In Real Life by Jessica Love Page A

looking in my direction, her focus is totally on the tablet as she taps on the screen, but I know she’s talking to me because she’s pretty much screaming in my ear.
    â€œYeah.” I shake Grace’s hand off my arm and shoot a look to her and Lo, both of whom are staring, confused, at the stage, exactly as I had been a second ago. “So, uh. Where’s Nick?”
    She places the tablet between her knees and squeezes them tight while she holds up the camera, snapping photos of the band in action. “Oh, he’s out doing merch. The usual.” She drops the camera so it hangs from its strap and picks up the tablet again. “Do you mind if I hang out here for a sec? You have a rad view of the stage, and I have so much crap with me tonight.” She scoots in toward the girls. “Hey, I’m Frankie.”
    â€œUh, this is my sister, Grace, and my best friend Lo.” We’re still screaming at each other over the music from the stage.
    â€œWait. Nick always does merch?” Grace asks Frankie.
    But I don’t even need to hear her confirmation to know it’s true. I think some small, hidden part of me must have known all along.
    Nick doesn’t play the guitar in Automatic Friday.
    Nick sells the T-shirts and sets up the drum kit.
    That’s what his “sorry” text was for. Not for Frankie or the awkwardness but for another lie. For telling me he was in this band when his brother is the one on the stage.
    Without even thinking, I bolt from Frankie and the girls and weave through the people watching the band. Automatic Friday has now moved on to their second song after a loud “How you doing tonight, Vegas?!” from Jordy and an apathetic mumble from the crowd. I push through the people who are paying no attention to Jordy’s earnest vocals, and I apologize for knocking into their drinks. I rush up the stairs, through the door, and out to the front of House of Blues, where Nick sits on a folding chair behind the merch booth, a pile of Automatic Friday CDs and Moxie Patrol T-shirts arranged on the table in front of him and a crumpled piece of paper that says TIPS APPRECIATED! THINK OF US AS BARTENDERS WHO GET YOU SHIRTS INSTEAD OF DRINKS! taped to the wall behind him.
    He stands up when he sees me, but his face falls as soon as we make eye contact. “Ghost.”
    â€œDon’t call me that.”
    He flinches like I slapped him. “Hannah, please.”
    I know I told him not to call me Ghost, but my real name sounds so foreign coming from his mouth. Hearing him call me Hannah hurts almost as much as the lying.
    For the first time since he coined my nickname, I don’t want him to use it. But I don’t want him to use my real name, either. I don’t want him to call me anything.
    All I want is answers, and then I want to leave Las Vegas and never look back.

 
    CHAPTER
    11
    â€œWere you ever in the band?” I point to the door that leads down to the stage, where “Free Fall,” another one of my favorite Automatic Friday songs, is blasting, Jordy singing my favorite lyrics. But knowing Nick has nothing to do with any of this music makes it seem so far away, like a bad cover version. “Was it always Alex?”
    â€œI am so sorry.” His hands cover his glasses and run their way up to his sloppy hair. “I suck at guitar,” he says. “I’m really terrible. At bass and drums and singing, too. And life.”
    â€œSo why did you tell me you were in this band?” I struggle to keep my voice under control, but I can hear it wavering.
    â€œWell, I never really told you. I said one time I was going to band practice and you sort of assumed.”
    â€œThat’s not my fault, Nick. You should have told me.”
    â€œNo, it’s not your fault. I didn’t mean that.” His voice shakes in a way I’ve never heard before. “I know I should have told you. I’m sorry. I just