Chapter Five
Haylee
“I hate this,” Dylan mutters, hunching his shoulders up as he slumps lower in his seat on the plane. “Whose idea was this, anyhow?” He shudders. “Flying across an entire ocean. Insanity.”
“That’s how you get to Europe.” Lance’s tone resembles that of someone explaining something very simple to a small child. “How did you not realize there would be flying and oceans involved?”
“Fuck off, Lance,” Dylan says, shutting his eyes tightly as he grips his arm rests.
“We haven’t even taken off yet,” I point out from my seat across the aisle. “We’re just, like, sitting here.”
“But we’re going to,” Dylan moans.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Layla pulls out her phone and reaches over me to point it in Dylan’s direction.
“What are you doing?” Lance asks.
“Recording this so I can shove it in his face the next time he annoys me.”
“Your support means so much, Layla,” Dylan snaps. “You’re all incredibly helpful, just what a guy would want in his bandmates. Assholes.”
“Hey, I offered you some of my drugs,” I say, but unfortunately Louis chooses that moment to walk by on his way up to his seat. He glares down at us.
“Would you all please shut up,” he practically growls. “Swearing and talking about drugs on a public airplane—what are you thinking? The Ransomes are right up there.”
Lance affects an expression of mock horror. “Imagine—rock stars talking about drugs.”
“And swearing!” I add as Layla laughs next to me.
“The rock stars on this plane are not sitting back here,” Louis says, silencing every one of us. He grins, clearly enjoying putting us in our place, as we all glare up at him. “Now behave yourselves.”
“Asshole,” Layla says under her breath.
“He kind of has a point,” I say. “The real rock stars are up in first.”
“Which is kinda lame, if you think about it,” James says, sticking his head between our seats. “Why do they get all the perks?”
“Um, maybe because they have three multiplatinum albums?” I ask.
He waves his hand dismissively. “But we’re supposed to be their guests.”
“We’re not their guests, we’re here to do a job.” I gesture around the cabin at the assorted roadies sitting back in coach with us. “Just like everyone on their crew.”
“Whatever. You’re a much better singer than Daltrey. We’re totally due for some first-class perks.”
“The man has a point.”
I look up to see none other than Lennon Ransome standing in the aisle next to my seat. “Shit,” Layla mutters under her breath. I kind of wish I could see James’s face—from the dead silence behind me I’m sure he’s gaping wordlessly at the rock star, probably opening and closing his mouth that way he does when he’s at a loss for words. It would be kind of funny—if his screwup didn’t affect all of us. Getting overheard talking shit about the headlining band—by a member of that band, no less—was firmly in the territory of Louis-is-going-to-kill-us.
But Lennon doesn’t look angry. In fact, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Dude, I am so sorry,” James finally manages to get out. “We were just messing around and—”
Lennon holds up a hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s actually why I came back here. We didn’t realize that the label put you guys in coach. Dad took care of it—we have seats for you up front.”
Layla gasps. “Seriously? In first?”
Lennon shrugs, his eyes meeting mine. Definitely trying not to laugh. “Of course. You are our guests, after all.”
I feel a sudden stab of guilt. The last time I saw him, I lashed out at him because he had the audacity to bring up the stalking situation. He hadn’t deserved my ire—he was completely polite about it, and he clearly felt awful for bringing it up. I knew I’d behaved childishly by the time I got inside the club, but I was too embarrassed to go back out there to apologize. Which was totally like me—get pissed, go off on someone, feel bad about it. Some patterns are harder to break than others.
Lennon has turned his attention to the others, who are all looking up at him like he’s some kind of deity come to life. The patron saint of compassionate airline seating. “Come on,” he says, making a hurry-it-up motion with his hands. “We’re taking off soon. You need to get settled.”
My bandmates practically trip over themselves to get out of their seats and gather their things, thanking Lennon profusely as they do so. Even Dylan seems to have momentarily gotten over his fear of flying at the promise of first-class accommodations.
Lennon merely laughs off their gratitude. “It’s not really a big deal. Hurry up, come on.”
We dutifully file up the aisle behind him. I don’t see Louis, and I wonder if he’s being afforded the same courtesy. I hope not. It would serve him right to be back here all cramped while we live it up at the front.
“God, I feel like such an asshole,” James mutters behind me.
“You sounded like one too,” I say helpfully. He pokes me in the back, hard. I’m about to retaliate when we step through the curtains into the front of the plane.
The label has put us up in first a few times over the years—but never on an international flight. On those occasions we’d always joked around about how cool and high class we were. But those experiences had nothing on this.
“Did you know there would be beds?” Dylan hisses.
“God, play it cool, Dylan,” Layla says, flouncing toward the seat the flight attendant indicates. She perches at the edge, looking up at me. “I look good in first, don’t I?”
I laugh and take the seat across the aisle from her. “I guess this isn’t too bad.”
James lets out a snort of laughter that sounds almost hysterical. It is kind of funny, the five of us enjoying digs like this. We didn’t even have a proper tour bus the last time we were on the road.
Before I can tell him to get it together, the flight attendant comes over the speaker informing us takeoff is imminent and we need to buckle in. My friends quickly take the seats the other flight attendant indicates. We’re more spread out in this cabin than we were in coach, probably because our tickets were last minute add-ons. Layla is in an individual seat across the aisle, James one seat ahead of her. Dylan and Lance have disappeared somewhere up near the front. I catch sight of Cash Ransome a few rows ahead. Everyone else is hidden by the privacy booths surrounding the seats. I feel a little giddy—this is definitely cool.
Until someone slides into the previously empty seat right next to me. “Hey,” Lennon says, buckling his seat belt. “I guess we’re neighbors.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering how much of a coincidence this can be. He definitely seems like the type to want to make amends for the awkwardness of our alley encounter.
“If that’s okay with you,” he says, sounding uncertain.
“Yeah, ’cause I’m going to tell the guy that got us seats in first class to fuck off.”
He grins. “I’m not above using my dad’s generosity to get on your good side.”
“You don’t need to get on my good side. You aren’t on my bad side.”
His face clouds over. “What happened at the party was—”
“Not a big deal. Really.”
His eyebrows go up. “It seemed like a pretty big deal when you stormed inside.”
I give him my most winning smile, the one I usually save up for meetings with the label or interviews. “I have a tendency to overreact.”
He smiles, starts to say something, and suddenly cuts off, gripping the arms of his seat a little. I realize that the plane has started to move.
“You okay?”
He nods, looking straight ahead. His face is almost blank, no obvious signs of fear like I could see on Dylan earlier. But he’s breathing through his nose, big, steady breaths that look very intentional.
I’m not sure what to say. Should I try to distract him? He looks pretty methodical in his breathing, like it’s a practiced thing. Maybe I shouldn’t interrupt him—
“I don’t really like flying,” he says, not turning his head.
“Don’t you do a lot of it?”
He nods. “I’ve gotten a lot better. It’s just the takeoff that bothers me now. And the landing.”
“That makes sense. I think I read once that most plane crashes occur during the climb or descent.”
He winces, the next few breaths even larger than the last ones. “Sorry. That was kind of dumb.”
He nods, closing his eyes briefly as the plane gains speed. It looks like we’re getting to the runway, about to taxi. Lennon is completely still next to me, save for those deep, regular breaths that move his chest up and down, up and down. Steady and rhythmic. I feel like any remaining nerves I might have about the flight could be calmed just by watching his chest move like that.
“I’m not a fan of flying either,” I say.
He grimaces a little, eyes still closed. “You seem to be handling it better than me.”
“I took something,” I say. “I have extras if you—”
“No thanks.”
There’s something so decisive in his tone that I feel a little chastised. “They’re legal,” I say, defensive. “Just Xanax.” Of course, I also have a variety of not so legal, or, more precisely, not so legally obtained, medical aids in my purse, but I don’t mention that.
“It’s not a good idea for me,” he says. “Thanks, though.”
There’s something in his tone I don’t like. Something… self-deprecating, maybe. Or shameful. I watch his face, his expression tightening as the plane begins to taxi, picking up speed, bumping across the runway. His breathing isn’t so steady anymore, and I wonder just how scared he is, hidden behind the tight, blank expression on his face.
“Hey,” I blurt out, not really thinking about what I’ll say, just knowing that I don’t want him to look like that anymore. “Want me to distract you?”
He opens his eyes, actually turning his face to look at me. His eyes are dark, definitely afraid, but a little hopeful too. “What’d you have in mind?”
“We could… um… play a game?”
His eyes snap toward the front of the plane. I think the slight panic on his face might have to do with our imminent takeoff, but then he says, “I wouldn’t say that word so loud if I was you.”
“What word?”
“Game.” He whispers it, like it’s some kind of dirty word.
“Why?”
The plane lifts off, but Lennon seems pretty calm as he faces me again. “Did you by any chance meet Paige at the party?”
I scrunch up my face, trying to put a face to the name. “Black-haired chick?” I ask. “Nose ring?”
He nods. “She does graphic design for the band. And she’s dating Reed.”
I can picture her clearly now, hanging on Reed’s arm, smiling broadly as we were introduced. “She seemed nice.”
“Oh, she’s nice,” Lennon says, something wry in his voice. “But believe me when I tell you that you don’t want her to ever hear you say the word game.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me. You’ll find out soon enough.”
I shrug. “Whatever you say.”
As the wheels come up, the plane shudders slightly before turning sharply. Lennon clutches the armrests again. “So what kind of… game… did you have in mind?”
Even in his obvious fear he still manages to whisper the word game. Apparently he was not joking around about whatever danger would occur if Paige heard us talking about such things.
I search my mind for an appropriate game to play on an airplane with a near stranger. Having experienced the need to waste time on dozens of road trips, rehearsals, recording sessions, and meetings, the band has developed quite a repertoire of silly games. However, most of them were of the decidedly… vulgar variety.
“How about I Spy?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Too babyish?”
“There’s also the fact that we’re stuck on an airplane. Not a whole lot of variety to spy around here.”
I glance around the cabin and see that he’s right. With the privacy booths, I can barely make out the tops of people’s heads. “Hmm.” The band and I actually played a game on the shuttle ride to the airport, but I highly doubt playing Chuck, Fuck, or Marry with Lennon Ransome is a good idea.
“What about Never Have I Ever?”
He scrunches up his face. “I think I know that one.”
I quickly go through the rules. “Of course, we’ll need some alcohol.”
Lennon stills a little. I remember what he said about Xanax being a bad idea for him, about the shame I heard in his voice. Maybe he doesn’t drink, either. “Or,” I say, reaching into my purse and pulling out a bag of M&Ms, “we could play the PG version.”
He smiles. “I don’t usually say no to chocolate. Besides, they won’t serve alcohol until the seat belt light turns off.” As if on cue, the plane gives another shudder, and Lennon winces.
“Well, if I’m supposed to be distracting you from takeoff I guess we shouldn’t wait until we’re at cruising altitude, huh?”
He smiles, and I feel something flutter in my chest. Careful, a voice in my head whispers. The quiet ones are always the most dangerous.
I sling the M&Ms onto the armrest. “Okay, I’ll go first. Never Have I Ever… played a show in Europe.”
He rolls his eyes, reaching for the bag. “You already knew the answer to that one.”
“I’m just warming up.”
He shakes a few M&Ms into his hand and pops them into his mouth. “Okay, my turn. Never Have I Ever… gone skinny-dipping.” I immediately reach for the candy, and his eyebrows go up. “I’m gonna need to hear that story.”
“There’s not much to tell. We were singing at this fundraiser for an art museum outside of Detroit. Real swanky, boring thing, you know?”
“I’m having trouble seeing how you guys fit in.”
I roll my eyes. “Louis managed to get us cleaned up enough to not look out of place. We played jazz standards for two hours.” I shudder, and Lennon laughs. “Anyhow, when our set was over we had to stick around and schmooze with everyone. So lame. But there was an open bar…” I shrug. “I’m sure you can see what happened.”
He laughs. “Actually the connection between a boring museum party with an open bar and skinny-dipping isn’t very clear to me.”
I grin. “The museum had a sculpture garden. With a rather large duck pond in the middle.”
Lennon laughs harder, and I join in. “I hadn’t thought about that night in a while.”
“Europe has a lot of art museums,” he says. “Maybe you’ll get to relive the glory days.”
“Oh, God. Louis would kill me. We’re under strict orders to be on our best behavior on this tour.”
“Why’s that?”
“Probably because we usually aren’t.” Lennon laughs again, and I decide I like the sound. It’s low and rumbly, and I can almost feel it vibrate in my own chest. “And because he thinks this is a good opportunity for us.”
“Well, I won’t encourage shenanigans then.”
“You guys aren’t the type to find yourselves skinny-dipping in art museum ponds?”
“We used to get into some trouble.” He leans back in his chair, and I notice that he’s no longer clutching the arm rests. “Mostly of the drunk and stupid rock star variety.”
I nod. “A condition I know well.”
“Most of that was before Cash got his act together. He was the ring leader.” Lennon shakes his head, his eyes gleaming. Another warning bell goes off in my head, my own gaze glued to those gleaming eyes. “Always been a troublemaker.”
“Why’d he go straight?”
“Usual reason.” Lennon grins. “A girl.”
Ah. So that was why he stopped being so flirty. “Is she nice?”
“Very nice. And good for him. She’ll be coming over when we’re in Paris.”
Toward the end of the tour, Ransom will be performing in a live-streaming concert in Paris. It’s a pretty big deal, the label expecting it to air for millions of people. So we’ll be staying in Paris for an entire week for rehearsals. I’m really looking forward to it. From the looks of the jam-packed schedule in the other stops, it will be our only real chance to explore a European city.
“I take it you’ve been to Paris before?”
Lennon nods. “It’s probably my favorite city in Europe.”
“What’s so good about it?”
He looks a little embarrassed. “Well, there are a lot of art museums.”
“And you’re excited about that?”
He narrows his eyes a little, but he’s smiling. “You sound like my brothers. I happen to like art.”
“Really?”
“You don’t believe me?”
I shrug. “I’ve just never met many rock stars who look forward to spending their time in a quiet museum.” There’s a chorus of raised voices near the front, followed by loud laughter. Sounded like Cash. I raise an eyebrow and make a face that clearly says, See?
“Didn’t we discuss this, Haylee?” he asks. “I’m the quiet brother.”
His voice is light and playful, but something in his eyes tells me those words have more meaning than he wants to let on.
“I wonder what that’s like,” I muse. “To be quiet, I mean.”
He grins. “I take it you’re not the quiet one in your band?”
I snort. “I don’t think there is a quiet one. We’re all pretty loud and obnoxious.”
A flight attendant appears at Lennon’s side, startling me. “Your menus,” she says, handing one to each of us. I flip mine open and read through the options. Filet of beef with truffle-infused fingerling potatoes… sea bass with rosemary asparagus… vegetarian potato gnocchi with sweet potato coulis.
“Um,” I say after a moment. “I thought airline food was supposed to be awful?”
Lennon looks up from his own menu. “Another first-class perk,” he explains. “The food is actually pretty good.” He grimaces a little, stretching his leg.
“You okay?”
“I broke it this summer,” he explains, stretching again. “It’s still pretty achy.”
“Oh, that’s right. I read you had an accident.” I raise my eyebrows. “Motorcycle accident? That sounds pretty rock and roll. I thought you were the quiet brother.”
He smiles, but it looks rather pained. Before I can ask him for the details, the attendant returns to take our order. Having no idea what many of these foods are, I opt for the beef, and Lennon follows suit. “To drink?” she asks. “Wine? A cocktail?”
I knew if I was sitting with Dylan or James we’d be giggling about the free booze, pretending to be big-shot rock stars. But Lennon calmly orders a beer, so I order red wine, trying to play it cool.
“I wasn’t sure if you drank,” I tell him once the attendant’s gone.
“Why’s that?”
“You seemed a little… tense when I said Never Have I Ever was a drinking game.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve offended him. Finally he looks up, and I’m struck by how tired his eyes look. “I drink a little. I just try not to overdo it, I guess. Drinking games… that feels like overdoing it. For me.” He clears his throat. “Right now, at least.”
Okay, so clearly there’s more to that issue than he’s letting on, but I have no intention of pushing it. I know what it’s like not to want to share more than you’re willing.
I gesture at the candy between us. “We’re kind of slacking in the game department.”
“Ooh, did someone say game?” I look up to see the black-haired girl from the party smiling down at us, and Lennon groans.
“I warned you,” he mutters.
“Hush, Lennon,” the girl—Paige—says, smacking him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m only asking.”
“We’re just messing around, Paige,” he says, pushing the bag of M&Ms into my lap, as if wanting them out of view. “No big deal.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Lennon Ransome, I was just asking a question. You don’t have to get all secretive.”
“Okay, babe,” a male voice says, coming up behind her. The drummer. Reed. “Let’s just move along, all right?”
“Fine.” She crosses her arms and heads back up the aisle. “I don’t understand why no one ever wants to play games with me,” she says, her voice trailing off as she leaves my hearing range. “I’m awesome at games…”
“Sorry,” Reed says, watching her go. “She gets a little… intense about games.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Lennon mutters.
“Anyhow.” Reed looks down at us, smiling. But it’s a strange kind of smile. Guarded. Or maybe… his eyes flick between his younger brother and me, and the smile tightens. Worried. That’s what it is. “How’re you guys doing?”
“Fine, Reed,” Lennon says. His voice is perfectly pleasant, but I detect a warning note in there somewhere. Again Reed’s eyes flick to me.
“I thought you were sitting with Levi,” he says, eyes on Lennon now.
“Levi is sitting with Dad.” Yeah, definitely a warning note.
“We were going to have a band meeting,” Reed begins, but Lennon cuts him off.
“Dad said we were supposed to get some rest on the flight. If you guys decide to have a meeting, I guess Levi will come get me, won’t he?”
Reed is staring hard at his brother now. “Okay, Len. I just… okay.”
“See you around, Reed.”
“Um, it was nice talking to you,” I say.
Reed manages a tight smile in my direction before following his girlfriend up the aisle.
“Well,” I say after a moment. “That was kind of weird.”
Lennon releases a huge breath, his eyes on his feet. He takes another breath, then another, doing that deliberate, calming thing he was doing before. After a few seconds, he looks up at me. “I’m sorry. He was kind of a jerk.”
“No, he was fine—”
But Lennon waves me off. “He’s just…” He groans, running his hands through his hair. “He’s just suffocating me.”
It seems a strange thing to say. “Why?”
Lennon looks down at the M&Ms. “I’m sorry, Haylee, that question wasn’t in the correct Never Have I Ever form.”
Okay, so he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. That’s fine. I’m good at distraction. I pick up the bag of candy, narrowing my eyes. And for the next ten minutes I toss out the most outrageous behaviors I can think of, drawing from my own history of shenanigans, as Lennon called them. By the time the flight attendant returns with our dinners, he’s laughing, the dark, angry look finally gone from his eyes.
As we eat, he tells me about other trips to Europe, what they did in various cities, what he hopes to get a chance to see this time. I, in turn, regale him with tales of our last half-assed tour in the States, staying in shit motels and searching daily for different ways to torture Louis for putting us through it. I’m surprised when Lennon offers stories of his own about less glamorous tours. Apparently Ransom had performed in half the dives in the Midwest, traveling in a broken- down van for weeks at a time. It’s strange to think about them before they hit it big. It seems like they’ve been such a huge name for so long.
Our dinner is cleared and the cabin lights dimmed. On the other side of the aisle, Layla watches a movie on the small touch-screen TV attached to her seat. She’s bundled up in a blanket, her seat lowered until it’s practically horizontal. One by one, the other passengers in our section recline their seats, some wearing sleeping masks, some watching TV.
“You want to get some rest?” I ask Lennon, and he visibly blanches.
“Uh, nah. I’m not that tired.” He gestures at the blankets behind the armrest, wrapped up in their protective plastic bags. “But you can feel free.”
“I’m not really tired either.”
It’s true, of course, if only half the story. But what’s the point of telling him the rest? Actually, I’m never all that tired. And when I am, I can’t sleep anyways. Unless I have a hell of a lot more liquor in me than a glass of red wine. That would make me sound real good.
And why are you so concerned with sounding good to him? I ask myself.
“We could watch a movie,” he says, gesturing at the TV in front of him. His eyes meet mine, dark and clear, and something in my chest lurches in response. He has beautiful eyes. “Or we could just talk.”
“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. This is probably a bad idea. I should shove some headphones over my ears, focus on a movie. Anything but sit here in the dark, talking to Lennon Ransome. He’s a nice guy—that’s obvious. But nice guys are too easy to hurt. And I really don’t want to hurt Lennon. When I look in his eyes—it’s obvious it wouldn’t be the first time. Something else has hurt this guy, something else has broken him down. If there’s one thing I can recognize, it’s someone who’s seen the same kind of darkness that I have.
He obviously doesn’t need more darkness in his life. And that’s exactly what I would be.
But I don’t turn away, despite the warnings in my head. I don’t turn on a movie. I don’t find some other way of distracting myself. When Lennon reclines his seat a little, I do too. And when he hands me my blanket—a surprisingly comfortable feather duvet—I wrap up in it, mirroring his posture when he lies on his side so that we’re facing each other.
And then we talk. We talk about our bands and our families. I find myself telling him about my mom, about the old days back in Detroit when she would drag me from dive to dive or set me up busking on a street corner. I tell him about meeting James in that coffeehouse all those years ago, about how forming a band with him had been like finding freedom from my mom’s constant, suffocating stage mothering.
In turn, he tells me about his brothers, how they’d been playing since they were kids, how they were raised by their dad—who sounds like he could actually give Jess a run for her money as a stage parent. He tells me about Daisy, Daltrey’s girlfriend and one of Lennon’s best friends. About Levi, a friend so close he sounds more like a brother, their former head roadie and current tour manager.
We don’t talk about the dark stuff. We don’t talk about why neither of us desires sleep as it grows later and later. We don’t talk about the look on Reed’s face earlier or about the reason Lennon looked so tired when we ordered our dinner drinks. We don’t talk about the stalking bombshell I dropped on him at the party. We don’t talk about his breathing technique or my purse full of Xanax.
And somehow, as our plane continues east over the Atlantic, as the sun begins to rise in front of us, I realize that Lennon Ransome has kept the darkness at bay. At least for a little while.