Every bump of the bus on the broken road makes the excess of water in Goldie's hungover stomach slosh up into her upper esophagus. They say the best thing to do when you're in this state in a moving vehicle is to look out the window but the sight of the California coast slowly dissipating makes her queasier. The combination of homesickness and the growing miles between her and the ocean make her uneasy. She vows to call Andrew and Jimmy at the next stop to calm the flurry of anxiety taking over her bones and blood.

She rests her head on the soft cotton of her oversized hoodie sleeve and daydreams of memories past. The sound of white noise from a record that's halted playing music. The smell of sizzling bacon in Jimmy's favorite cast iron frying pan. The taste of stolen mint chip ice cream from work, complete with Andrew's famous chocolate-chip cookie crumble on top from the batch that didn't sell the day before. The cool glass of the window pressed up against her face like when she fell asleep on the car ride home from grandma's house with mom and dad. The look of her chipped nail polish, painted before she left on tour to portray a more professional woman.

Licking her lips, a hint of smoke dominates her taste buds. Her fingertips rub against her bottom lip in confusion.

"Did I smoke last night?" she thinks, looking down at her hand, halfway expecting there to be soot or some sort of unknown substance causing the flavor.

"How ya feelin', killer?" Mitch throws a water bottle on Goldie's lap, the sound of the liquid mimicking her insides. "Or maybe I should call you the beer pong champion now?"

Her stare stays fixated on her unsoiled hand.

"You do remember last night, right?" Mitch plops down on the seat next to her. The added motion of him sitting worsens her nausea.

"Of course I do," she promptly lies. The fact she doesn't remember her first time drinking causes her an immense amount of discomfort. Skin crawling, she struggles to piece together the few faint memories she has of the night before, like two separate beings trying to knit a single scarf.

"I've set up a few auditions. They're promising, so don't ruin it for the rest of us, H." Grimmy says to Harry. Both of them stand in the middle of the bus, effortlessly defying the ebb and the flow of the bumpy street like they were born on a bus.

Harry, arms crossed and bruiting, absorbs the criticism from his manager. As Grimmy continues his lecture and going over the itinerary, Harry's eyes slowly scan the bus over to Goldie. Able to feel his gaze, she diverts her attention from Mitch's kind face to Harry's devilish smirk, his expression quickly softening as soon as her eyes meet his. He nods his head in the direction of his bunk and saunters towards her, the sway of the tour bus unphasing him. Goldie gives a nervous nod in response, unsure of his request.

"Or just walk away," Grimmy comments and rolls his eyes before sitting down to continue detailing the next steps of their trip on his clipboard.

"You ready? We can do it back here." Harry's hands rest on the chairs, the left hand on Mitch's chair and the right on the one in front, caging her in. A showcase of dominance. Her throat visibly swallows a nervous mouthful of saliva. She's still unaware of what he's referring to. She blindly follows him to the back of the bus regardless.

"I'm sure you've been looking forward to this," Harry continues, laying back in his bunk, which is of course, the largest of the group's. He extends his long limbs, resting on his elbows and spreading his legs. "C'mon. I don't bite." He pats the empty spot of the bed next to him. "Are you nervous? Am I your first? Surely you've done Mitch or Matt by now."

Goldie remains silent by his words. She desperately tries to remain elegant while crawling up the bed beside him on all fours, but the rocking of the bus prevents her from portraying any image of cool or collected.

"Silent type, I see. I'll have you talking in no time." His grin widens as he observes her attempt to join him. Her quiet begins to set off alarms in his head. "Do you have the proper equipment?"

"Does he mean a condom?" The question in her head pushes her to the edge of a panic attack. She's not ready for this. And with everyone on the bus still? "W-w-what do you mean 'equipment?'"

Harry abruptly sits up, suddenly aware of the undertones of the situation. "Like pen and paper, Goldie. You don't remember, do you? The big interview you've been waiting for? With your modern-day Shakespeare?" He puts his palm to his heart, offended by the events unfolding before his eyes. "I promised you last night. At the vending machine?" Realizing she has close to no recollection of the night before, his ego takes a blow. This is a feeling with which he isn't familiar.

Vending machine. Birch tree. "You're my muse, Goldie." "You're so fucking adorable." Don't move. Dinosaurs. Glass of water by the bed. Braiding Mitch's hair. Shotgun kiss. Beer pong champion. One of the best concerts I've ever witnessed.

The memories flood back, starting with the most recent. Heat from embarrassment radiates off her body as she hypnotizingly stares at the bulge of Harry's tight Levi's.

"I- I-" She attempts to respond, yet can't quite find the words.

"Spit it out, Golds!" Harry yells, a hint of concern in his tone.

"I am a birch tree..." Her eyes stay locked on the nether regions of his pants, the outline of his bulge reminding her of one particular traumatizing moment from the night before. "And you owe me a Snickers!" She immediately regrets the few words that managed to escape her usually quiet lips. She knows there's no going back, though.

"I had a feeling you'd bring that up again. One sec." Harry leans over Goldie's lap to rummage through a nearby duffle bag on the ground. She leans back in shock, lifting her hands in the air as though she's been asked by a police officer to put them up. Harry remains hunched in half and swiftly tosses something over his shoulder and onto her chest. He sits up, grasping her knee with a gentle squeeze. "You have to share though."

Goldie grabs the object, her hungover eyes go in and out of blur until finally focusing on a king-sized Snickers bar.

"My debts are paid. Shall we continue?" Harry removes his hand from her knee.

She giggles in reaction to his touch, which summoned visible full-body chills. In attempt to avoid further embarrassment, she stands to grab her recorder, nearly-finished notepad and ballpoint pen. On her way, she sees Jonesy in his dark bunk, asleep, eyes half opened and in a daze. With her memory fully returned, she wonders if he'll remember her this time when he wakes up.

"Alrighty," she says excitedly, sitting back next to Harry. She grabs a pillow to prop up her notes on her lap. "Let's start then, I guess?" Harry gives an affirmative smile, sits back, and mirrors her position with a pillow in his lap, and she continues. Their shoulders, barely touching, give just enough connection to comfort both of them. "So tell me, Harry. What is the genesis of The Orphans?"

He smiles to himself, an unfamiliar inkling of nerves overtaking all his senses. An unknown to many, this was his first interview, and with Rolling Stone, nevertheless. "Mitch, Matt, Jonesy, Grimmy and I all grew up together in this small town. It was all about The Beatles then. This was the late 60s then, yeah? We cut our hair like them, dressed like them. We wanted to be them. When 'Abbey Road' came out, we bought the record, rushed down to the street, reenacted the cover. We were all learning instruments separately at the time and decided we'd try to form some sort of band like John, George, Ringo and Paul. Learned quickly Grimmy wasn't exactly a drummer but he always showed up to practice and supported us. Even helped us find us a replacement for himself! That was a good time. I can still remember when we played our first show." Harry laughs at the memory.

"Oh, your first show! How did that go?"

"It was this small cafe that Jonesy's dad used to own. No more than five people showed up, two of 'em were Mitch's parent's and then of course Jonesy's dad. But we were so excited. A chance to show what we'd all been grueling over for so long. We were so disciplined for young boys. We could play the songs in our sleep."

Goldie vigorously writes down notes and adjusts her tape recorder to face Harry more directly. "How did it feel when you played that first show? I mean, it must have been incredible regardless of how many people came."

"It was an immediate rush," he answers, suddenly nervous by her device facing him. He fidgets slightly, grasping the pillow tighter than before. "We opened with 'Paperback Writer.'"

"Great song! My dad, Jimmy, played that for me for the first time in his record shop. My mom danced while The Beatles harmonized. It's underappreciated I think. How did you guys perform? You killed it, I'm sure."

"We did!" He adjusts his position toward her, turning his hips to the right, engaging in the conversation. Even though it was an interview, it was strange to both of them how it felt like a natural conversation. "We sang the acapella intro perfectly. That's why we use that part to get psyched for a performance. A reminder of where we came from. And then when Mitch came in with that guitar solo! It felt like we were playing a concert for thousands."

"So THAT'S why you all sing that. It gave me the chills when I heard it! Just thinking about it right now." She rubs the goosebumps up her arm. Her obvious excitement eggs him on to share more without further question.

"We've been side-by-side ever since. These guys... they're good people. You don't meet people like that anymore. Or you rarely meet people like that, I guess." He looks at her eager face. "You can't trust anyone the way I trust my band mates." Harry suddenly snaps back to reality. He notices that he's let his guard down.

"That's very true." Goldie keeps her head down, excitedly jotting down the words Harry is spewing.

"Your turn now." Harry sits back, building up his wall, brick by brick, as he reverts back to the persona he built — The Orphans egotistical frontman. "Now tell me something about you, Goldie Locks."

"Wait, what?" She looks up at the stranger's face. She felt she was getting to know the man behind the genius when suddenly the carpet was ripped away from underneath her feet. "That's an odd question. I thought I was interviewing you."

"We'll continue this some other time. You're out of paper anyways." He condescendingly flicks the final, ink-ridden sheet of her notepad. "You have our story. Now tell me something about yourself that nobody else knows and I promise I'll give you part two after our next show."

"Okay..." She ponders what to share with him. "I've grown up in Venice Beach. And I love that city more than anything. Sometimes, though, when I sit back on what should be a cool October night, I fantasize about living in a place where I can really feel the seasons. Especially Fall."

"Why Fall?" Harry breaks the Snickers bar in two on instinct and hands Goldie the bigger half.

She takes a bite and continues her monologue while chewing. "Have you ever heard of the myth of the sun and the moon?"

"The sun and the moon aren't myths. I hope you know that." Harry chuckles at his own joke, chewing his first bite of the candybar and cheerses his half with hers.

Reciprocating his small celebratory motion, she swallows her bite and gives the rest of her explanation. "My mom used to tell me this fable about how the moon and sun have always been in love. Story has it, Fall is the one time of the year when the moon finally gets close enough to feel the warmth of the sun. Really think about that, Harry. The moon works all Spring and Summer, trying its hardest to touch the love of its life, coming close enough to only feel its presence in Autumn. Then eventually, the moon unwillingly out distances the sun and the whole pursuit has to start all over and the moon goes on, spending its entire life trying to once again be close to its first love."

Harry sits up, trying to process the story that was just shared with him. The question he asked was meant to be mild and innocent. A way to test her and keep her at arm's length. He never thought it would inevitably draw him in closer.

"Leave it to me to love a tragic love story, right?" Goldie comments, sitting up beside him, their shoulders touching once again. The two lost souls stare at each other, searching to find the answers to their unknown questions.

"Arses and elbows! Ten minutes out of Portland, boys!" Grimmy yells from the front of the bus. "We gotta find our drummer or we're shit outta luck!"

Goldie looks back to Harry. "I should probably get my stuff together. Let me know when you're ready for part two." She stands up and heads back to her bunk. Harry sits, silent and stunned by the interaction that just took place.