Loud is How I Love You by Mercy Brown Page B

an opinion on something like this, if I’m not weighing in, it’s because I’m still not sure how I feel. Travis gives me that look he gives me when I’m unsure about something, usually reserved for the stage when I’m worried about fucking something completely up.
    “Pinky swear,” he says. “Remember?”
    “I’m not freaking out,” I say. I’m lying. All my insides feel like they just vaporized and escaped out through my ears.
    “No need to freak out,” George says. “I’m sure it’ll all work out one way or another.”
    “It needs to work out so that Soft can play Ag Field Day and hopefully land a slot at CMJ in the fall,” I say.
    “Do the beat brothers know?” George asks.
    “No,” I say. “They don’t.”
    “You’re going to tell them, right?”
    “It’s none of their fucking business,” Travis says with a scowl.
    “Trap, honey,” Molly says. “You really think they won’t figure it out? With a tramptoo like the Great Red Spot ofJupiter on your neck?”
    “And look at the way he looks at her, for Chrissakes,” George says.
    “It’s all very romantic,” Molly says. “You won’t be able to keep this secret for long.”
    “Not secret, private,” Travis says. Then he glances around the room full of skeptical-looking rugby players. “Relatively private.”
    “Why would you want to keep it from them?” Molly asks. “I don’t get it.”
    “It’s a band thing,” George explains. “You wouldn’t understand.”
    ***
    When Bean walks me home, we both agree we’re not going to say anything to Joey and Cole right now and they can speculate all they like about Bean’s neck wound. They’ll probably think Millie did it anyway. To keep it a secret feels weird for a champion over-sharer like myself, but I’m relieved. When I had convinced myself that sex with Travis was off-limits and would never happen again, I was all for coming clean, confessing our sins, and moving on. Now that I’m pretty sure I want it to continue, I don’t know what to tell them. Travis has made it pretty darned clear he doesn’t want me with anybody else—with his name scrawled across my ass this seems like a safe bet—and I guess I’ve made the same thing clear to him today with my juvenile hickey stunt. But we haven’t defined anything else between us. There’s no awkward “will you be my girl” proposal, thank God. So what exactly would we tell them? Everything is basically the same but now we’re fucking like rabbits on hormone injections and we’re not going to fuck anybody else right now?
    There’s no question the beat brothers will be spooked by the whole situation. They’ll stop seeing Soft as a whole unit and they’ll see Bean and I as some kind of power block, like they’re just our backup and we’re really not that kind of band. The thing about Stars on the Floor is that it’s not my band. It’s not anyone’s band. It belongs to all four of us. We all count the same in the cave, and nobody is replaceable. That’s what we always say, that’s what we’ve always said. What we have together, the give-and-take between the four of us when we’re writing, when we’re playing and planning, really works, and I don’t want to mess with that chemistry. It’s too good. It’s a rare thing among bands, worth protecting. Luckily, Bean agrees.
    We’re lingering at my front door and Travis isn’t coming in, and he’s not going out with all of us tonight. He’s got to get this paper done because he has to work tomorrow and his mom comes Monday, and I’ve kept him from doing any work today. He’ll probably be up all night working on it now, and I actually do feel bad about that.
    “I don’t,” he says. “I feel fucking fantastic about it.”
    I look up expectantly and I realize I’m waiting for him to kiss me good-bye, like this is something we do now. He smiles down and puts his lips to mine and tells me to call him when I get home tonight so he knows I got home okay. I nod,