Page 80 of No One But Us

She bites her lip. “I don’t even know. I’m not sure who I was trying to substitute.”

“I don’t suppose you ever told Alex about...the last time?”

Her arms fold over her chest. “Of course I didn’t. I’m not about to lose him over one drunken mistake.”

James drives us to the bar, not smiling once the entire way. I sit in back. Every time I glance in his rearview mirror, our eyes lock. Ginny prattles on about her trip without noticing that she’s basically the only person in the car speaking.

The bar is packed, but that’s not surprising. Far Too Far shows always sell out. We reach Max, who is saving us a spot in a raised area to the right of the stage, just as the lights dim.

The band comes out with Ryan front and center, effortlessly masculine, barely registering all the screaming fangirls at the front of the stage as he offers the crowd that panty-dropping grin of his and launches into their first song. His voice is low, rough, amazing. I remember the way I once felt when I heard him sing, and I know I’d be lying if I said some part of it wasn’t still there. But it’s not what I feel for James, and it’s only a ghost of what I once felt for Ryan.

They do covers and they play their own stuff. When they begin to play “Used to Be,” my favorite of all of their songs, I jump off the platform we stand on and dive into the crowd, with Ginny right at my heels, and Ryan laughs and shakes his head. He was always oddly proud of the way I’d let loose when he played. I feel his pride at the same moment I feel James’ displeasure.

The song ends, and Ryan steps back to the mic. He points at me. “That’s my ex-girlfriend,” he tells the crowd. “Isn’t she hot?”

There are catcalls and laughter.

“I messed up, Elle,” he says. “You don’t need to tour with me. I just need to know you’ll be waiting for me when we get back to school.”

He launches into a song he wrote for me last winter but said was “too girly” to play in public. As he sings it, I can’t help but look over at James, who is watching me. I’ve never seen him look so lost. It makes me want to comfort him, and angers me in turn. Why am I always worried about his feelings when he worries so little about mine?

The song ends and Ryan mouths “I love you.” The noise of the crowd is deafening. They all love this kind of thing; even the girls who’ve come here to throw themselves at him are whistling and stamping their approval. It would have moved me two months ago, but it doesn’t now. Even if I’m only a fling, even though he plans to move on once summer is over, there’s no longer room inside me for anyone but James.

We turn to the guys at the show’s end. “I’m going backstage,” Ginny says defiantly. Max looks like he wants to object but says nothing.

James turns to me. “What about you, Elle?” Each word sounds bitten off. “Do you want to go backstage?”

“I need to talk to Ryan for a minute,” I tell him.

His face grows cold. “Have fun,” he says, walking away.

* * *

The backstage of a bar isn’t much like you see in footage about real bands, but there’s still plenty of beer and plenty of inadequately clothed girls waiting around looking hopeful.

Ryan sees me and grabs my hand. “Let’s go out back,” he says, pushing open the side door to an alley that smells like day-old trash.

“I spoke to my mom, by the way. She thinks they’ll be in New York some time next week if you want an introduction to Tommy.”

“You’ll come too, right?” he asks.

I look away. “I don’t know. I’d have to take at least one day off work, if not more.” And if I think things are ugly with James right now, I can’t wait to see what they’d look like if I went to meet Ryan in another city.

“Come on, Elle. I’ve never even met your mom. It’ll be weird without you there. Besides, it’s not like you need the money, right? I thought your dad paid for everything.”

I laugh unhappily. “Not anymore. His twit of a fiancée apparently convinced him it was time I was pushed from the nest.”

“Christ,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I’m still begging you to come.” We watch a rat squirm its way into the dumpster, and he laughs. “I’ve obviously chosen a romantic setting to try to win you back,” he says. “So did the song work?”

For the first time in the year I’ve known him, he actually looks anxious. I hate seeing him like that. A part of me wishes I could give him the answer he wants.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He looks at his feet and nods. “It’s that guy, isn’t it?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “Your friend’s brother?”

When I nod, he closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. “How serious is it?”

“It’s not,” I say. Sadness leaches into my voice. I guess I’ve made it pretty clear whose choice that was.