Chapter Nine
Haylee
I tell myself that I made the right call as we travel to Dublin. And then again when we fly to Madrid, Lennon sitting next to me on the flight, just the way he did when we flew across the Atlantic. It becomes something of a mantra, I repeat it so often. Just friends is the best thing for both of us.
If only repeating the words could take away the sharp stab of longing in my chest every time I’m within two feet of him.
It’s strange, this feeling. I’ve never been one to yearn for a guy. Then again, I’ve never really let myself get this close to a guy like Lennon. A guy who actually seems to care about me, instead of focusing only on getting me into bed. A guy who can cheer me up without even saying anything. It’s not like Lennon is some effusive, cheerful person (I’m learning that Paige covers that role for the entire band). He’s quiet more often than not, sitting back and watching while his louder, more extroverted brothers act like idiots in the dressing room after shows or when we go to loud bars or restaurants all together. Even when it’s only the two of us, he still seems to prefer quiet to incessant talking. And I like that. Which is totally weird for me.
“Hey,” James says loudly, snapping a finger in front of my face. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and look over at my friend. He’s frowning. “You’re totally distracted, Hay. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just, you know, soaking it all in.”
James and I are walking down a tree-lined boulevard in Barcelona, ducking through the tourists. It’s just the two of us sightseeing today. Ransom has promo work all day, and the other members of our band are sleeping off what I’m assuming are pretty wicked hangovers from the night before. We hit some tapas bars on our arrival to the city, and some people just can’t hold their sangria.
I can see James still watching me from the corner of my eye, so I stop to bend over a display of little sketches. La Rambla is one of the main tourist centers in the city, stretching down from Placa de Catulunya, where our hotel is located, all the way to the water. The boulevard is filled with stores, restaurants, and countless little stands hawking everything from art to cheap T-shirts to what looks to be pretty amazing gelato. But to be honest, it isn’t my favorite place we’ve been so far in Europe. There are people everywhere, crowding in on me, often brushing against me as they pass, and I’m starting to get a headache from the strain of it.
“You want some lunch?” James asks, and once again I marvel at his ability to sense I need a break—until I realize that I’m rubbing my forehead. I smile at him. “Lunch sounds great.”
We find a little sushi bar a block off La Rambla and order, James massacring a few words of Spanish with help from his iPhone translation app. “We’re going to end up with octopus or something, aren’t we?” I ask once our waiter leaves.
“Would serve you right,” he says, taking a sip of his water. “You didn’t even try to help.”
“Because it was so much fun watching you.”
James leans back into his chair, wiping his forehead. “I wasn’t really expecting it to be so warm.”
I nod. “It’s even better than Madrid, and that felt warm to me. Lennon says there are some really good beaches here.”
James doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows tilt up just a fraction. I struggle not to make a face at him. Sometimes it’s so annoying, that little gift for reading my mind.
“You guys have a good time in Madrid?” he asks, voice measured. “Where’d you go—the palace?”
“We had lunch in the park by the palace,” I say, my voice a lot less controlled than his. I hate it when he acts like this. It would be so much easier if he just came out and said what he was thinking so I could call him a dumb ass and move on.
“A picnic,” he says, eyebrows raising another notch. “How nice.”
Somehow the word nice sounds decidedly not nice when he says it in that tone of voice.
“What, James?”
He holds out his hands. “Nothing. I’m just catching up with you.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re together eighteen hours a day. I don’t think we really need to catch up.”
“I’m not the one spending a ton of time with Lennon Ransome.”
“I’m not spending a ton of—” I cut myself off, taking a deep breath. “I told him we’re only going to be friends, James. I actually agree with what you said that day in Newcastle, okay, so you really don’t need to be on my case.”
“I’m not trying to be on your case, Haylee,” he says, sounding offended. He leans toward me. “I’m trying to help you.”
“You do help me. And I need you to. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t just trust me sometimes.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment, and when he speaks again his voice is quiet. “I do trust you. I just…”
He doesn’t have to finish. I know exactly what he’s thinking. He’s seen me fall apart way too many times to really believe things will be different now.
“He’s a nice guy, James,” I say, looking away, not wanting him to see the shame I’m sure is in my eyes.
“I know he is,” James agrees quickly. “I like him. I like all of them.”
I smile a little. “They’re not quite like we thought, are they?”
He snorts. “You could say that. I was imagining debauchery and flagrant wealth. Not visits to a hedge maze in Madrid.”
It’s my turn to snort. “Apparently being in a major rock band means you spend seventy percent of your time playing video games and the other thirty percent going on ridiculous sightseeing expeditions. We can definitely out-party them.” I laugh, trying not to notice the way James’s face tightens.
“Anyhow,” I continue quickly, not really wanting to get onto the topic of partying when he’s looking like that. “I was going to say that I don’t think you have anything to worry about with Lennon. When I told him we should just be friends, he was fine with it.” A fleeting memory of the hurt on his face flashes through my mind, but I push it away. “He’s a nice guy. I really don’t think he would ever hurt me.”
James stares me right in the face. “That doesn’t mean you won’t get hurt. It doesn’t really matter how good his intentions are.”
“Because I’m crazy either way, right?” I snap.
James’s face tightens some more. “I did not say that. I would never say that—”
“It’s what you were thinking.”
“Haylee—”
Luckily the waiter reappears with our food, giving me a chance to hide my flushed face in a glass of water for a few seconds. By the time he’s gone—leaving no octopus behind, thank goodness—I’m a little more in control.
“I know you didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “But it feels like that sometimes, James. Like you all think I’m just a ticking bomb waiting to go off.”
“We do not think that,” he says. Then he does something he never does—he reaches across the table and takes my hand. James is pretty adverse to any display of sentimentality, and the simple act of holding my hand, in a public restaurant no less, hits me hard enough to bring a lump to my throat. “Haylee,” he begins, his voice a little rough. “You’ve been through a lot. And it’s been hard for you to come back from all of that. I feel like things are getting back on track lately, you know? The band has this great opportunity. All the feedback from the label is really positive. The fans are crazy about you.” He squeezes my hand. “But none of that would matter if I didn’t think that you were really feeling better. You seem… Hay, you seem so much better.” The certainty, the hope, in his eyes makes my stomach twist. Am I doing better? Maybe I’m just getting better at hiding it.
James releases my hand, but he doesn’t drop my gaze. “I just don’t want anything happening that’s going to derail you. That’s all.”
I nod, staring at the bottle of soy sauce in front of me so I don’t have to look at him anymore. I’m sure he’d be able to read the lie in my eyes if I did. “That’s why I don’t want to be in a relationship with Lennon.”
“Really?” His tone makes it pretty clear he doesn’t believe me. I don’t blame him. I don’t believe me either.
“Really,” I say anyhow, reaching for my salmon roll. “Can we eat now, or did you want to interrogate me some more?”
“Quit your complaining,” he says, grabbing the soy sauce. “At least you have people who care about you enough to bug you. Unlike, say, Louis.”
I laugh. “Poor old Louis.”
We make fun of our manager a bit while we eat, the conversation flowing naturally now that we’ve dropped the subject of my fucked-up neurosis. From Barcelona we’ll be heading to Paris for an entire week so the Ransomes can prepare for their live concert special. We’ll have two shows, and a bit of promotion to do for the European divisions of the label, but we’ll also have plenty of time to relax and enjoy the city.
“Daltrey told me that Paige has the entire thing planned out already,” James says. “So we should probably steer clear if we don’t want to get sucked into all that.”
I shrug. “It might not be so bad. The illusion museum was pretty cool.” I think of standing next to Lennon in the cemetery, my heart pounding, his hand warm in mine in the dark. “That was a good day,” I murmur.
If he picks up on the change in my tone, he doesn’t have time to mention it. My phone rings, and a quick look at the screen has me groaning. “Remember when we talked about how fucked up I am?” I ask, raising the phone. “Here’s the original source of my crazy.”
He grins, wiping his mouth, and holds out his hand. “Want me to answer it? She loves me.”
“Of course she does,” I mutter, handing him the phone. “You pulled me out of the hell of busking and got me booked in real venues.”
James presses the screen and brings the phone to his ear. “Jess,” he says brightly. “It’s James. How are you?”
Whatever she says is loud enough that I can make out the excited squeak of her voice from here. I grimace at James, but he merely grins, leaning back in his chair while I play with the wrapper of my straw. “Mmm hmm,” he says. “Really?…Wow…You don’t say!”
I roll my eyes, waiting for him to finish buttering her up. This is one of the best things about having James as a best friend. Whenever my mother calls in his presence, he’s willing to talk to her first. By the time he gets done—he wasn’t lying, she really does love him—she’s usually calmed down significantly, and the subsequent conversation is nearly bearable.
“Well, everything you’re reading seems to be matching up with our experiences here,” he says, and I look up sharply. “The crowds are great, and they seem really into us. Some of the venues have been pretty packed by the time we start, which Louis says is unheard of for Ransom’s openers.”
I automatically make a gagging motion at the mention of Louis’s name, and James appears to fight off a laugh. “She’s handling it beautifully,” he says into the phone, and I stiffen. Of course she would be asking if I’m managing to keep from going off the rails. Heaven forbid she have any faith in me.
“Yeah, she’s here,” he says, and I groan audibly. I would have preferred he talk to her for a few minutes longer—enough time for me to make an escape, at least. He holds out the phone to me, and I make a face at him before taking it.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Haylee!” she cries, and I hold the phone away from my ear a little. “Sweetie, how are you?”
“I’m good, Mom. The tour is going really well. Did James tell you we’re in Barcelona today? It’s so sunny Mom, you would really—”
“I was just telling James,” she interrupted, and I wondered if she heard a word I said, “that the press you’re getting over there seems to be very good.”
And we’re talking about the band again. Of course. “We’re getting press?”
“Of course you are!” She sounds disapproving now. “How are you not following yourself online?”
“I guess I just figured I could count on you for that, Mom.”
She ignores the edge in my voice. “You really should be on top of these things, Haylee. It’s important. Anyhow, everything seems really positive. They loved you in England, you know. And Dublin! And your radio play over here is up significantly.” I lean back into my chair, letting her words wash over me. I know I won’t get a word in edgewise. Once she gets going on my success—or lack of it—it’s nearly impossible to stop her. It’s been her obsession from the day I first opened my mouth and sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”
“Anyhow, you really should get some things lined up for when you get back,” she’s saying now. “Ride this momentum.”
“That’s all up to Louis and the label, Mom. You know that.”
“Hmm. I wonder if I should call Louis.”
I brighten a little. “Oh, you should definitely call him,” I say happily. If there’s anyone who deserves to be tortured by my mother, it’s Louis. And vice versa.
“Okay, I’ll do that then, sweetie. I should let you go.”
And that’s that. No questions about how I am, how I feel about the tour, what we might have seen or experienced. Except for her query to James about how I was managing—a reference, I was sure, to how my problems might be affecting the tour—she hasn’t shown the slightest interest in me.
“Really nice to catch up, Mom,” I mutter, hitting the end button on my screen. I toss the phone on the table, glaring at James. “That woman is as bad as ever.”
“Oh, come on.” He pulls out his wallet, dropping a few bills to the table. “She’s not nearly as bad as she was when we were teenagers. Remember the Blue Parrot?” I wince, remembering the smell of cheap beer and acrid smoke that had filled the little dive bar in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Detroit. She’d booked that gig for us when I was seventeen and had refused to let us back out even when we passed what appeared to be a meth sale near the front door on our way in. “A gig is a gig,” she had trilled, her oft-repeated mantra.
“You ready to go?” he asks, drawing me from the memory. “We have two hours before sound check, and I wouldn’t mind taking a shower first.”
“Sure.” I stand, slipping my arm through his as we reach the door. “Thanks for talking to Jess.”
“It’s one of the perks of the job, babe.” He holds the door for me. “And by job I mean the role of best friend, of course.”
“And you also meant one of the many perks, right?”
He snorts. “The perks are few and far between, let me tell you.”
***
The show in Barcelona is the biggest crowd yet. Louis told us, in one of the many strategy sessions he subjected us to prior to the start of the tour, that Ransom’s fans were primarily concentrated in England and Scandinavia. Of course, they were popular everywhere, but the centers of that popularity were pretty easy to predict based on their record sales and fan club membership. So far, the tour seemed to be proving many of those assumptions wrong. The two stops in Spain and Dublin both saw sold-out crowds and long lines stretched around the buildings.
The better part of the surprise, as far as we are concerned, is that the fans seem nearly as eager to see us as they do the Ransome boys. Seeing people in the audience singing right along with me is a thrill I didn’t think I will ever get used to. Seeing it happen on a different continent is even trippier.
“Awesome job,” Dylan says as we meet in the wings. “Best show yet, I think.”
Louis is waiting there for us, and to my surprise, he’s grinning. “Agreed,” he says. “Really well done.”
Since Louis’s praise is generally nonexistent—or, at the very least, buried by his incessant criticisms—we’re all taken aback. “I have some news,” he says, gesturing us toward the stage exit. “Let’s go to the dressing room.”
Five minutes later we’re gathered on the raggedy couch in the dressing room, bottles of water or beers in hand. “What’s up?” Dylan asks from his spot on the floor.
“The label called during your set with a fantastic opportunity.” It’s a little freaky, seeing Louis this happy.
“You gonna keep us in suspense, Lou?” Layla asks, rubbing a towel over her sweaty brow.
“You all know that Ransom’s show in Paris next week is going to be broadcast in the States.” He pauses, his eyes going to each one of us. “I hardly need to tell you the magnitude of this concert. The label is expecting viewership in the tens of millions. It will be simulcast on satellite radio and streamed live on the internet—”
“Louis,” Dylan barks. “Ransom is amazing, we get it. What does this have to do with us?”
Another long pause, his smile smug. “They’ve decided to broadcast your opening set as well.”
You could hear a pin drop in that room. We all sit stock still, staring at one another.
Lance is the first to speak. “What did you just say?”
Louis is clearly enjoying his role as the deliverer of good news. “Your opening set is going to be broadcast to millions of viewers in the United States and Canada.”
“Holy shit,” James whispers, and then we’re all screaming and jumping around. Dylan grabs me, swinging me off my feet, his voice shrill in my ear. Then Layla throws her arms around us, and I think she might be crying.
“Are you serious?” Lance yells above the noise. “Are you fucking with us, Lou?”
Louis laughs. “Of course not. I worked my ass off on this deal, you know.”
Dylan releases me and grabs our manager instead, pulling him off his feet in a bear hug. “Louis, you asshole, you’re good for something after all!”
I realize that I’m laughing, a head-thrown-back, full-throated cackling that I just can’t control. I don’t believe this. The Ransom Paris show has been talked about for months. MTV is predicting it will be one of their largest audiences ever, rivaling that of the VMAs. You can’t pay for this kind of exposure. And we’re going to be featured as well.
Everyone is hugging everyone, yelling and laughing, and then James is in front of me. We just look at each other for a long moment, and that lump comes back to my throat. “What were you saying about that dive bar in Detroit?” I ask, and his face breaks into the biggest grin. Then he’s hugging me, and I bury my face in his shoulder, letting a few tears escape. I figure I’ve earned them.