really cool-sounding harmony that he just makes up, right now, and it makes the song even better. It ends and Billy is on his feet, clapping and saying, “Bravo, bravo, magnifico!” in the control room, and I’m staring at Travis thinking he just saved my ass again. He’s my fucking hero. And he’s looking back at me with a reassuring smile that I really don’t deserve.
Outside in the parking lot after we’ve loaded our guitars, Travis is leaning against the driver-side door of the van, his arms folded across his chest, and I’m facing him, leaning against my car feeling sheepish.
“I’m so sorry, Travis,” I say, and I can’t look at him so I look down at the blacktop under our feet.
“For what?”
“A lot of things. Screwing up on air tonight, for one.”
“You don’t need to be sorry for that,” he says. “That was no big deal.”
“Well then, I’m sorry that I’m like this,” I say.
“Like what?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t know, bossy?”
“For starters?”
“Flaky?”
“As a county fair pie crust?”
I know he’s teasing me but it still hurts.
“I’m sorry I was a jerk today. I’m just so afraid of losing what we have together.” My voice cracks and I don’t realize until now how close I am to crying. I think I’m talking about Stars on the Floor and his MBA, but now we both know that I’m not. His face softens and he drops his arms and wraps them around my shoulders, pulling me into him, and I let him because I have grown very fond of the feeling of him holding me.
“Emmy, we could have a lot more than this, you know?” he says. “If you’d just relax and let it happen.”
I look up into his face, lit all soft and dreamy by the streetlamp. I do and don’t want him to kiss me. Like, I’m longing for him to put his lips to mine, to put his hands in my hair, and I’m terrified of it. It doesn’t matter because he’s not kissing me, he’s waiting for me to say something back. Unfortunately, I do.
“Yeah,” I say. “But we’d have so much more to lose.”
He lets me go and leans back against the van again, shaking his head at me.
“Bean, you’re my best friend and you know how rare it is to find someone you get along this well with and can write music like this with.”
“Of course I know that,” he says, his tone with me rightfully exasperated.
“You’re my unicorn,” I say, and I don’t even care how dumb it sounds. “You’re like this magical, mythical beast and I never had a horse so maybe I don’t know how to take care of unicorns very well, but I do know I’ll never find another one.”
“I’m your unicorn?” he says, giving me a funny look. “Really, Emmy? Your magic beast?”
“Well? Unicorns are awesome, aren’t they?”
“Of course they’re awesome—they aren’t real. Unicorns don’t have school loans to pay off or parents to deal with or an alcoholic boss or concerns about supporting themselves on eight dollars an hour, and they don’t have any expectations of you, either.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“Yeah, well I’m not a metaphor. I’m real and I’m right here in front of you, waiting for you to figure your shit out.”
And I don’t know what to say, because it’s not like I’m not trying.
Chapter Fifteen
A week later, on a sunny, warm, clear spring day in Jersey, Ag Field Day arrives. And as well-prepared as we are (we are always well-prepared, remember, we have our shit together), we are all nervous. This is the biggest show we’ve ever played, and Ween are the biggest headliners we’ve ever played with. Plus, we know a lot of people out there in the crowd.
Rutgers Ag Field Day is a huge outdoor festival that spans the Cook and Douglass campuses. There are all different kinds of agricultural displays here. The cow with the glass stomach, the miniature horses petting zoo, lots of plants and flats of flowers grown by crunchy Cook students, soil testing demonstrations. Don’t even ask me why somebody might drive half an hour from Freehold to come here to look at soil testing demos, but they do.
Today we’ll be playing right on Passion Puddle, a decent-sized pond on Douglass normally home to stoned Frisbee players and feminists with acoustic guitars, now dotted with picnicking families, stoned Frisbee players, and feminists with acoustic guitars, as well as everybody within fifty miles who has nothing better to do today.