I want to tell her that this isn’t going on a Christmas card or put into a yearbook, and that there are obviously VIPs lined up outside the tent, which, by the way, we had exactly fifteen at our first show in Russia, and all related to me, except for Rain’s folks and Mae’s, but … whatever.
We had exactly the same number of people waiting in the VIP at our second show in Romania. Manchester, England, was different. There, we had a really long line until STD started, and then, well, let me just say I was relieved, because the contact high from the crowd’s energy had been wearing off, and I had started to get anxious.
Anxiety is a cunt.
“Picture with the band?” Mom waves the girls over.
I look at Dad, who gives me a quick wink, basically telling me to let her do her thing.
I’m not so far gone that I don’t know that I have put them through hell, been doing that most of my life, so I oblige them. It’s not like I can ever make up for it, and I’m hoping once they trust me again, I can distance myself and pop in and out when things aren’t staticky.
“Papá! Matteo!” one of the girls exclaims.
“This should be entertaining.” Zoey chuckles as she wraps her arm around my shoulder.
I look at her, expecting her to elaborate, and also hoping that she remembers the girls are young, like G-rated, maybe PG.
“Kissy, kissy, Tris.” The same girl giggles. “Matteo.”
Zoey busts up laughing, and Rain whispers, “Dayum.”
I look away from them, and my eyes land on the same man who my lips burned for minutes ago and seem to be having some sort of muscle memory from said kiss, because they are tingling. And Rain is right; dayum.
I feel an elbow jab my side. “Say something.”
I glare at Mae, and she giggles.
Annoyed at her, I look back at him. “You’re welcome.”
A smirk forms on his perfect lips, and then he smiles a dazzling smile. But I’m not focusing on it. I’m tripping on a dimple, a tummy flutter and, of course, a racing heart.
“Bien.” His voice is a smooth and deep, no rasp like … him. It’s soothing and should be bottled up, labeled “melatonin magic,” and sold worldwide.
“Bien?”
His dimple deepens. “Fue un bonito beso.”
Mae leans in and whispers, “He said, it was a beautiful kiss.”
I scowl at her again and snap because, like, step away, girl.
“Well, of course it was.”
I glance back at him, feeling all sorts of emotions, and desperately hoping not to see the regret I have seen before, and wishing once again that I kept my lips to myself and my mouth shut.
There is none. Concern maybe? Confusion because we obviously don’t speak the same language.
Then I hear Dad’s voice boom, “Sono suo, padre.”
“I really wish I had some snacks for this,” Zoey says in a way too amused and annoying as hell tone.
He points to the girls then behind him. “Their papa.”
“Good call.” Dad actually smiles and the man, Matteo, nods once before reaching his hand out and offering Dad a handshake.
Great, just great, I think.
“All right, we’ve got a line,” Tricks announces kindly.
“Más tiempo,” one of the girls frowns.
“More time,” Mae whispers the translation.
Tricks gives them that smile that makes all females, from eight to eighty, swoon. “London, Madrid, and then Reggio Emilia. Lots más tiempo coming up.”
“Papá?” they all call out, and I dare look back at the man who seems to have my body blushing from the inside out.
His eyes and smile soften before he turns to exit the VIP tent.
The other man, Papá, has a shit-ass grin on his face that makes me sick to my stomach as he says, “Ese era mi beso.”
Mae whispers, “That was my kiss.”
“Chicas, vengan cinmigo,” Matteo calls to them, and his voice, although still smooth, carries much annoyance.
I look at the father and state firmly, “Obviously not.”
“You look tired,” Mom says from beside me in the SUV that Dad insists on driving, taking us back to the hotel.
“That’s not tired; that’s lust,” Rain states like it’s no big deal that she just outed me in front of my parents.
“He was handsome,” Mom says, her lips too tight to be genuine, her eyes too squinted to be truly okay with this.
“Handsome? No. That man was hot.” Zoey chuckles.
“Ladies,” Dad softly scolds us.
“With all due respect, I get that she’s your daughter, but she’s gonna be eighteen, and if that doesn’t make it any better, at least it’s not Satan she’s doe-eyed over.”
“I’m not doe-eyed,” I defend then scold her under my breath, “The fuck, Rain?”
“She’s chasing the same dream as you all are. She needs to focus on herself and not a guy. Besides that, he’s too old for my girl,” Dad says, turning into the parking lot. “Eye on the prize, ladies. Your fan base has multiplied by a dozen from Russia. Keep focused, and it’ll quadruple before you know it.”
“Isn’t love the ultimate prize in life?” Mae asks sincerely.
Dad tosses back a quick, “Start with finding your true passion, which you’re all doing now. Then self-awareness, what do you want, need, and desire in life. Then self-love. Out of all that, what makes you the best you, and focus on it. Let go of all the shit that doesn’t make you happy. Set a firm foundation, and you’ll find your one true love.”
Zoey leans forward. “So, you’re saying you and Mrs. Steel—”
“Bekah,” Mom corrects her sweetly.
“You and Bekah had it all figured out before you met?”
“Yes,” Dad answers, and Mom says, “No.”
The girls all laugh.
He clarifies, “I knew immediately that she was going to change my life for the better, so I stand true to yes.”
“And I was hesitant.”
I bet you were, Bekah, I bet you were, I think.
After the fight, getting kicked out of school, and my entire world ultimately imploding on me, I was told, until I could talk about what was going on inside me, I couldn’t go home.
As staticky as things were, I could still see that the news was devastating to my parents. I don’t really have a relationship with God, but it had to have been divine intervention that allowed me to see and feel what this was doing to them. Yet, still being angry and blaming them, I decided to unleash hell on them, because I wanted them to hurt like they were hurting me.
“Tomorrow, okay, Tris?” my shrink asked.
“Yes.”
The next day, in the room filled with greens, comfy couches, and a blue lighting that was supposed to calm, I felt anything but calm. It fueled the fire inside of me.
I didn’t sit in a comfortable chair. I paced.
I didn’t feel like I was in a forest. I was locked inside what appeared to be a five-star resort, a place that could give help to fragile people.
I wasn’t fragile. I was infuriated.
I wasn’t free. I was locked up.
I didn’t see blue. I saw rage. For clarification purposes, rage is red.