Founded on Goodbye by Kat Singleton
The first five stops of the tour go by in a blur. The feeling on stage every night has become intoxicating; I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it. I’m slowly becoming better friends with the other dancers. Even though I miss Riley deeply, I’m loving my life right now.
And things with Nash? They’re getting more intense.
It’s become our ritual to sit in the empty stadiums each afternoon, the two of us sipping on coffee as we soak in the pre-concert silence. The contrast between our afternoons and evenings is stark. Nash told me an empty stadium is powerful in its own way—and he was right. There’s something to be said in knowing that the silence of the space around you will be erupting in cheers in a matter of hours. It’s the calm before the storm—and it’s beautiful.
My calves are burning as I climb the concrete stairs. We’re in Atlanta tonight and tomorrow, doing a double header. The sun is hot against my cheeks, my sunglasses not doing enough to shield my face from the Georgia heat. When I find a row that’ll work, I shimmy through the seats until I’m right in the center. I plop down into the faded seat, taking in the sight before me.
The crew is working tirelessly at getting the final touches together for the night. I’ll never get over how efficient the people that work on this tour are. They take a football field and completely transform it into a set that makes the crowd go wild each night we have a show. The fans love when the screens move behind Nash as he performs. They move into four different transfigurations, each one more spectacular than the last.
Behind the stage, I’m sure the pyrotechnicians are busy setting up whatever is needed to have all the flashy fireworks and smoke ready for the night. Three crew members wheel out the instruments for Nash’s opening act. I’m watching them pull on different cords when movement catches my attention from the corner of my eye.
My stomach dips when I see it’s Nash climbing the steps in my direction. The large gold aviators on his face cover his eyes, but there’s no mistaking that his sights are pinned on me. I don’t look away—I can’t. Day by day, night by night, I’m falling further into the trap that has caught thousands—millions—of girls’ attention. I can’t help it. There’s something magnetic about being in Nash’s presence. I thought I’d be immune to it, but I was very wrong. He’s got on a backwards ballcap to cover his caramel locks, no doubt a mess from whatever he did last night. The closer he gets, the more I think that hat may be one that was thrown onto the stage by a fan.
I’ve learned more and more about Nash from the few tour stops we’ve had so far. I’ve learned that he takes the time to learn the names of each person at his meet-and-greets, even if he’s drunk. I’ve learned that he chants something to the sky before taking the stage to perform. I’ve also learned that he’ll take items fans give him, and not only that but he’ll wear them. He sports a few different bracelets that made their way onto the stage, the hat he’s wearing now, and at times I’ve seen him wear other items from them.
I blushed the first time a fan threw their bra onto the stage, not realizing it was something that happened often.
“Good morning,” Nash says gruffly, making his way through the aisle of stadium seats.
“Morning,” I respond, looking up at him with a smile.
He reaches out, handing me my coffee. I told him my order once and since then he’s somehow remembered exactly how I drink it. That small fact hasn’t been lost on me. I’m trying to take him off this pedestal the world has him on, but it seems I’m falling victim just like everyone else.
Nash sits down in the seat next to me, his tan arm brushing against mine as he shifts to get comfortable. “I need a fucking IV of coffee today,” he states before gulping down his black coffee.
The corner of my lip pulls up as I look over at him. “Rough night?”
I already know all about his night. It was all over my feed when I woke up this morning. I stayed in my bunk, scrolling for way longer than I’d care to admit, finding out exactly what Nash was up to last night.
He groans, using his free hand to adjust the black hat on his head. “Remind me to never fucking drink again.” His voice is raspy, making me wonder what he’ll have to do to get it ready to perform tonight.
Before the third show, he caught a cold that made him go through extra work to be able to sing. I had never thought about everything singers have to go through to put on a show, least of all how bad it could be for them to sing through a sore throat. Nash’s team had two separate doctors clear him to perform, to ensure he wouldn’t mess up his vocal cords in the process.
I take a long sip of my coffee, letting the bitterness wash down my throat. “I feel like even if I did remind you not to drink, it wouldn’t do much. I don’t think people would know what to do with a constantly sober Nash.”
“You implying I’m drunk all the time, Rose?” There’s a slight edge to his voice, a tone I wasn’t expecting. I don’t know if it’s from the hangover he’s fighting or if I truly offended him.
Planning my words out carefully, I take a moment before speaking. “I’m saying you’re certainly not sober all the time.”
His gaze is hotter than the sun against my skin. I’m itching to fill the awkward silence between us, not wanting him to be angry with me. When I first agreed to take part in this tour, I didn’t think I’d give a damn about what Nash thought of me, but now I’m in a place where it would eat at me if I knew he was upset with me.
“Yeah…well,” he pauses, slowly letting out a breath, “I don’t know how else to cope. I have to be numb to be able to exist. If I wasn’t numb…”
His words break off while he thinks about something, his head facing down as he stares at the people below us.
“If you weren’t numb, you’d have to live with the pain, and that’s not something you’re equipped to handle. Not now, anyway.”
His head snaps in my direction. I’m glad I too have on a pair of large sunglasses. He has a way of making me feel like he can read my every thought—without me having to say a word—and right now, I don’t want him to know what’s crossing my mind. I want to hide behind the glasses, cower away from his inquisitive gaze.
“What do you know about being numb, Nora?”
I don’t answer him. Not because I don’t trust him, I don’t want him to know how truly numb I feel deep down. The numbness I’ve had to battle for years. It’s still something I struggle with.
Shaking my head, I lift my straw to my lips, buying myself some time. Apparently, that’s not good enough for Nash, because without warning, he sets his hand on my thigh.
He’s touched me many times. His hands have skirted around almost every inch of my body, but right now, it’s different. In this moment, it’s not for show. It’s real, and it’s causing my pulse to pick up.
His fingers tighten around my thigh, a supportive touch I’ll never forget. “Nora?”
I swallow, turning my head to face him. “You’re not the only one with demons, Nash. Yours just look different than mine.”
He barely lets me finish my sentence before throwing his next words out between us. “Go out with me.”
My chest pulls in with a deep breath when I register what exactly he’s saying.
“Excuse me, what? I just told you I’m also equally fucked up, and you ask me out?” I stumble on my words, almost dropping my coffee in the process.
He cocks an eyebrow. “So, is that a no?”
“Yes.”
Nash leans in closer to me. “Yes as in yes you will, or yes as in hell yes you will?”
“Yes as in no. No, I won’t.” Monica is probably screaming from somewhere in the distance, upset with me for not taking this opportunity. But I can’t do it.
The way Nash is grinning at me, it makes him seem so different from the man in the magazines. It makes him seem real—human. It felt easy when he seemed like this rude, famous, unattainable guy. Now that he’s next to me, slowly letting his guard down, I can’t bring myself to hurt him.
Even though I want to say yes.
“You’re telling me no?” he asks, confused, sitting straighter in the seat as he tilts toward me. “Can you at least tell me why?”
“Because you’re…” my free hand waves around in front of him, “you. You’re Nash Pierce. You go on dates with models and actresses.”
“I can go out with whoever I please,” he throws back, a bit of a bite to his tone.
“Nash, you don’t know me,” I point out, ready to beg him not to start down this road.
“I’m trying to know you.” His voice is softer then, and chipping away at my resolve.
The voice in my head telling me this is the worst idea, that this will set us down a path I can’t come back from, is getting quieter by the second.
“It’s a bad idea,” I state, my thighs sticking to the plastic stadium seat as I adjust my position. I look down at the people we work with. I still don’t know if anyone else on tour was propositioned by Nash’s team just as I was. It feels like it doesn’t matter, because right now it’s looking like I might be the one with the measly shot at breaking his heart. Except now I don’t want it.
I anxiously peek over at him, finding a sly smirk on his face.
“Some of my favorite memories stem from bad ideas,” he says.
Sighing, I adjust my grip on my coffee. “You might hate me when you get to know me.”
“Doubtful.”
“Yeah, well,” I let out a long breath, “don’t say that yet. There’s still a lot you have to learn, Nash Pierce.”
He uses his index finger to slide his sunglasses back up the straight bridge of his nose. “Nash. Just Nash to you.”
“Honestly, it’s hard to look at you and not think of the man that’s on every magazine cover. I think I have that underwear campaign you did forever ago branded in my brain.”
His white teeth bite at the straw of his coffee, his lips smirking around it. “It was that good, huh?”
Using the hand not holding my coffee, I push his shoulder. “Not what I meant.”
“Mhm,” he hums, shrugging my push off. He turns his gaze back to the shuffle of bodies in front of us. “You just admitted you can’t forget me in all my naked glory. Don’t worry, Rose, any time you want to see the real thing, you just let me know.”
Shaking my head, I can’t help but smile. “You’re so freaking arrogant.”
“So? Monica told me that a certain someone is building quite the fanbase for themselves.”
I lift both my legs until my feet rest on the seats in front of me, my stomach dropping at the mention of Monica’s name. “And who would that be?”
Looking over at him, I find him looking at me from over the top of his sunglasses. “You. Obviously.”
I shrug, not knowing what else to do. I haven’t had notifications on to my socials for a long time. Once my freestyles started gaining more momentum, I had to turn them off or my phone would never stop alerting me to things. I still check my socials regularly, and it wasn’t hard to miss how much my numbers had climbed since opening night. It turns out people really do love the dance Nash and I do—it’s gained me half a million followers in a few short weeks. I still can’t entirely wrap my mind around it.
“They love you,” Nash continues, the ice in his cup rattling as he adjusts his body into the same position as mine. His legs are much longer than mine, and in this new position they encroach on my space. Our knees brush against the other’s, my bare knee against his.
I ponder his words, hearing the eruption of cheers from the fans in my head. “They love us,” I correct. “The act we’re putting on.”
He’s quiet for a moment, taking the time to put his coffee down on the concrete next to him. “The line isn’t always black and white for them with what’s an act and what’s not. Soon you’ll find out just how often those lines blur.”
I can feel a crease develop on my forehead as I think his words through. “How do you handle that?”
He laughs, a deep, throaty laugh that sends chills down my spine. “I don’t fucking handle it, Nora. I’m a god damn mess. People just choose to ignore it. They think it’s an act.”
“Is it? An act?”
He steeples his index fingers, resting his chin between his index fingers and his thumbs. “Unfortunately, I think the fact that I’m a train wreck is the only real thing about me.”
His words tumble around in my head, making me sad. He clearly isn’t in a good place. “Why do you think people ignore it?”
I should stop asking him personal questions. It’s really none of my business. I shouldn’t get to know his demons, because the more demons of his I unearth, the more I want to get to know them. The more I get to know him, the more I hate myself for the inevitable of what’ll happen between us.
He gives another dry, sarcastic laugh. “Why wouldn’t they? I’m Nash Pierce. The bad boy. I’m everything they’ve made me out to be. A playboy. An alcoholic. A hot head. Why would anyone give a fuck that these are all problems, huge red flags, when it’s feeding into the very image they have of me?”
“You’re also talented. An artist. A singer. A lyrical genius.”
He cuts me off by putting his hand on my thigh once again, his fingertips burning hot against my bare skin. “I don’t need you to try and justify who I’ve become, Nora. What I do need you to do is be ready tomorrow for our date.”
His fingertips dig deeper into my thigh for a few split seconds before he pulls his hand away. I watch him carefully as he bends down to grab the coffee he’d placed on the ground. The seat makes a loud snapping noise as he stands up.
I watch him twist his body as he stretches out his torso. He lets out a loud groan, fixing the hat on his head right after.
“What if I don’t want to go?” I ask sarcastically.
“Then you don’t go. I’ll be waiting outside the dancer bus tomorrow at one. If you don’t come, I’ll take it as a no.” He reaches out in front of me, his outstretched fingers wiggling.
I take the hint, putting the hand that isn’t holding my coffee in his. His grip is firm as he pulls me out of my own stadium seat, which now reverberates behind me.
“Let’s go blow their minds again, Rose.”
He doesn’t let go of my hand as he walks the two of us down the stadium stairs. His grip is firm the whole way down, no matter how many stares land on us.
And I begin to wonder…is this the start of the fall?