Page 11 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I call Mrs. Patel to let her know I arrived safely. I keep the conversation short and sweet, knowing we probably won’t talk again unless it’s about the boxes in her garage.
I then read a text from Jill.“Why didn’t you tell me you left today? I had to find out from Mrs. Patel.”
I exhale hard, sitting on the timber floor and resting my back against the base of my bed as I text her back.“How did you expect me to tell you I was leaving? I didn’t want to admit it.”
“Well, where the heck are you?”
“I don’t even know. This place is out of a movie, and not the good kind. My aunt is...”I pause, trying to find the words.“She’s nice. Like, fake nice. And she’s got me lined up to tutor this musician. I don’t know what to think. I just got here, and she’s already given me a job. I don’t trust her.”
My hands tremor, and I drop the phone to my lap.
I don’t trust my aunt.
My guardian.
It’s a heavy admission, but in my gut I know it’s true.
She smiled and used all the right words, but there was nothing behind them. No real warmth or genuine concern. Just calculation.
She never said she was sorry for my loss.
It was her loss, too. Her sister and her brother-in-law.
Now I’m a tool for her to use in making Ryder a success.
“I don’t want to be here,” I whisper to the empty room.
I get up off the floor, not reading Jill’s new text, and get ready for bed in the enormous bathroom. When I brush my teeth, the water tastes different from at home. Once changed into my pajamas, they feel inadequately thin in this stone room. The bed is comfortable, piled high with down comforters and soft pillows, but it somehow doesn’t feel right.
I close my eyes and listen for anything resembling the familiar hum of civilization. In a huff, I reach for my phone, happy for the blinding backlight to take away the darkness.
I search for the clip of Sky Chaos on the Jameson Late Show. It has almost two million views. Wow. Even if it is only the band’s fifteen minutes, it’s extremely impressive.
The clip opens with Ryder center stage under bright lights. His electric guitar slung low across his body in a casual yet practiced way. Although when he strikes the opening chord, something about it is off. Like he missed the mark, and the sound warbles awkwardly through the speakers.
That must be the stumble Miranda mentioned. The shame on Ryder’s face at dinner makes more sense now.
More lights shine on the band as the drummer and the bassist join in. With the trio combined, the sound cuts through my phone with a clarity that makes my breath hitch. The initial hesitation in Ryder’s performance disappears with the backing of his band.
Ryder’s fingers move across the fretboard with fluid precision, each note deliberate and clean. As his other hand works the strings, it’s like the rhythm pulses with its own heartbeat. When he leans into the microphone, and a rough edge textures his voice. The camera catches him, eyes closed, completely lost in the music.
This is more than fifteen minutes of fame. He has the stage presence of a rockstar.
But I can also see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches between verses. The fear hiding behind the performance. Miranda’s words echo in my head:“One mistake and they’ll move on to the next act.”
No wonder he looked so trapped at dinner.
Something inside me shifts. A fluttering sensation that isn’t panic or grief. It’s some kind of thrill. A stimulating warmth that reminds me of his callused hands examining my cut palm. An excitement that synchronizes my heartbeat with the rhythm of his guitar.
His moves on stage are mesmerizing. His whole body is engaged with the music. When he hits a high note, chills run down my arms. There’s something about his voice. How it cracks on the emotional peaks. It doesn’t even matter that rolling credits cover half the performance.
I watch it three more times, my phone clutched in my hand.
Having seen his performance, he somehow feels more unreachable now. How on earth do I survive being alone in a tutoring session with this boy? He’s basically famous.
Four
Withagasp,Iwake into the suffocating darkness of night. My heart hammers against my ribs with the will to escape my chest. The nightmare clings to my mind, slicking my hair back with sweat.
