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  “Stop. How many dresses? Two?”

  My jaw dropped. “How did you—?”

  Her open palm shushed me. “How long have you had said dresses?”

  Shrugging, I looked down at my coffee. “Since I was a freshman, maybe?”

  “That’s what I thought.” She sucked a blob of powdered sugar from her thumb. “Definitely shopping.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Okay, I hate talking about money. Where I come from, it’s bad table conversation.”

  “Money’s not the issue.” I’d saved every paycheck from my after-school job waitressing in Ohio and close to two-thousand in graduation gift money.

  “I’m not talking about breaking the bank here,” she said, “but a couple of things to go to a local show. You can borrow some things from me, too. Think I have a pair of boots that’ll fit you perfect. You’re…what? A seven? Seven and a half?”

  “Seven, but I’m not wearing boots,” I countered, fully aware I’d essentially conceded her victory. But after last night’s chosen attire, well, let’s just say I’d learned a valuable lesson. I wasn’t about to change my whole style just to blend in with everyone else, but a bit of sprucing seemed wise. “Wait. What show?”

  “Saturday night. Eight o’clock. Come on.” She got up, tossed a couple of twenties on the table. “We have shopping to do.”

  “Savana,” I said, rising and opening my wallet. “I can buy my own breakfast.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” She waved me off. “Dad’s loaded.”

  Savana only shopped at designer boutiques. The kind that sold t-shirts for a month’s salary and jeans that made you question whether they were stitched with gold thread. I’d been inside one or two similar shops in Columbus. I’d walked out of one or two, as well. Sure, trying on expensive clothes was fun. Getting a visual of what I’d look like if I dressed like someone who had fashion sense. Looking in a mirror and receiving a thumbs up from a personal stylist. If a girl ever wanted to feel beautiful, trying on clothes at designer boutiques was definitely an option. But the price tags were always too much of a turnoff for me. And the sale racks? Never had anything in my size.

  However.

  Savana’s family owned all three of the boutiques we hit.

  Which meant she got anything she wanted at cost.

  Which meant I got anything I wanted at cost.

  Which meant I went a little crazy.

  Didn’t help when I was in the middle of going back and forth over a pair of black leather rock-studded ankle boots—yes no yes no yes no—my phone pinged in my back pocket.

  Figuring it was Dad saying he’d swung by the library to say hi, only to be told I was sick (busted), I braced myself for the worst.

  And had to brace myself for a full-blown panic attack, instead.

  Everyone has music on the brain 24/7, Columbus. It’s just not everyone admits it.

  chapter four

  3, 2, 1. Breathe, Harper. Just. Breathe.

  He was only a guy. A human male who happened to be pretty and talented. No big deal.

  As I stared at the text like a kindergartner to a quantum physics problem, bubbles appeared.

  Sorry for the delay. #inairprobs

  In air. He was on a plane. Or was previously on a plane, I supposed, if he was able to text. Where was he going? A silly question, considering who he was. He probably flew all the time.

  Long flight? I typed, leaning my hip against the checkout counter. Savana was still shopping for belts, but I was worn out, feeling a twinge of buyer’s remorse. Plus, the Chick-fil-a across the street was calling my name.

  New York? Not too bad. Worked most of the way. What are you up to?

  Truth?

  Always.

  I bit my bottom lip. Shopping with Savana.

  Bubbles. I imagined him in his hotel room in New York, sitting on a big bed with white sheets. Or standing on the corner of two busy streets, car horns beeping, people yelling, the scent of food cart hot dogs in the air. Typing his reply—to me. Of all the people he could’ve chatted with, and I was sure there were many, he thought about me.

  God help us, he texted. That could get out of hand. Her family owns clothing stores. Plural.

  I grinned. Typed: So I’ve discovered. Nothing too out of hand, though. At least, not on my part. Two shirts, a miniskirt, and the jury was still out on the boots. They were righteously gorgeous, unlike anything I’d worn before.

  Savana, on the other hand. Pretty sure she’d purchased what most would consider a whole new wardrobe. Seasons, sister, she’d said earlier as she’d tried on the tenth spaghetti-strap dress in a row. In nature, there may be four, but in fashion it’s more like fifty-two.

  She told you about the show on Saturday?

  She mentioned it, yes. Are you performing?

  I usually sit these out. But I’ll be there to support the up-and-comers. See you there?

  Warmth rolled down my face, my neck, spread across my chest.

  I’d like for you to come, Harper.

  My heart was beating so fast I thought I might have to sit down. My knees. Did I have knees? Or had they melted into my ankles? He wanted to see me again. Lawson Hill wanted to see me again. Holy southern summer, had someone turned off the air conditioning?

  Please.

  Swallowing, I typed, Of course you. See you then.

  Awesome. If you watch late night tv, check out NBC at 10:35. Talk soon.

  I texted him a thumbs up and did a quick internet search for NBC 10:35 pm.

  “Fallon.” Savana set an armful of clothes and belts on the counter.

  “I’m sorry?” I pushed my phone screen to my chest.

  “Law,” she said. “He’s on Jimmy Fallon tonight. The Tonight Show? That’s what you were looking up, right?”

  “I—I wasn’t.”

  “Get the boots, Evans.” She grabbed a unicorn phone cover from a rack beneath the register. “This is cute, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Look, I know I said this before. This thing between you two, it’s early-on, fast, whatever, and you’re leaving in a few months, but if you’re into him,” she said, “then be into him. Don’t deny it, don’t try to pretend it’s nothing. Because he’s not nothing. And neither are you.” She bumped her shoulder to mine. “You with me?”

  Another nod. It was fast. “How do you know if you’re into someone after only one night, though?” I whispered, because Savana obviously knew a lot more about this stuff than I did.

  She handed her credit card to the cashier. “You know how they say eyes are the windows to the soul?”

  Where was she going with this? “Yeah, sure.”

  “Tell me.” She searched my eyes as if hunting for the answers to every open question in the universe. “When you looked into Law’s eyes, what did you see?”

  A sensation I couldn’t place skimmed the entire length of my spine. Fear, nerves. I remembered his eyes. How could I forget? How beautiful they were, yes, but a lot of people had pretty eyes. Lawson’s weren’t unnaturally blue or anything. But Savana wasn’t talking about color. When one gazes through a window, it doesn’t matter whether the window is clear or if the glass is tempered or shaded. It’s what’s on the other side. The scene through the window, the reality of what might be if you were to step through.

  In Lawson’s, I saw honesty. And kindness. Intimacy and warmth. I saw a depth that defied his youth, like encountering an old soul, someone who’d been here before in another lifetime.

  The cashier bagged Savana’s items and walked around the counter to hand them to her.

  Savana didn’t move. She waited. Watching me, wanting a raw answer to her very raw question.

  “I feel like that’s a little too personal,” I said.

  “See? That right there.” She took her bags, kicked her head toward the shoebox on the counter. “Get the boots.”

  “What?” I started, but she was already headed for the exit.

  “Get the boots, Harper
Evans!” The bell above the door dinged.

  Apparently, I’d been given an order and a dismissal.

  I watched him on Fallon that night. He was beautiful, brilliant. The perfect amount of shy and charming in his jeans and motorcycle jacket. Jimmy asked about his latest album and growing up as a young musician. Lawson kept his answers light, laidback. And even when the questions turned a little uncomfortable—when he would go on tour again, whether or not he worried if his fans had forgotten him after staying off the road for a year and a half—Lawson played it cool. Maintained his pleasant smile, his easy demeanor. The audience responded to him as if he was the most fascinating person they’d ever seen.

  For pity’s sake, a woman was crying in the front row.

  But it was when he took the small stage, a gleaming white electric guitar in hand, surrounded by the same band members I’d seen on YouTube, I realized he wasn’t just another guest on a late-night talk show. Another singer promoting a new album. According to Wikipedia, Fever Dreams was almost two years old. He’d been invited, because people were still interested. Still curious.

  I was, too.

  The first lick on his guitar and the audience went nuts. They knew the song. Thanks to Spotify and social media, I knew the song. He sang the first verse, his voice as clear as it was last night, when it was just me and him and a piano. A sheen of sweat had already formed across his brow. He told the crowd to sing and sing it nice and loud and they did. Without him. They took the first two lines of the chorus, he picked up the next two, and they alternated until the lyrics faded into a heady amalgam of guitar, bass, mandolin and drums.

  When he was finished, the crowd’s screams and cheers were so deafening, Jimmy had to stop and start talking twice before he could be heard.

  “They say you’re known for how well you treat your fans,” Jimmy shouted above the noise. “Now I know why.”

  The audience cheered and clapped.

  “Thanks, Jimmy. They’ve been good to me.” Lawson blew a kiss to the crowd, mouthed thank you, and Jimmy went to commercial break.

  By the time Saturday night rolled around, my insides had woven themselves together and everything was out of place. I’d watched a date night makeup tutorial on YouTube but ended up washing it all off and going with my usual simple routine. I might’ve had a new outfit, new glitzy boots that did rather nice things for my legs, but I refused to go all-out like a phony just to fit in.

  Savana showed up at seven. Dad let her in. By the way he looked at her, top to bottom and back up again, I could tell he was weighing her. Contemplating her background, if she was a bad influence, if she’d hinder me from rules and routine.

  Dad had been doing this to any new person who entered my life since I was a kid.

  To her credit, Savana played my dad as easily as she did everything—and everyone else. She listened to him, touched his arm, laughed at his unfunny jokes. I could see why she was in Lawson’s group of friends, why he apparently trusted her. Deflecting skepticism was an art form not everyone possessed. Savana had it down to a science.

  “You girls have fun,” Dad said, still laughing at some comment Savana had made about Nashville drivers. One sure way to that man’s heart was to complain about the local population’s driving skills, or lack thereof. “Be safe.”

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, Dad!” Savana called as we skipped down the drive to her car. “He seems nice,” she said, once we were on the road. “Protective of you, but nice.”

  “He just doesn’t want me to screw up.” I fastened my seatbelt. “So, where is this place?”

  “Downtown. Can I just say you are looking especially hot tonight?” She eyed me from the side as if she was really checking me out. “The tee, the miniskirt, the studded boots? Whew.” She fanned herself.

  I decided to play along. “Oh, yeah? Well.” I gave her a once-over. Savana was stunning. Little red dress, hair curled and done up in victory rolls like a 40’s pinup model, red lips. But it was the cowboy boots that strangely pulled it all together.

  “Just so you know,” I continued, “I don’t put out on the first date.”

  “Please, baby. One dance with me tonight? You’ll be singin’ a different tune.”

  “So, how long have you and Chris been together?” I tugged on my raw-hem denim skirt, trying and failing to remember the last time I wore anything this short in public.

  “Officially? Two years.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time. Any plans for the future?”

  “We talk about it. I mean, it’s a little hard, you know? My parents, they’ve always been supportive of who I am, but Chris? Not so much. Hard enough for her parental units to accept she didn’t want to go to college like a normal person, whatever that means, and that she wanted to pursue music. But when she came out right after high school graduation?”

  Savana shook her head. “Thank goodness we were already friends.”

  “I take it her parents were upset?”

  “More than upset, her dad kicked her out. Told her he never wanted to see her face again. So,” she said, “my parents took her in. She got a job at a law office, which, by the way, they love her there, because who wouldn’t? And she pursues her music dreams on the side. A year later, we got an apartment together, and things have been great ever since.”

  She pulled into the lot of what appeared to be a rundown barn decorated with Christmas lights. “We’ve talked about marriage, kids, but I think part of Chris wants her parents to be there, you know? And right now she knows they wouldn’t come. Heck,” she said, unfastening her seatbelt. “They don’t even come to her shows.”

  “That sucks.” Wasn’t a very eloquent response, but it’s all I could think of in the moment. I couldn’t imagine not having the support of my dad. Sure, he was hard on me sometimes, strict. But he meant well, pushed me to succeed, and had never shown anything but pride, no matter what I did.

  “Yeah, well. Being gay ain’t easy, sister,” said Savana. “But being gay in the south…?”

  Gravel crunched beneath our boots as we and dozens of others walked toward the entrance. Music poured from the building. Above the covered area that led to the open double doors, a sign read THE SHED in unprofessional, hand-brushed paint. A bouncer was checking IDs at the door. My steps stalled.

  “Savana.” I grabbed her elbow.

  She slowed, looked at my hand where I was touching her, then at my face. Her brow scrunched. “Are you okay? You’re not backing out on me, are you? Not lookin’ that cute.”

  “No, but I don’t have an ID. I mean, I do, I have a driver’s license, but, you know—”

  “Girl, please. Watch this.” She threaded her fingers with mine and tugged me forward.

  We walked around the line. People gave us looks. I tried not to pay attention, but it was hard not to. Savana didn’t seem to care. She walked straight up to the bouncer, tap-tap-tapped his beefy arm.

  “Savana Petrov. Harper Evans,” she said.

  He checked his clipboard. Nodded. Waved us through.

  Holy. Freaking. Crap.

  “See?” Savana smirked, squeezed my hand. “Handled.”

  The place was already packed, standing room only. High-beamed ceilings rose overhead. There was a hayloft, complete with real haybales and people sitting hip to hip, legs dangling off the side, nursing longnecks. The sign above the bar declared CASH ONLY and the bartenders were popping tops faster than people could order drinks.

  On stage, vertically stacked wooden pallets created a wide semicircle around the band. White lights twinkled between the pallet slats, a Pinterest DIY, if ever I did see one, but it was beautiful. And the band on stage sounded amazing.

  “Southern Express,” Savana shouted close to my ear. “Texas. Good sound. They’re just going through lead singers like water. Can’t find the right fit.”

  “This guy sounds pretty good!” I shouted back, referring to the male vocalist on stage. He was crooning Don’t Stop Believing to a cou
ntry beat.

  “Yeah, but he’s on loan. Sings lead for a rock band in Knoxville. Come on, everybody’s probably hangin’ out backstage.”

  Hand in hand, we wended through the crowd.

  I saw him before he saw me. Standing behind a row of sawhorses that created a makeshift barrier. Talking with Luke and another guy. Two huge men dressed in black stood close by, tattooed arms folded across their chests. A crowd of girls were vying for Lawson’s attention, some waving photos, tour t-shirts and Sharpies. If one got too close to the barrier, they were ordered to move back by one of the bouncers.

  The nerves I’d spent the last few days shoving aside resurfaced.

  Most people look better in photos. Thanks to filters and the invention of the selfie, everyone had cover model beauty these days. Wasn’t until you saw someone in person you realized, oh, their face isn’t really that smooth or their hair that perfect.

  But Lawson Hill.

  Television and photos didn’t do him justice.

  He was much more striking in person.

  “Loosen up.” Savana’s fingers tightened in between mine. “He’s gonna be really happy to see you. All right, bitches, coming through!”

  Shockingly, the sea parted, followed by more wide-eyed looks in our direction. I could almost hear their thoughts, wondering who we were, and when Lawson stopped talking to set his gaze on us—on me, those same sets of female eyes bounced from me to him and back again.

  Lawson grinned.

  Many brows furrowed.

  Someone snapped a photo and a security man yelled, “Hey! Phones down or I confiscate them!”

  “Stop blushing, Evans,” Savana whispered as Lawson waved us forward. “What’s up, Law? Decent job on Fallon, but I’ve seen better.”

  He laughed, hugged her. “Yeah, yeah.” His eyes met mine from over her shoulder. Then did a slow drop down my body.

  I couldn’t have staved off the blush if I tried.

  “Glad y’all came,” he said. “Chris is warming up backstage.”

  “Cool.” Savana kissed his cheek. To me, she said, “You good out here? I’ll only be a few minutes. Chris goes on in fifteen.”