Page 34 of If Not for My Baby
“You were brilliant with him,” I say, because I just can’t help myself. “He was such a jerk and you handled all his asinine questions and interruptions with grace and patience and humor and then blew the crowd away. I could never do that. I think I would’ve spat in his eye and gone home early.”
With the uncanny feeling of Lionel’s and Indy’s and Jen’s eyes on me, I realize I’ve probably overstepped. The crushing weight of mortification descends heavy on my shoulders.
But Halloran only glances down at me, vaguely amused. “Thanks.”
Oh, God, I could liquefy beneath that gaze.
My phone buzzes and I’m forever indebted to the distraction.
Mom Clark:Clementine Betty Boop Clark. What on earth is going on with you and that beautiful Irishman? Call me.
Okay. Maybe I am screwed.
Twelve
The show in DC goesoff without a hitch. My “If Not for My Baby” duet Band-Aid has already been ripped off thanks toThe Morning Show with Joe Jennings, and by the time Halloran and I close out the Pittsburgh concert under the strobe lights, we’re comfortable, electric, and alive.
Tonight’s show in Atlantic City is somehow even better. It’s my first big concert—hello, twelve thousand people—and where I expect crippling imposter syndrome I find only bone-deep, near-spiritual rightness. I wonder if I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m even more rejuvenated onstage this evening because earlier today Indy dragged me to visit the boardwalk before sound check, where we ate enough kettle corn and cotton candy to guarantee cavities.
Indy’s the most popular person I’ve ever met, and usually has a friend in every city we visit, meaning sometimes she barely makes it back to the venue in time to snap pics of Halloran’s meet and greets or record videos of his vocal warm-ups. But today she was bored and antsy and I was grateful for the field trip. The crisp seaside sunshine and smell of brine and hot dogs was a much-needed break from the tour bus.
Not that I mind spending downtime with the band. The other day Wren showed me the correct way to hold drumsticks using some leftover take-out chopsticks. Grayson, Pete, and Conor often monopolize the space with raucous games ofCall of DutyandMario Kart, but lately they’ve asked me to join in even though I consistently die within sixty seconds of gameplay. And as usual Halloran keeps to himself, which I tell myself is the best-case scenario.
Especially since I realized this morning that the days Halloran and I hardly see each other have somehow become the worst kind of days. That level of hung-up-ness needs to be carted off and executed before a cheering crowd. Those are the sorts of things my mom still says about my dad—If he wasn’t at the party, it wasn’t a party worth being at—all these years later. I cannot fathom a fate worse than hers.
Perhaps spending too long on the road, or singing devastating lyrics into each other’s eyes each night is the culprit. Regardless of why, when tonight’s show ends and we parade offstage into the greenroom, I’m determined not to speak a single word to him.
“Unreal!” Indy pulls me into a hug. “There was something really special about the crowd tonight.”
Everyone else must feel it, too—the room is buzzing. The whole band is smooshed in here plus a gaggle of VIPs, and a top-forty rap song with a bass I can hear in my skull is blaring from the speakers. I can only see the back of Halloran’shead—his hair extra unwieldy after tonight’s show—as he talks to Pete and a balding man I believe to be the venue owner.
For the first time on the tour, we’re in a city known for its nightlife and we don’t have an overnight drive. We’re sleeping on the bus, and while my soul withers a bit at the lack of hotel shower, we don’t have to go anywhere until tomorrow afternoon, which means tonight is the night I promised Indy and Molly I’d go out with them.
Everyone is planning to hit a bar or two and then go gambling, because it’s Atlantic City and that’s apparently what you do. I signed my soul away days ago, and the she-devils have come to collect. I’m even wearing a tiny denim miniskirt and have traded my cowboy boots for knee-high heeled ones as instructed by Molly, who is finally being less growly and sour.
“You guys have some incredible chemistry onstage,” Indy says, still gushing about the show.
“You think?” I ask, squeezing in on the couch next to Wren and propping my boots up on the table beside a smattering of drinks.
“Oh, yeah,” she assures me, perching on the armrest. “I got some great footage, too.”
Footage of Halloran singing to me like I’m the only thing standing between him and a ruthless apocalyptic wasteland?Don’t ask to see it. Do not ask to see it.
“Oh, cool.” I chew at my lip. “Can I see—”
An eruption of squeals cuts me off as Jen enters with a veritablehordeof beautiful women. It’s hard to tell how Iknow they are all beautiful given a) how many of them there are and b) how swiftly they descend into the already packed greenroom, but the slivers of exposed, toned abdomen and swaths of shiny curled hair are enough for me to get the picture: groupies. And not just any groupies, groupiesprocuredby Jen. I can’t tell if I applaud her for taking care of the band in every way imaginable or if I’m kind of disgusted.
When no less than four near-models descend on Halloran like fleas on an alley cat, I decide it’s the latter.
“What pissed in your beer?” Grayson asks, slouching into the armchair to my left with a plastic cup of something clear and icy.
“Me?” I blanch. “Nothing. Why? Do I seem weird?”
“Chill out. I’m messing with you.”
“Right,” I say dumbly. It is a Herculean effort to keep my eyes on Grayson and not peer back over to Halloran and his newfound friends. Each of them is imagining being the one to win him. To steal him away, be the only thing on his mind, if only for the night. They want to know what he’s like behind closed doors. What he whispers on a broken breath in their ear right before he—
