Chapter 26
The crowd roars on one side of me, music blaring on the other. Since New York, Luminescent Juliet’s popularity has soared. Earlier tonight, the booth was busier than ever—luckily, Romeo had ordered more T-shirts. He also hired Mike to help me the entire time, and even the two of us together could hardly keep up with the preshow line. I can’t help but notice that during the first part of the tour, usually only half the seats were full when the guys kicked off each show. Now, the seats are nearly three-fourths full, which is pretty good for an opening band. Their album has also skyrocketed on the indie charts.
I take pictures of both the band and the mass of screaming fans, already thinking through the best way to highlight the surge in sales and the increasing crowds. Of course, Sam is his usually flirty self, winking at the girls in the front as I take pictures. I have a suspicion he pours it on extra thick when I’m out here.
Asshole. We haven’t spoken since the incident at the diner this afternoon.
Attempting to ignore Sam, the way he does me, I try to let the energy, the music, the lights, the rumble in my chest, and Justin’s vocals take me away from my jealous thoughts of groupies. Then the band starts the fast notes of what has become my absolute favorite song, “Trace,” and I move to the side of the stage in the shadows to watch Sam. He’s not as frozen as he was last time I watched them perform it, but there’s still a noticeable shift in his demeanor. Maybe nobody else would notice, but I instantly pick up the sadness that overtakes his posture, reminding me of the incomplete song lyrics I typed into my phone. I want to know why this song has such an effect on him.
The song ends and the first notes of “Inked My Heart” begin. I start heading back to the booth.
The time after their performance is as busy as the initial rush, but the crowds instantly thin as Griff goes onstage, and I help Mike pack the booth up. Then I head to the green room, grab a plate of fruit and crackers, find a quiet spot in the corner, and start filling in the lyrics of “Trace” on my phone.
I know the bus would be quieter, but I’m sick of the bus. So I munch on fruit and crackers, listen to the song again and again, and fill in the missing lyrics. Done, I pull out my earbuds and read over what I’ve typed into my phone.
I remember your laugh
I remember when
When you were real
Before everything changed
You fell into a nightmare
Leaving me alone
Holding on to traces of you
Gone, gone, gone
Nothing left but traces of you.
Gone, gone, gone
But still holding on to these traces of you
Life is so empty
No one understands
You’re lost forever
Leaving half a man
My whole word has crumbled
Meaningless I stumble
Holding on to traces of you
Gone, gone, gone
Nothing left but traces of you.
Gone, gone, gone
But still holding on to these traces of you
Still I wait
I’ll always wait
However hopeless
You’re my other half
Caught in your shadow
Here I stand
Holding on to traces of you
Gone, gone, gone
Nothing left but traces of you
Gone, gone, gone
But still holding on to these traces of you
I’ll always hold on to these traces of you
I grip my phone as the reality of the song hits me. Probably like most people, I thought “Trace” was about a girl, especially with the chorus, I can’t let you go. Now reading the lyrics in their entirety, I’m very aware of what they mean, and who wrote them.
Romeo didn’t. Sam did. And the song isn’t about a girl. It’s about missing a twin brother lost to a disease. Lost to schizophrenia.
It’s about Seth.
My empty plate falls to the floor as I look over the lyrics again, and my lip quivers. When Sam explained his pain, I thought I understood, but the lyrics, the desolation and sorrow of them, and the realness behind them, tear at my heart and make it hard for me to breathe.
Poor, poor Sam. Poor, poor Seth. The stupid fucking tragedy of it sucks.
Searching the room, I find Sam on the far side. Through watery eyes, I watch him laugh, his curls bobbing, at something the girl wrapped around him says. He takes a swig of beer, looks up, and catches me staring.
Damn. I’m caught in his gaze and my lip trembles more as tears start rolling down my cheeks.
Overwhelmed, I’m up in seconds, running for the exit. I’m halfway down the long hallway leading to the back parking lot when a strong hand catches my shoulder.
“Peyton,” Sam says, turning me around.
I wipe at my tears and lower my head.
“Oh shit, Peyton,” he says, guiding me into an alcove. Gently gripping my shoulders, he turns me until we face each other. “I’m just messing around. I’m not going to do anything with those women.”
A wild laugh escapes me as I wipe my cheeks. “That’s not why I’m crying!” I want to add that, yes, being honest, girls hanging all over him pisses me off, even if I don’t have a right to be pissed. But I don’t go there.
Frowning, he leans back, studying me. “Bryce find out about us?”
“I already broke up with him,” I snap, frustrated that he assumes I’m crying over Bryce. Bryce has sent a few texts. I’ve ignored them. I refuse to have a text war over our breakup.
Sam is suddenly very still. “When?”
“The morning he left.”
His eyes widen as they search mine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I wipe away a tear. “Why would I tell you?”
He winces. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because a few hours before, we had sex?” he says in a tone dripping with sarcasm.
I grit my teeth. “So having sex with you means I tell you everything?”
“Peyton,” he says, his jaw tightening.
“I didn’t break up with him because of that. Though it helped my decision, okay? We didn’t ever connect on a level that made the relationship worth keeping up.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” he demands.
“Maybe I needed a little time after breaking up with my boyfriend of seven months before—before considering anything else,” I say, keeping whatever is between us as vague as possible.
He glares at me. “You could have told me. I wouldn’t have been such a dick this past week.”
I clench my hands into fists. “Nice. You seriously think you had a right to be a dick. Nice,” I repeat with a shake of my head. At least my tears are starting to let up.
“After the way you left and went back to him . . .” He sighs and leans close again. “Never mind. Just tell me why you’re crying.”
At the thought of why, my stupid eyes start tearing up again.
His hands come back to my shoulders. “What’s going on?” When I draw in a deep breath, his fingers grip me tight. “Peyton?”
“I figured out the lyrics,” I say, my voice choked.
He cocks his head. “Lyrics?”
“To—to ‘Trace.’?”
“Oh.” His eyes widen in surprise. He lowers his hands from my shoulders and looks down. “I wrote that two years ago,” he finally says.
“Do you feel any different now?”
He swallows, then says in a hoarse tone, “No.”
The look of pain on his face has my tears flowing again. “I’m sorry, Sam,” I say, stepping forward into his chest and wrapping my arms around him. “So, so sorry.”
His arms encircle me. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” He draws in a deep breath. “No one does. It’s something I have to learn to deal with. To accept.” He releases a whoosh of air that blows the hair on my shoulder back. “It’s just damn hard to let the old Seth go.”
“The whole thing sucks,” I mumble against his shirt.
His arms crush me as he holds me tighter. “I miss him so fucking much,” he says into my hair, his voice cracking with pain.
Both crying, we stand holding on to each other, drowning in sadness together because there’s nothing else we can do.