Dichotomy.

The truth is, I’m glad to see her walk out the door of our practice space after Spencer tells her she's in. Without asking me first.

From her choppy auburn hair and her warm, hazel eyes down to her small, Converse-clad feet-

I hate everything about her.

I even hate that sparse, barely visible sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks.

And I don’t even have a reason.

Not one I can give myself to believe, anyway.

“I don’t like her,” I immediately tell Spencer, after she leaves our practice space and we’re on our way to lunch.

“Why not? She was nice enough. Pete says she’s an amazing with composing, and we’ve heard her guitar playing with her old band…”

“I don’t know, man. She’s kind of arrogant, don’t you think?”

“You’re joking, right?” he raises his eyebrows at me. “Mr. I Can Play the Accordion?” he mocks, raising his eyebrows. I ignore him. “Dude. Lighten up.”

I can’t even justify my hatred in my own head; how am I supposed to explain to Spencer?

“I just-”

“Brendon,” he cuts me off firmly, joking now set aside. “We need someone for tour, at least. It’s getting closer, we’ve been putting it off, and we have other things to worry about. Wouldn’t you rather just have it set and be done with it?” he demands in exasperation. “We have to start rehearsing soon.”

“I thought this band was a democracy,” I grumble. He snorts in sarcastic laughter.

“Yeah, because you were being so helpful in finding a replacement for tour.”

By ‘helpful’ he means I was playing his XBox while he scoured the internet and called all our possible contacts for qualified musicians.

“Fine. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to like it,” I state childishly. “Or her.”

“Will you stop being such a little bitch about this?” he retorts in annoyance.

I shut up for once.

The truth is, I know I’m generally obnoxious, but I’ve been stomping on the fine line of Spencer’s nerves lately.

If I were him, I would have punched my whiny self in the face by now.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

It’s our first day of practice, and Spencer’s late.

She’s there when I arrive, tuning her guitar, and we mutter our hellos before lapsing back into silence.

Her head is down as she tunes it; her hair falls in her eyes and I find myself noticing that’s it’s redder than usual in this particular light.

I look away when she’s finished and concentrate on the door, waiting for Spencer so I don’t have to be alone with her.

She begins tapping her foot against the floor impatiently.

It starts to slowly drive me insane with every tap.

I glance at her instinctively in annoyance, and she catches my eyes without my meaning her to.

“You don’t like me,” she says bluntly.

It catches me off guard.

“Wh-what do you mean?” I stutter. Smooth.

She eyes me curiously, an eyebrow raised as if I’m slow, and I silently curse myself for stuttering.

“I meant what I said. You don’t like me. I want to know why.”

I stare at her blankly, but she just returns my gaze, not backing down. I sigh, giving in.

What is there to gain by lying, anyway?

Rewind to less than a year ago, when Jon and Ryan were here and we didn’t have this problem.

“Look, it wasn’t really my idea to bring another person into this. I mean, I don’t mind it for touring purposes, but it’s not like me and Spence are helpless on our own.”

The truth is, I’m not lying.

But something else I still can’t figure out is the real reason I don’t like her.

“Fair enough,” she shrugs.

“So why do you hate me, then?” I find the courage to ask.

“I thought you hated me. That’s why,” she states shortly. I don’t buy it for a second.

“Right,” I scoff in disbelief, before I can help myself.

“Okay, fine. So I I’m not exactly thrilled to join your band,” she rolls her eyes.

“Oh?” I raise my eyebrows, as if I didn’t already get that impression. She sighs.

“I…forget it. You wouldn’t understand, anyway,” she adds dismissively.

We both know that’s a lie.

But I’ll let her keep her delusions for now.

“Try me.” She exhales noisily, shaking her head a bit.

“Fine. No offense, but…”

“When people say ‘no offense,’ usually offense is implied,” I interject. She shoots me a brief glare, and I’m still trying to figure out why getting to her gives me a sick sense of satisfaction.

“Fine. Offense implied,” she retorts. “I’m fine with helping out for the tour, but I don’t want to be ‘that girl that joined Panic! at the Disco. It’s not as if I really have a choice right now, though.” She sighs again, in defeat, it sounds like. “I’m not trying to replace your old bandmates, you know,” she adds. “If that’s why you don’t like me.” She’s raising her eyebrow at me again, as if she knows, and her voice challenges me as well.

I open my mouth to respond that that’s nowhere close to the reason I don’t like her, but then Spencer barges through the door, eager to get this started.

“’bout time,” I sigh impatiently at him.

She’s still looking at me.

I look back at her for a few seconds while Spence mumbles an apology, and she blinks, which I take to mean she understands what I’m getting at.

Truce in front of Spencer.

The truth is, part of me wishes he was still late so we could have finished the conversation.

The other half is still insisting that this truce thing won’t hold up for long at all, and we’re just prolonging the inevitable.

Even after we start playing our first song together, I can’t shake the feeling that this is all going to hell before it even begins.