▪️Monday, December 14th, 2017▪️

▪️Las Vegas, NV▪️

The cold compress on my left hand is a brutal reminder of many reasons why touring and playing the keys day after day is not my idea of a dream job. I'm grateful for the tour, for the loads of new followers, and thousands in my merch sold over the past two-and-a-half weeks, but. But. Composing with The Whats has been the truly mind-blowing development. The only part I wake up and look forward to each morning, no matter how late we stayed up the night before. The schedule we settled into has been go to bed after midnight and asses in the recording studio by eight a.m. The last time I voluntarily woke up before eight was when I went on a juice cleanse and had to use the bathroom every couple of hours. Do not recommend.

The days we are on the road and not giving concerts, we keep the morning sessions, but I get to go to bed at an early hour. Which sometimes ends up being right after dinner. Since Mike took over the responsibilities for the dojang, he refuses to admit he needs sleep, pretending he can wait up for me after I'm done with my concerts instead of us only talking on my nights off. We've both fallen asleep while talking several times, because staying up till nine when I'm not performing is proving difficult. The switches in my daily routine are running my body ragged. No matter how many pills I take, keeping the state of my hand hidden from everyone on the bus is more and more of a challenge.

"You're a mess," Amelie tells me what I already know. We figured out an hour for us to sync up and talk. The Marco-Polos we've been exchanging are fun, but real-time is better. She gave me a festive tour of the cottage her mom renovated in her backyard in France for her, all ready for Christmas, with cute French baubles I can't wait to get my hands on. This will be her first Christmas with her mom, and no matter how much she refuses to talk about it, her first one without her dad. Paul is on both our minds.

"Preaching to the choir." I prop myself on the pillow in my room. After a twelve-hour drive from Denver to Las Vegas, we have a night in a hotel before the two-day and four-concert sprint.

"You need to get an appointment and have some steroid shots for your hand, or you'll be out of commission. Can't their guy play for you?"

"By their guy you mean Oliver St. John? He might sound like he's the softest of them all, but he's the biggest prima donna. No way in hell is he playing the keys for me. And I'm not asking him. I'll be fine. Can't let them hire someone else because I'm unable to perform my contractual obligations. The five-day Christmas break in LA is only a week away. I'll have time then to rest my hand and take care of my needs."

"Your needs. It's one name to call Mike. He's still coming, isn't he?"

"His latest message was an itinerary for us." He's way more into planning than he needs to be. I have a couple of spots I'd like to hit, but an hour-by-hour itinerary was a buzzkill. "Oh, and he rented a motorcycle."

That part I'm looking forward to. The minivan was not a car I'd be caught dead in. My convertible might not have been practical for most of the months in Chicago, but when those sunny days visited the windy city, and I was around, I blasted the music so that three cars before and after me can hear it, wore my fanciest Audrey Hepburn glasses, and let both my roof and my hair down. I'll miss it, but I don't mind the additional chunk of money in my rapidly growing savings account. Dad haggled a miraculous price for such a quick sale.

I loved my car, but motorcycles have their pluses. Like Mike's body I can cling to. This is by far not the longest dry spell I've had in my dating life, but hearing Mike's voice, obsessing about the photos he sent me that his brother took, and chasing after the much less clothed version of him my dreams keep serving, has raised my hornymeter to a height it's never reached before.

"I made him promise he'll get me a cute pink helmet."

"Helmet is good. Be careful. Stay safe."

"You don't have to dote over me from France."

"If not me, then who?"

"I'm almost twenty-four years old. I earn my living. I can take care of myself."

"Says a woman who is currently homeless." She didn't need to remind me that my parents have gone mad and decided to sell their house, my childhood home, and live in an RV for the foreseeable future.

"A technicality."

"Can barely move the fingers on her left hand."

"An exaggeration." I lift my red from the cold wrap finger and wave at the screen. I keep my smile, but no matter how much I try, the pinky isn't moving.

"Right. As if I believe it. Shall I continue?"

"You shall not. I am fine."

"Not believing that for a second."

"Very well. Don't believe me, but let's focus on you instead. Your eyes aren't red anymore. Do I take it you've stopped crying over your breakup with Ben?"

Amelie glances away. "That's not why I called you."

"Not so fun when you are the one who has to answer the unpleasant questions, huh."

"Talking about Ben is not unpleasant. I want him to succeed."

"Fine. I already promised to help him with his YouTube videos. You don't need to press."

"You also promised you won't tell him it was my idea. He doesn't need to think about me."

She's kidding herself if she thinks Ben's not thinking about her every day, just like I'm thinking about Mike.

A loud knock at the door puts an end to our conversation. "That's my cue to go. Poppy's taken it upon herself to do lunch with me every day. She thinks I don't eat. She might be twenty years younger than my parents but no different when it comes to assuming I can't feed myself."

We hang up. I slide my feet into a pair of white flip-flops with neon yellow lemon design, grab my neon yellow cross-body bag and open the door.

Neil's angular face greets me. "That was faster than usual."

"What're you doing here?"

"Poppy can't come today. Some old buddy of hers popped in. She volunteered me to get food into you." He looks at my stomach, and I regret wearing a crop top. I won't respond to his implication that I'm dressed inappropriately. It's either too flamboyant or too tall or too loud or too wide-eyed or too extroverted. If I were to listen to all the "toos" the naysayers throw about me on social media, I'd have to hide in a room somewhere or pretend to be someone else. The accident put a lid on that shit. I'm the towering, bony, loud-mouthed tornado, and I'm not asking for anyone to love me. I'm fine on my own. Not giving Neil the satisfaction of seeing me squirm, I shoulder past him.

"You're paying." I hear the door slam behind me. "I'm starving."

The steakhouse I choose appears empty on a Monday afternoon. Neil keeps his sunglasses on and lowers his baseball cap when we pass the only occupied table with a couple of men in cheap suits and ties eating surf-and-turf. I hope that's not the crowd we'll be playing to. Convention crowds are not my thing. The sweet smell of lobster tail, butter and charred beef permeates the room. The hostess shows us to a booth in the corner.

I open the menu and find the most expensive item: filet mignon with a topping of jumbo lump crab, seared asparagus and house-made bearnaise sauce. Neil asks for a moment to study the food and the server leaves to get us our drinks.

"I like a woman who knows what she wants." Neil returns to the first page of the extensive menu.

"After three weeks on the road with me, you still expect a damsel in distress?"

Neil closes his folder. With his sunglasses on, I can't see his eyes, but there's a smirk on his lips.

"Nope. I learned that lesson the first night we met, and I have a scar to prove it." He points to the remnants of the stitches on his forehead. "Didn't think I'd meet someone more damaged than me, though. You're beating all my records."

"What? I can't believe you're admitting defeat."

"Who said anything about defeat?" He lifts his chin up. "I'm implying you're a wreck." He glances at my left hand. "Metaphorically."

"No idea what you're talking about." I pull my hand under the table. I should've just left it there. Now it looks like I'm hiding something. Which I am not. The doctor eventually agreed that I needed a stronger dose. Just for the duration of the tour.

"No? The pills, the hand, the obsession with social media, the fake cheer? Did I get something wrong?"

He's just fishing. "Everything."

I twist the napkin on my lap. I'm fine.

The server is back with our drinks and after I order, Neil asks for two chicken breasts, three sides of steamed vegetables, brown rice, and apple slices with peanut butter for dessert. I haven't noticed that combo on the menu, but he doesn't bat an eye.

"Still eating healthy?" He is yet to eat any junk food in my presence.

"Always healthy."

"Saving your calories for the booze?"

"Straight up."

Such a liar. Neil and the bus drivers were always the only ones sober on the nights we went out. Neil's relationship with alcohol is a mystery. He orders drinks, but I'm convinced he never finishes, even the first one.

The restaurant hums with a barely-there instrumental arrangement of a country song that was popular a couple of years ago, covering up the clatter of the kitchen and the words from the conversation the men we've passed on our way here are having. I pull out my phone and make sure Neil knows I'm ignoring him.

Me: About to see what a filet mignon in Las Vegas tastes like. What are you up to?

Mike: About to leave to check on a construction site that's going to build the columns I've designed. Lunch was over almost three hours ago. I'd love to have a bite of your juicy filet though.

Me: Is this an innuendo?

Mike: Sorry, if I didn't make myself clear. I'd like to eat anything juicy of yours that you'd offer me.

Heat pools below my bellybutton, and I try to resurrect the feeling of Mike treating me as dessert in the tiny kitchen of my Chicago apartment. I'll be the appetizer, the main dish, and his sugary treat the moment he's in the same town as me.

Me: Innuendo then. Hold it for tonight. I'm at a hotel by myself, with Internet, and we could get to the video chat portion of this trip you keep delaying.

Mike: I'm in an elevator with three other people and besides a stupid grin I have a hard-on, which needs to disappear by the time I leave this elevator. Tell me something awful.

I'd much rather be in that elevator with him than at this restaurant trying to play nice with Neil. But I can't leave him. . .standing.

Me: My parents had a change of plans. They arrive on Christmas Eve. I can't spend it with you.

Mike: Are you cutting our last day short?

My parents might be having a late mid-life crisis with this RV living, but I can't not spend Christmas with them if we're in the same city. I could invite Mike to join, but I've never introduced any guys to my parents. I'm not starting now. Whatever Mike and I have, no matter how different it feels from anything I've done before, we are not even in our honeymoon phase. He might leave his socks on in bed. Or hate Christmas. Or forget my birthday. Or run the hell away when he realizes the extent of my damage.

Me: Sorry. Couldn't say no.

Mike: It's helping with my current elevator situation. That's good. Glad you guys get to spend time together.

I put the phone face down on the table and look around for our food.

"Back to the real world?" Neil takes off his sunglasses and hangs them on the V of his T-shirt.

"I'm always in the real world. Talking to a. . .friend is part of life. Hard to understand for someone who severely lacks friends. Like you."

"That's an interesting assumption." The sparkle in his eyes goes well with his arrogant smirk.

"You were talking about me being a wreck. Ever considered you're trying too hard to make me someone I'm not."

"Maybe you're not who I thought you were. But you're not being yourself either. I've listened to your lyrics and know they have to come from somewhere."

My heart freezes like a rabbit caught in a garden. He doesn't actually know what's going on inside me. I straighten. "I'm sticking with: you are projecting. I talked to my best friend just this morning, and another. . . friend right now. Yes, I have almost fifty thousand followers on Instagram, but that's work. I have enough real-life people who like me. I don't need for you to like me as well."

"I never said I didn't like you." Neil twists his glass and focuses on the water sloshing inside.

"You behave as if me opening for The Whats is a personal insult."

"Maybe at the start. You reminded me of someone." Neil's gaze turns inward, and he's not with me for the next second. He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them, he's back to his cocky, arrogant self. "I'm over it. Ancient history. Turned out you don't have much in common. Plus, you're a brilliant songwriter." He extends his hand over the table. "Truce?"

Who do I remind him of? I both want to know and not. "Fine."

Neil and I complete a second handshake, and this time I'm confident we're no longer enemies. We grin at each other as if we're both five and just agreed to share the toys nicely.