Opening Act (15 page)

“Just…what you think I'm doing wrong, and how I should fix it.” He stuck out his thumb and gestured toward the street. “You want to go and get a coffee or something? I mean…if you're free.”

She felt herself balk. She'd been out all morning. She was tired.

“Or,” he said, “if not, I mean…you can just write down your thoughts, then throw them away. I'll find them later, when I'm rooting through your trash.”

She laughed. “All right, fine,” she said, as if giving in to an irritatingly insistent child. “
One
coffee.”

“I won't pick your brain too hard,” he said, as they headed back down the walk together. “It's just, I've got this tour coming up…”

“I've heard,” she said, sticking the rose in her backpack as she walked. Its head bobbed out of the folds, like a baby in a papoose. “Opening for Strafer Nation. Not too shabby.”

“I'd really like it to go well.” They turned onto the sidewalk and headed toward town. “It's my one shot at…well,
everything
. And I've got a great manager; he's put together everything from the
business
side of things…I mean, as far as that goes, we're set.” He fell silent.

“But…” Loni said, prodding him to go on.

“The artistic side of things.
That's
got me worried.”

“Because of me?” she asked. And though she was sort of appalled—she'd never meant to cause him such indecision—she realized she was also kind of flattered. He took her seriously. He'd listened to her, and what she'd said had stuck in his head.

Unless…unless this was also just pretense. Unless this was just another sly way of getting her guard down. There were guys like that, who'd say and do anything to get into a girl's pants. Tear down half of civilization, and go whistling happily away afterward.

He shrugged. “No one else has ever given me any negative feedback before. Usually I figure it's 'cause I'm just that good.” She laughed, surprised by his arrogance, and he smiled at her brilliantly, as if confirming it. Then he frowned. “But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I have this sense that I'm getting away with murder. You're the first person who's made me think that in broad daylight.” He grimaced and cocked his head. “Well…not quite daylight. But you know what I mean.”

She was taken aback. She hadn't been prepared for this kind of responsibility. He was essentially asking her to give him the critical feedback he'd need to make Overlords of Loneliness ready for the national stage. What did she know about it? What did she know about
anything
?

She was about to demur, as politely as possible, when a sudden shower surprised them. Loni gasped as the downpour hit her, and Shay whooped in alarm and went loping away. She followed him, gasping but laughing, too, till he found a huge maple tree and took shelter under its branches where she hurried to join him.

Shielded by the dense foliage of the bows above them, they leaned their backs against the trunk and caught their breath, intermittently laughing.

“Is it just me,” he said when he could speak again, “or did that just totally come from goddamn nowhere?”

“It's not just you,” she said, and she opened her backpack and started rooting through it—taking care not to injure the rose, which looked a little limp after the sudden jog. “I think I've got an anorak in here. Folds up into a little pouch. I've been carrying it around for exactly this kind of emergency.”

“Thanks,” he said. “That's really sweet. But then what'll keep
you
dry?”

She couldn't help it. She laughed. So hard she actually dropped the backpack.

And then she realized,
Oh, my God
. She was learning something about herself. Something she'd never suspected. She
liked
guys who could make her laugh.

It wasn't a phenomenon she'd ever encountered before. All the wiry, nervous, furiously intense brainiacs she'd been attracted to all her life—they were invariably so deeply, relentlessly serious. Every moment she'd ever spent with them, it was like the fate of the world hung in the balance. Each word had to be weighed, each thought parsed and processed before it could be spoken—because goddamn it, it
mattered
. Ideas were everything, and they came so swiftly—it was like riding the intellectual rapids. She enjoyed it; the risk of capsizing was worth the thrill of sharing the raft with them. It was
exciting
. It was also exhausting.

But none of those guys had ever made her laugh. None of them had ever done anything so deeply subversive as to playfully skew what she said, turn it around so its meaning was upended—and just for the sake of making her smile. Shay Dayton had been doing that more or less constantly since he accosted her at her front door this morning. It was extremely disorienting…and wildly charming. She hated that it made her so helpless before him—he could obviously see how easily he could take the stuffing out of her—but she also kind of wished it would never end.

“You're right,” she said, leaving her backpack at her feet and leaning back against the tree again. “It's not fair if only one of us is dry.”

“I didn't say that,” he protested, mock-serious. “I think it's entirely fair. As long as the one who's dry is me.”

She bit her lip so she didn't laugh again, but it was an effort to keep it down. “You're
so
gallant,” she said when she trusted herself to speak again. “I can see why women fall all over you.”

“You mean it took you this long?” he said, acting like he was appalled. “It wasn't, like, immediately apparent the first time you set eyes on me?”

She gave him a hard look. “You like to talk about yourself, don't you? Even when you're joking.”

He twisted his mouth to one side. “Okay,” he admitted. “Busted.”

“I mean, we talked about you last night in that filthy kitchen. And since you showed up at my house, we've been talking about you nonstop.”

“Performer's weakness,” he said, again turning serious. “We're very vulnerable onstage, you know. Because there's no hiding. We're there to be accepted or rejected, and what's being accepted or rejected is all that we've got—it's us. So we're always looking for reassurance—vindication. Some sense that we're good enough.” He shrugged. “What can I say? It's pathological.”

“Aaaand
still
we're talking about you,” she said.

It was his turn to blush, and he did it ridiculously well. It was like watching a cartoon where a character's face reddens from the neck up, like a thermometer level rising. He turned away and dragged his shoe across the dirt. Which was also very charming.

But is it an act?
she wondered.

“Sorry,” he said, appearing to mean it.

“It's not a big deal,” she said, and she moved away from him a little, but only because the rain had started to seep through the leaves onto where she'd been standing. “I mean, this isn't really a social call. You came to ask me for some feedback on your work, which is a bit different.” She tossed her hair back, which was her defense mechanism when she was feeling awkward or insecure. It wasn't really working this time, probably because her hair was damp. “But in the future, if there's ever anyone you're interested in, you should probably remember that. Show some interest in
them
.” She shook her head. “Sorry,
her
. One of my pet peeves. Plural pronouns to avoid gender specificity. I hate it, and I hate when I accidentally do it.
Her
. Show interest in
her
. Encourage her to talk. And
listen
. Don't just wait for her to finish.”

He gave her a sly look. “So.” He cleared his throat. “Where you from?”

She laughed. “Oh, God. You're pathetic at this.
Practice
first.”

“I'd rather learn by doing,” he said merrily. “Like you, with non-gender-specific pronouns.”

The rain seemed to be lightening up. He stuck his hand out, palm up, and drew it back largely dry. “If we make a dash, we can probably get to the café on Magnolia,” he said. “It's only two blocks.”

She shrugged. “I'm game.”

“Ready?”

She picked up her backpack. “I'll follow you.”

“So you can check out my ass?” he said with a leer.

She snorted. “I've seen you flounce all over a stage. Your ass is old news to me.”

“Well, I can't say the same, so maybe
you'd
better go first.”

She hit him with the backpack. The rose lost another few petals. “After you, creep.”

He lit out, leaping over puddles in an impressively athletic fashion, whereas Loni chose to do a little twinkletoes dance around them, which got him to the café a full minute or more before she did. He'd just chosen a table and was sitting down when she burst in and shook off the rain, though there wasn't that much of it. The storm really was tapering off. If they'd waited another five minutes, it would undoubtedly have stopped altogether. But she was glad they hadn't waited. The dashing through the rain—with him—was kind of exhilarating. She felt in a mood for…she didn't know what.

And that, she reminded herself, was dangerous. So before she sat down, she made up her mind to be all business. This whole thing was steaming out of her control, and she meant to put the brakes on.

A wan-looking waitress appeared and eyed them woefully. “What can I get you?” she asked in a monotone.

“Green tea,” said Loni. “Please make sure the water's boiling first.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Very holistic,” he said, then looked at the waitress and said, “Triple espresso.”

“We don't do triples,” the waitress said.

“Then two doubles.”

“Jesus,” said Loni as the waitress slunk away, “you're going to be awake till next Thursday.”

“Nah,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “I sleep really well. Always have.”

“All your clean living, no doubt.”

“I'm not lying. Really.” He gave her a meaningful look. “I can prove it, if you want.”

Whoa. Time to rein it in.

“So,” she said, putting her backpack on the floor. The rose seemed to gasp in relief. “Your lyrics.”

He visibly tensed, the veins in his neck suddenly pronounced. “What about them?”

“That's what we're here to talk about, isn't it?”

He gave her a wide-eyed look, as if to say,
Is it?
Then he shrugged and said, “Hey, I'm just here to listen.” Then he shot her another knee-weakening smile and said, “
Listening.
That's my new superpower.”

“Well, I'm not here to lecture you,” she said. “I mean, you know what to do. Lyrics are poetry. Poetry's not easy. Every word is crucial. Every
syllable
. You can't fake it.” She took a paper napkin from the wire holder and started tearing it into strips. “Take William Blake. He didn't settle for clichés or placeholders.
You
should know that. You know your Blake.”

He looked hastily down at his fingernails. “Not as well as you do.”

“Oh,
very few
people know him as well as I do.” She paused, hoping that didn't sound as douchey to him as it did to her. She cleared her throat and said, “Take that song of yours—I can't remember the title. It's on your album. The lyric says something like, ‘You've devastated me'…”

“ ‘Pulverized,' ” he said, and he followed by singing, “ ‘You're devastation, you're uncreation, you're bitter obliteration.' ” He smiled. “Kinda proud of that one, actually.”

“Fine. I mean, if all you want is to keep meter and rhyme going.” She dropped the pieces of napkin and crossed her arms over the table. “But think about it. ‘Devastation' and ‘uncreation' mean two different things. ‘Devastation' means destruction, the opposite of creation. But uncreation is different. Uncreation is sort of like…erasing.”

He shook his head. “I don't get what you mean.”

“Because you're not
thinking
hard enough,” she said. “Look, when you destroy something you've got the pieces left, right? The debris. The ruins. But when you uncreate something, you've got nothing. You've wiped it from the world.” She shook her head. “Two different things. Yet you use them as synonyms in that lyric. Just because they sound good together.”

He opened his jaw and looked at her as though he was going to say something, then after an awkward silence he merely said, “Go on.”

“I mean, okay, if you want to say this woman is doing
both
, fine. But then you have to
say
it. You have to make it clear that she's unmade you in every way possible.”

He pursed his lips, but she could tell there was a smile behind it. “Mm-hm,” he said, nodding.

“Also, ‘bitter obliteration.' Yes, it sounds nice. But it doesn't quite work. ‘Bitter' in what way? Who's bitter? The woman destroying you, or you? Or are you referring to the act itself? Because obliteration—well, it can be violent and nasty. But bitter? How so?”