“You’re the first thing I ever wanted,

Turned me into a lovestruck fool,

Now I have you and I’ll keep you.

Kiss me, baby, you know the rule…”

I listen to Dylan sing a new song, my song, and I love every minute of it. I recognize my own words. The words I’d said to Ian in his kitchen, daring him to kiss me. He wrote this this. I can feel it.

It has Ian all over it.

I close my eyes and remember that first kiss, that first night together, and it gives me chills. As I stand close to the stage, leaning against the wall in my sexy dress and fuck-me heels, I can almost feel his hands on my body as the words wash over me.

I’m watching Ian and the rest of the band rock a sold-out show.

They’re always good, but there’s something special about tonight.

It’s like each of the guys is playing or singing with everything he has and it’s all coming together in this incredibly powerful way. Tonight is pure rock magic and I’m honored to be a part of it. Even if I’m only standing in the wings, looking on.

They hit the last note on Spin the Bottle and the crowd is clamoring for more.

One more encore.

Ever the showmen, the guys oblige and bust out Her Name in Stars. For the first time, I really listen to the words. Most people think it’s just a catchy love song, but the lyrics are wrought with pain. It’s about a girl who thinks that after a one-night-stand, she’ll be forgotten, like all the others.

She jokes that it’s not like the guy she’s just slept with will close his eyes and see her name in the stars.

I know that feeling. I had it after the first time I slept with Ian. While I searched for my panties in his kitchen, hoping he’d ask me to stay the night. While I nervously made French toast in his kitchen wondering if I was overstaying my welcome.

I still feel it when I think of this tour ending and don’t know what’s in the cards for me and Ian.

I take a break from watching Ian to narrow in on Dylan. This song means a lot to him and it clearly pains him to sing it. But he does. And watching him sing it is so beautiful.

I wonder about the mysterious Jane Doe. If she cut through Dylan’s cocky arrogance and forced him to remember her, she must’ve been pretty special.

Not like some video girl who will only be remembered for being pretty. Or, maybe one day, if she’s really lucky, naked and pretty because there’s nothing else that’s special about her. Jane Doe was worthy of a song. I’m sure of it and I’ve never even met the woman.

I look back at Ian. He’s completely lost in the music, limbs flying, sweat dripping off of him, totally at home on this stage with his band, living his dream.

And what am I doing?

I don’t deserve a beautiful song written about me.

It’s only a matter of time before Ian sees it.

* * *

The show ends. We end up in some club. I take my usual spot on Dylan’s arm and pound back three shots of tequila.

Tequila’s never really been my friend. It makes me mean.

But, tonight, I need to be mean.

“Maybe slow down on those, huh?” Dylan says to me.

Fuck off, I think, I slam a fourth.

I look around for Ian. He’s keeping his distance from me, like we agreed on. He’s talking to a couple girls who are clearly interested in him, but he’s not touching them. He makes a joke and they all laugh hysterically, like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

I keep a smile on my face.

I adhere myself to Dylan like a good fake girlfriend, paw at him lightly and kiss his cheek. It’s more PDA than normal, but I’ve decided to really get into my role tonight.

“I like that dress,” he tells me, “You look hot tonight.”

I know that the correct response is thank you, but I’m too deep into the insecure, bitchy, tequila-drunk version of myself to say anything polite.

“Well, what good would I be otherwise?” I ask, practically snarling.

Dylan’s had a few drinks too. We all have. Even Ian’s had more than his usual single beer. But everyone else is pulling it together a lot better than I am. The look on Dylan’s face is one of pure concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m perfect,” I answer, “Fucking perfect.”

I order another tequila. The bartender pours it, but Dylan intercepts.

“Cool it with the hard shit, okay,” he says. He downs the shot himself and orders me a beer.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” I tell him.

“When it’s four in the morning and you don’t have your head in a toilet, you’ll thank me,” he says.

Fuck. He’s right. I hate that he’s telling me what to do, but he’s right.

I sip my beer. I try to calm down.

I look at Ian again. One of the girls is really fawning over him. She touches his shoulder, but he delicately moves her hands away. Is that for his benefit or mine?

“Did you like the song?” Dylan asks.

I nod. “I loved it.”

“I think it’s going to be our next single,” he says with a smile, “Ian wrote the lyrics. I’m sure you could tell. I mean, I helped him, but it was about ninety-nine percent Ian.”

Despite myself, I melt a little inside.

“You’re staring at him again,” Dylan says, calling me out. “I know this is rough, but I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend, Cora, not ogle the drummer.”

“I’m sorry. It’s been a rough day,” I apologize.

“Bad audition?”

I nod.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks.

Dylan and I have become closer, naturally, throughout the course of the tour. He’s good company and he’s had a sense of humor about the whole deal. But, besides that first day at breakfast, we don’t really ever get into really personal stuff. And I’m not really in the mood to start now.

“Not really,” I tell him.

He leans down to talk to me in a way that’d be a romantic gesture if our current situation weren’t… well, very fucked up.

“I know this relationship stuff is all fake. But we are friends. At least that much is real.”

He’s being sincere. I give him a hug. A friendly hug.

“I do, Dylan. Thank you.”

He nods.

A fan stops him to ask for an autograph and pose for a picture and my eyes wander over to Ian again. The girls have left him alone and he orders a drink from a passing cocktail waitress.

“He deserves someone good.” I don’t meant to say that out loud, but Dylan definitely heard me.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks.

I don’t answer.

It’s all going down.

I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Like I’m spiraling downward into a pit of insecurity and depression. I haven’t felt this way since Evan and I broke up, I quit the pharmacy program, and I bombed my first audition all in the span of a few days.

I don’t deserve Ian. I don’t deserve Dylan’s friendship. I don’t deserve acting. I’m not good enough for any of it. All I really deserve is the tequila hangover I’m almost certain to have tomorrow.

“What’s going on, Cora?” Dylan asks. I guess I’ve been quiet for a really long time.

I find Ian again. This time we make eye contact. He smiles at me, despite being surrounded by a room full of people and cameras. Then we go back to ignoring each other.

I hate it.

I can’t fucking stand it.

But this is what it’s always going to be like.

“There are cameras here,” I tell Dylan, feeling like my veins have been replaced with live electric wiring.

“There are always cameras,” he says, like I don't already know, “So?”

“So… let’s put on a show.”

“What?”

I grab Dylan and kiss the hell out of him.

Cell phone cameras capture the moment. I have no doubt it’ll hit social media in a few minutes.

I can feel Dylan tense up as I deepen the kiss. He’s trying to pretend he’s enjoying this, but it feels forced.

Well, fuck, it is forced.

And I know that Ian is watching. I can feel his eyes on me.

It’s not that I want to hurt him. It’s that…

I want to prove to him that I’m no good before he sees it for himself.

Before he realizes that he only wants me because I’m some pretty girl he's fantasized about since he was a kid.

I want to ruin myself for him so he doesn’t have to.

Before I get my wits about me or know which end is up, my kiss with Dylan is interrupted. I stumble backwards, unsteady on my heels.

I straighten up just in time to see Ian’s fist connect with Dylan’s face.

“You swore you wouldn’t try anything,” Ian yells.

“I didn’t,” Dylan yells back, his hand over his nose.

“Asshole,” Ian practically spits at him. He cocks his fist again despite the fact that there’s blood on his hand.

“She kissed me, fucker,” Dylan says, hurling his fist at Ian. He clocks Ian in the cheek and a full-on, testosterone-fueled brawl ensues.

Some bouncers pull Ian and Dylan off each other and give them a minute to calm the fuck down. I watch on, horrified.

On of the hangers-on, a chick with fire-engine-red hair, leans in. “Take a break, bitch,” she whispers to me.

I can’t argue with her.

It’s my signal to leave.

* * *

I hide out on the bus and close myself off in the private room where no one will be looking for me.

I lie on the bed and fight back tears.

Oh hell, I don’t have to out on a happy face for anyone right now.

I go ahead and cry my eyes out.

I cry until I hear a knock at the door and he doesn’t wait for an answer.