Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Tuscon, AZ▪️
My punch bounces off the air mattress without a sound. I'd love to have the space to stand up and run through a settling Tai Chi routine Master Chang taught me my first year of me practicing with him, cause punching the walls is not an option. Screaming is a contender, but that doesn't sound like something the rest of the bus would appreciate.
Fuck.
What was I doing? I'm such a selfish prick: driving my agenda and badgering her into a conversation she's not interested in having.
On her birthday.
Fuck.
The unformed words scratch at my throat. What a fantastic way to screw things up. This is not the me I've been working so hard on creating. I don't make such stupid mistakes anymore. I think before I do. Angie borrowed into my chest, my thoughts, and, for the first time in my life, I understand what being obsessed means.
I can fix this. I glance at my phone and the flash mob is supposed to begin in twenty minutes. We can do that first and then I find a way to explain to her what the crossroads of her present and my future look like. In the same city or not, she runs my heart ragged. I'm not a poet, but I will find the words to fucking make her believe me, believe in me. I put the spare clothes on and rush out of our impromptu bedroom.
The bus is buzzing with activity. Happy birthday banner hangs over Angie's bunk. A pile of colorful boxes takes more space on it than she would've if she were there. I rap on the door of the bathroom.
"You okay in there?" I say to the brown Formica divider. The sound of running water is the answer I get. Fuck. What do I do now? I can hide in the back of the bus and wait for her to run out of water, or I could see if I might make her some coffee and get something to eat without messing up more of today.
I drop my present onto Angie's bunk, where mine isn't the weirdest shape. Something that is either a bong or a gourd out-glitters my wrapping job, because it has stings of metallic material bunched around it like a futuristic oblong bird nest. If the birds were addicted to shiny metal strips. I might've seen something like that on National Geographic. I place my cylinder on the side and run my nail over the tape that affixes the card with my name to the rough material of the paper. Wouldn't want her to think this one is from anyone but me.
To the front of the bus it is.
"Where's the birthday girl?" Poppy waves me over to the couch where the rest of The Whats are lounging in what I can only call PJs that might do well in a Christmas Land's End catalog.
I tear my eyes away from the obnoxious red bottoms with reindeer design. Those alone would've been fucking hilarious. They pale in comparison with the matching white wife-beaters the three guys have on: black pom-poms mark the place where the nipples should be and form the eyes of four grotesque-looking reindeer on their chests. Giant red pompoms-the reindeer noses-mark the navel of each band member. Poppy is wearing an elf outfit, pointy ears and all.
