The True One

Chapter 7

Verity

Touring has given me a love/hate relationship with commotion.

Imagine this all taking place in the span of a few hours:

Crowds swarming us as we arrived in a new city. Janene and Flora and the venue's staff ushering me through them into the building. This way and that, we maneuver, learn the layout, break, eat. Onto the stage, light check, sound check. Rehearsal. Break. Makeup, wardrobe, meet some fans with backstage passes, media interviews, break, last minute prep, adjustments, questions from the band, from the dancers, from the assistance. Get on stage, transform. Perform.

The order varied, but the elements always remained. I loved it, but dread set in whenever I thought about having to do it all over again. I wasn't sure how long I could live with this pace. Even though the whole process overwhelmed me, I didn't know how to live without it either.

That scared me more than anything, a dependance on running through this ridiculous pattern in a blur of cities. My fans would know if I wasn't on my A-game. I feared the cruelty that came from unintentional but high-profile mistakes. One I thought about often was that I would get on stage and shout "Thank you, Milwaukee," only to realize from the boos of the audience, I was in Chicago. I loved it, loved the adoration of the crowds. But they could do great harm if they turned on me.

As I went through the pre-performance motions at tonight's venue, I wondered if my need to escape yesterday had been because I was exhausted from the push-pull of touring life. But I also needed that push-pull. It infused my life with meaning.

I allowed Flora to take the lead answering questions from stage assistance, let Deedee do my makeup. I let things roll as my mind spun on its gerbil wheel. Constantly turning but going nowhere.

When I was finally ready to get off that wheel, I thought about last night. Running. Shadows deeper than usual. Smells of city and park like I'd borrowed the nose of a dog for the evening. The cool, soft embrace of mud around my toes.

My emotions when Alek had found me—not defeated, but victorious. And then conflicted. Then confused.

But I'd had the last word, making him guess at what I may know about him, that the secrets he held might be mine now too. I had been pretty sure of myself when I boarded my bus and sequestered myself in my bedroom. I would have remained certain today as well, except for one whispered sentence this morning. As I brushed past him, he spoke like he didn't want anyone but me to hear what he was saying. Another secret.

"I am hiding things, Verity. My secrets are meant to keep people safe. Are yours?"

Without acknowledging him, I went on my way, welcoming in the commotion so I wouldn't have to answer his question—to him or to myself. Anything not to think about this. Everyone hid part of themselves. What of it? If Alek was to be believed, his intentions were noble. But the implication of his words was that mine weren't.

Screw him and his judgmental bullshit.

I overcame apprehensions, self-doubt, and my runaway brain so that I could bring joy to people. This, in turn, brought joy to me. How dare he insinuate that I meant anyone harm.

Dinner, wardrobe, an interview with a pleasant but superficial entertainment reporter who spent more time talking about my manicure than my music.

I waited in my dressing room, my fingers dancing over the fabric of my Greek goddess tunic. It was silky smooth, but the strapless bra underneath dug into my sides. It would leave red marks on my skin until tomorrow, when I'd have to put it on again.

"Fuck it."

The head of wardrobe, Cassandra, frowned as I undid the clasps and wiggled until I could pull the torture device out of my outfit from under my armpit.