Jean Haus - With the Band

Like a stalker, I sit in my car waiting for him to come home. The apartment lot is only half full, and I’m parked on the far edge under the shade of a tree. It’s the middle of the afternoon and things are quiet. I fight the urge to hightail it back to the university on the county road that brought me here. The steady beat of Breaking Benjamin’s “I Will Not Bow” pounds from the car stereo. The song is supposed to be pumping me up, but my stomach is tight from nerves. Memories I’ve suppressed for over three years roll through me and set my pulse hammering like a war drum. Taking in a deep breath, I force myself to calm down and control my emotional turmoil. Older now, I’m stronger, wiser, and confident in myself.

I can do this.

An older Chevy Blazer pulls in front of apartment 5C. Clueless about what he drives, I lean forward, fists clenched so hard that my pink nails dig into my palms. When a guy bounds out of the driver’s side, he’s facing away from me. All I can make out is the back of his T-shirt, which says Absolute Lawn Care. I don’t recognize the curly hair but as the guy starts walking, the swagger looks familiar. When he turns his head, I catch sight of his profile under the mop of curls as he unlocks the door to 5C.

Bingo.

The door closes and I draw in a deep breath. Get your shit together, Peyton. You will do this. Still, I sit. I flick off the radio and stare at his apartment door. Several minutes go by, yet other than gripping the steering wheel, I’m frozen.

Following a long internal pep talk, I glance in the mirror and then tuck the long layers of blonde hair sweeping across my forehead behind one ear. I consider applying lip gloss, maybe some powder, but don’t reach for my purse. This isn’t a social call.

I finally force myself out of my car and across the lot to apartment 5C. After straightening my tank top, smoothing my shorts, I take two deep breaths. Three loud knocks and several long minutes later, the door opens. The slight creak of its hinges might as well be the boom of a Pandora’s box being opened.

I refuse to lower my gaze as he glares at me through the half-open door. He’s wearing the same twisted expression that I recognize from the times we’ve crossed paths before—in the outdoor commons area or canteen or library—at random times over the past three years at the university we both attend. His clear disdain for me drips like venom into the bright Michigan summer afternoon. Mercifully, we’ve never had a class together.

I want to run back to my car, but I meet the loathing in his blue gaze without blinking.

His fresh outfit and wet curls tell me he just got out of the shower. He’s got one hand holding the door open and the other clamped over a book opened against his thigh. The knuckles on both turn white as he stares at me.

“What do you want?” he asks icily.

“Hello, Sam,” I say casually, ignoring the anxiety rushing through me. “We need to talk.”

He starts to close the door as his lips twist into a scowl. “Still not interested in hearing anything you have to say.”

Feeling a sudden surge of anger that overrides my anxiety, I push the door open with my foot, my flip-flop sliding across the glossy metal doorstep. “You think I’d wait over three years to come and talk about that? I’m here about your tour.”

At the last word, he lets go of the door and the book drops from his hand and plops to the floor as I almost fall into the room. Onto him. Luckily, I catch myself on the door frame.

He points at me angrily, his finger stabbing the air. His dark curls flop over his forehead. “What about my tour? How do you know about the tour?” His voice rises in volume with each question. “We haven’t even announced we’re going on tour yet.”

Two girls coming home to the next apartment watch us.

“Could you please let me in?” I say through clenched teeth.

Though his jaw tightens, he steps aside, bending to pick up the book. “Five minutes is about all I can take of you.”

Shoulders back, I ignore the insult and march past him into a man cave. I’m surprised that the movie posters covering the walls are in frames. The sagging sofa and beat-up coffee table are used yet the huge flat screen on the wall is brand-new. Abandoned cups and food wrappers litter the tables. It’s the standard male college apartment and has a familiarity that boosts my confidence for the awkward conversation ahead.

I hear the door click shut and turn around to find him leaning against it, staring at me with arms crossed and the book tucked under a biceps. I feel exposed under his cool regard. Like we’ve gone back in time and I’m about to be destroyed all over again. Forcing myself to push the thought away—I’m not that girl anymore—I cross my arms too, reflecting his pose. “Before I explain, I want you to know that Romeo came to me.”

His eyes widen a bit. “What are you talking about?”

I had a long explanation rehearsed, but instead I blurt, “He wants me to go on tour with Luminescent Juliet.”

Sam’s face contorts in disgust and his arms drop to his sides. The book he’s holding plummets to the floor again with a loud thud. “ You? Hell no. Why?”

Though I expected it, his extreme dismay throws me. I force myself to remain calm and take a deep breath. “To take pictures, write a daily blog, and keep up on media accounts. Oh, and also to run the merchandise booth,” I add absently. Though selling T-shirts doesn’t appeal to me, gaining experience and, possibly, recognition as a music journalist does.

He pushes away from the door and in two steps he’s standing less than a foot from me. “Why the hell would he ask you?”

Though the living room isn’t that big, I hold my ground, refusing to back down, or escape into the connected kitchen, as he leans closer. In such close proximity, I become aware that he’s not thin and lanky anymore. He has filled out and it’s all muscle. One biceps has a black, curling tattoo. Or tattoos? I can’t tell from this angle, but either way, it surprises me for some reason. The book he’s holding has a picture of Steve Martin on it, and that fits the old Sam—he always used to read funny stuff. The T-shirt he’s wearing, with its simple graphic lettering that says The Doors, also fits the old Sam. A tattoo does not. “Come on, Sam. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed my work in the school paper.”

“I don’t pay attention to that shit, but yeah, I’ve heard.” He runs a hand down his face. “Damn. I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s just like Romeo to use someone from school. Just like he hired the audio-visual team to launch us,” he adds absently, as if talking to himself. He rubs his jawline before his gaze comes back to me. “You told him no, right?”

“I told him yes already.”

“Without talking to me?” he asks incredulously.

I shake my head and resist the nervous urge to gnaw on my lip. Then a wave of irritation washes over me. My emotions are like a seesaw. “Really? Are you saying I need your permission?”

He crosses his arms again. “I am in the band.”

I consider his pull in their college band, which I’ve recently researched to death. Sam plays bass. Justin sings. Gabe is on drums. And Romeo plays guitar. From what I’ve seen, he also runs the show. “I have a hard time believing you really want to explain our past to your bandmates. I have an even harder time believing they’ll care about us cheating on your brother over three years ago.”