Page 25 of The Music of Us
“Sorry,” he said, head snapping up. “It’s just... Froot Loops.”
I highly doubted those were brand-name Froot Loops with the talking toucan mascot. Knowing this motel, they were probably the off-brand Frankie’s Fruity Hoops with a deranged seagull on the box. Still, I didn’t see what fascinated him so much. “Okay?”
“I haven’t seen Froot Loops in years. My mom and nutritionist usually order some fancy organic cereal instead, and these are never at the hotels the band stays in. I don’t really get to choose much for myself, but here, I got a whole buffet I get to pick from. This place is great,” he concluded.
As if to make his point, Jake took another huge bite of Froot Loops. He had a serene, satisfied air about him, likewhen the cats at the café contentedly munched on a fresh bowl of kibble.
I watched him, thrown.
Are you happy with the life you chose?I wanted to question.What’s it like, having so much decided for you, that a cheap buffet in a crappy motel feels like freedom? Do you ever miss afternoons in the cat room and laughing on the park swings and the way we used to be?
But that was something the old me would ask—little Luciana, who was still Jake’s close friend, and who could talk to him about almost anything. Could I ask him that now?
Did I have any right to?
I pushed the thought away.
“Are you done?” Jake asked, finishing off his cereal and gesturing at my empty plate. “I want to see the café again. I didn’t get to look around last night.”
“During business hours?” Hopefully we’d have some customers in today. Most of my school had emptied out of town for vacation, butstill. “But, you’re, you know...”
“I’m what?”
A face that’s plastered on bedroom walls. An ex who’s technically not even an ex. A boy who’s throwing me off-kilter and making me unsure of what I am really thinking or feeling at all. “A celebrity.”
Jake brushed it off, like the word didn’t mean much out in the real world.
“People notice celebrities in public less often than you think,” Jake told me. “The big swarms you hear about make the news for a reason. For every fan encounter you see online, thereare tons of times there aren’t any.” He made awhatevermotion. “Most people tend to think of me as always being with the other three guys, anyway, like we’re a package deal. No one’s going to look twice at me all by myself.”
We stood and he shrugged on his jacket, settling the leather over the broad stretch of his shoulders with ease.
“You still stand out too much,” I realized. Jake might be able to walk around incognito in LA dressed like that, but he couldn’t in Somerset. “You need a wardrobe change if you’re going to be hanging around here for the next week until the livestream. You should wear something non-designer, non-leather, and not all-black,” I announced, ticking the checklist off on my fingers. “You know, clothes that let you blend in with us regular folk.”
“I’mfromhere, you know. I can blend in.”
“Technically, you’re from San Antonio, and no, you can’t.” I stepped toward Jake, reaching up to run my thumb over the collar of his shirt where it fell open by his throat, warm from his skin. “Not in this... I’m going to say five-hundred-dollar, ninety-percent silk button-down.”
He dipped his head down slightly, watching my fingers on his neckline, and I felt the hot exhale of his laugh against the back of my hand.
Jake met my gaze beneath his dark lashes. “What are you now, the wardrobe whisperer?”
“I’m gifted.”
“Clearly.”
“Did you really spend half a grand on a shirt?”
“No way.” He shook his head. “I stole it from a Paris photoshoot I did for a Savoir Faire ad campaign.”
“Oh, good,” I said with a smile. “You can actually look peopledead in the eye and tell them you’re an international thief if they wonder why you look familiar.”
“It’s a good icebreaker.”
“Seriously, though,” I said, leaning back and letting my hand drop, fingers falling away from the warm silk. “You can’t walk around town like this. We need to get rid of your”—I gestured at him—“bad boy aesthetic.”
“I only own this type of clothes.”
“Well, it’s either get a better disguise than a cap and sunglasses, or tell everyone you’re, like, number seventy-five on the FBI’s most-wanted list.”
