Her eyes narrow on mine. “What do you mean by that road?”

“Ivy, you know what I mean.”

She turns to look at me full on. The look she gives me tells me right away that she’s offended, and her answer only confirms this. “No, I don’t. Why don’t you explain?”

Okay, if she wants me to spell it out, I will. I pause for a moment before answering, trying to figure out the best way to phrase this, but decide to just say it. “Why did you choose pop music? You were never one for the verse-chorus structure or catchy hooks like this.” When the hook plays, I lift my eyes to the speaker and add, “You have so much artistic depth. I just never thought you’d sell out for mass appeal.”

With a sigh, she stands up. Hurt quickly passes over her face before hate presents itself. Bracing her hands on the table, she leans forward. “You don’t know what I have anymore,” she says with a shaky voice. Then adds, “I’m going to get ready.” With that she brushes past me.

Rising from my chair, I call, “Ivy, wait. I wasn’t trying to be an ass**le.”

But she doesn’t stop. Instead she hastily pulls the curtain back to huff forward. It’s then that she finally comes to a dead standstill. I’m on her heels and almost barrel right into her. She’s stopped, just staring, and I glance inside the galley to see what has captured her attention. It’s Garrett and he’s awake, doing his morning exercise.

“Is that a sex swing?” she asks him wide-eyed, her cheeks turning pink as soon as the words leave her mouth.

I burst out in laughter. I can’t help it. For some reason being near Ivy makes everything that’s mildly funny seem funnier. It always did.

A devilish grin appears on his face. “No. It’s a yoga swing. But thanks for the idea,” Garrett tells her.

“Fuck, no, not in here,” Nix calls out from behind one of the curtains. “No one wants to see your n*ked ass in the act.”

Leif comes out of the bathroom wearing some kind of sleep pants that make me laugh equally as hard—they’re baby blue with an elastic waist, and I wonder if they’re Ivy’s. Holding my stomach, I try to calm myself. Garrett gives me a perplexed look. I know he must be thinking he’s probably never seen me laugh this much, and I don’t remember the last time I did. Leif, with his toothbrush in his mouth, shrugs past as if nothing out of the ordinary is occurring and disappears into his cubby. Nix pops his head out and starts talking to Garrett about setting some new rules.

I take the opportunity to get Ivy’s attention. Moving directly behind her, I clutch her arm and pull her back to me. “Can I talk to you back in the lounge?” Her laughter stops when I whisper in her ear, “Please.”

She turns to look at me, her eyes unreadable. “Okay.”

I turn and she follows. I fight the urge to hold her hand. We enter the front lounge again and she moves to one side. I lean against the small counter opposite her. “I’m sorry. That was a shit thing to say. I didn’t mean it like it sounded. What I meant to say was what made you decide to debut with a pop song?”

She sighs and sits back down, sipping from the mug she’d left behind. Silence is all around us before she answers, and the room seems much bigger than it actually is. “First, yes, it was a shitty thing to say. But to answer your question, it was my only choice. I’d been back in LA for six months and hadn’t found a job. I was singing at the coffee shop my mother worked at. Damon had been going in there for years and she had told him about me. He came to one of the open-mic shows and afterward asked to meet with me. When I first met him, I was determined to put out the album I had always dreamed of. He disagreed with my vision. He said the marketability of what I proposed wouldn’t work in the climate we were in at the time. So I left. Then about a week later he talked to my mother. He called me back and agreed to cut a demo of one of my songs. It took another three months before it went out, and I still hadn’t found a job. He finally sent it out, but we never heard back from a single label. In the meantime I’d managed to get a job working for an advertising agency writing jingles—I hated it. A year later I decided to do it his way. And even though the album didn’t hit the top of the charts—I was still happier.”

“That doesn’t make sense. No one was interested in your first song, but he found a label to pick up the album after that?”

She looks up at me with her blue eyes, the softness in them draining by the second. She rises and walks to the small sink next to where I’m standing. She rinses her mug, sets it down, and turns her head toward me. “Xander, I’m not sure what you’re implying, but Damon has always had my best interests at heart. In fact, we’re working on a new sound now—or we were.”

It’s unlike me to hold back on how I feel, but I’m aware she doesn’t trust me yet, so I put my hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

She reaches for a banana and peels it, not responding to my comment. I’m really curious why Damon would switch gears, so I ask, “What kind of new sound?”

“Well, not new. Old might be a better explanation.”

I nod, understanding what she means.

“We both agreed I’d take a break and refocus, redirect my music to what I envisioned when I first started singing. I’ve written songs and hit the studio attempting to produce them. We’ve tried a few different producers, but I’m still not happy with the results.”

“Can I listen to them sometime? You can tell me what it is you don’t like and maybe I can help you.”

She chews a bite of banana, swallows, takes another bite, as if strongly considering my request. “I’d actually really like that.”

She makes the simple statement and I want to press her for more. I want to listen to her new songs now. I want to talk to her more about her music. I don’t want this conversation to end. But silence rises up between us again. She throws the banana peel away, and then her head drops and she stares into the sink. When I brace my arms back on the counter, our hands are so close all I’d have to do is move my thumb a fraction of an inch and we’d accidentally be touching. But instead I do something I know I shouldn’t. I lift my hand and gently grasp her chin, pulling it toward me. “Ivy?” I ask. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she answers, closing her eyes.

I breathe out. She breathes in. I can feel my skin touching hers and I want to hold her, rest my forehead on hers, I want to brush my lips across hers, I want to whisper in her ear that she can trust me. Having her this close twists me, turns me, makes me think about my actions. I don’t want to upset her. It’s been almost two weeks since she joined the band and our conversations have mostly been work-related until now. This is the first personal conversation we’ve had, and talking to her again has everything inside me screaming for her. Everything she does sets my blood on fire. I drop my hand and back away. I’m going to give her some time because that’s something we have—three months’ worth of it.

“I’m really going to get changed now,” she says, her voice smooth and low.

I nod and she turns and leaves the lounge. I watch her until she disappears. Then I open the fridge and grab an apple. Taking a bite, I chew it and grin—all in all, that didn’t go that badly.

• • •

Time seems to tick by so slowly the rest of the day. Staring out the window at a stream that meanders through fields on its own sweet time, I kick myself for not pushing it with her. Why wade through the stream instead of jumping over it? Yet I know I have to take it slow with her or she’ll keep retreating—and I want her around. I’ve lived on this bus for six months with eight other dudes, and it’s been nothing but comfortably boring. Having Ivy on board has already made everything different—I feel a buzz of energy in the air and everything seems more alive.

By the time we finally arrive in Denver, I’m ready to blast into action. We get right to work, which I’m glad about because it takes my mind off her. I’m in a hurry to get in as much rehearsal time as I can. And at least the tension between Ivy and me melts away when she’s onstage. We both act professional and don’t let our past interfere with the music. I use today’s sound check as more of a rehearsal, so it lasts three hours. The guys are ready to be done, but I think we need more practice. I want their performances to be perfect. A lineup of forty songs means learning a shitload of material, so we keep going over and over them. Leif switches between keyboard and bass, depending on the song. His versatility has proved to be a great addition to the band.

“Okay, let’s call it for now,” I yell.

“It’s about f**king time,” Nix snarls at me.

Leif thumps his shoulder and heads to the keyboard with the corner of his mouth turned up. Leaning over it, he closes his eyes and hits some notes. He seems to be playing a song, but the words that leave his mouth sound more like a rap. The melancholy of it draws me in. I take a seat and just listen until he’s done.

“That’s a showstopper,” I comment, meeting him at the bottom of the stairs as he walks off the stage.

“Yeah, well, it’s not meant for the audience Ivy sings to.”

I shoot him a small grin. “You’re full of all kinds of surprises. But really, I liked it.”

He shrugs. “Thanks, man. Had a buddy years ago and rapping was his thing. What can I say—he taught me well.”

“Not to change the subject, but what’s your take on learning all the band’s songs in such a short period of time?”

He sighs with what looks like an authentic worry line creasing his brow before he confesses, “Honestly, I’m not sure it’s going to happen.”

That’s not what I wanted to hear.

He turns and heads backstage to get ready for the show, throwing over his shoulder, “Gotcha, dude! We got this nailed.”

I grin with relief.

Showtime comes quickly and ends just as quickly. There are good shows and bad shows and this one is definitely not great. The arena is filled at about seventy-five percent—not bad, considering we’ve switched leads in mid tour. But Ellie has arranged for some special effects to welcome Ivy, and the streamers just seem to take away from the set, and the guys are off the rest of the night after that.

Fresh from the stage, the band and the crew are digging in to the food backstage. Leif has a penchant for wine and opens a few bottles of red. He sniffs the contents of a bottle and then pours a glass. After he takes a sip he pours some for everyone. By eleven thirty we all smell like red wine and are pretty drunk. Knowing it’s time to leave, we take the backstage door and head to the bus, which pulls out at midnight. We won’t be staying in a hotel until we get to Lincoln.

Garrett walks beside me, complaining about the streamer gimmick. Just as we start to cross the parking lot, at least two dozen fans come rushing over to Ivy, begging for pictures and autographs. I stop and glance at Leif. The others keep moving—all except for Garrett, who’s still talking.

Leif stops as well, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ll wait for her.”

I nod, already having decided I’d wait for her.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps it against his hand, then pulls one out and hands the pack to me.

“No, thanks, man,” I say. “That’s one vice I never took up.”

“Good thing, because it’s a f**king hard habit to break.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I only smoke when I’m drinking and never inside,” Leif clarifies, as if I cared.

“I’ll take one of those,” Garrett says.

I just look at him and shake my head. He lights the cigarette and inhales, then exhales smoke in a huge cough.