven’t done.
We arrive. The luggage is dealt with and then we go to the first-class lounge to wait. Six goes to the bar for a drink and I take a seat next to Beth. “You look tired, hon,” she says, running a hand over my hair. “I figured you’d sleep like a baby last night.”
I blink tears away. What might it have been like to be raised by someone like Beth, someone who watches out for you, worries about you? To simply have a bad day or a bad night’s sleep and have someone concerned rather than accusing you of “sulking” or “theatrics”。