Where My Heart Lies

The van wasn’t so crowded tonight, but Garrett still felt stuffy and claustrophobic as he climbed into the driver’s seat. He looked around: first, the passenger side; next, the backseat, and then the other row of seats after. All empty, if not for their instruments and merch and clothes.

The van wasn’t crowded at all.

He was thankful he’d turned the guys down when they asked him to come and play laser tag with them. Now that he had the van all to himself, he could actually think, and not the John-O’Callaghan-on-his-fifth-beer-with-access-to-Twitter type of thinking, either.

Sierra was going to appear any second. That much Garrett was sure of. She was always popping up like that, sneaking up on him when he was alone, interrupting his thoughts, getting into his brain.

Not that he minded.

On cue, a single feather dropped into the passenger seat, as if by magic. Garrett found himself smiling, a small grin that widened as soon as another feather appeared from the half-open window.

He caught the perfectly manicured hand that was dropping the feathers before it could withdraw. He chuckled. Tonight, Sierra’s nails were painted black, with a glittery silver strike of lightning on each pointer finger.

“Garrett!” she squeaked, pulling her hand out. “Cut it out!”

“You cut it out,” Garrett shot back, letting go. “In case you’re forgetting, this is my band’s van.”

“True,” Sierra conceded. “It does say, ‘All Time Low is greater than The Maine. Nothing personal,’ and not ‘All Time Low is greater than VersaEmerge. Nothing personal.’” She swung the passenger side door open and got in.

“You’re funny,” he said sarcastically, as he got a hold of her left hand and examined it. “This looks so cool. Did you do it yourself?”

“No, I got Blake to paint this hand and Devin to paint the other one.” She elbowed him. “Of course I did, you retard.”

“Well, then I take that back. It does not look cool.”

He faked a pout and she had to stifle her laughter. He was always doing that to her, making her laugh at the stupidest things.

Well, that, and a million other things. It was either laughter or a love song. She had to pick the one that would freak him out less.

What? Oh, yes. Laughter.

The first time she ever laid eyes on him, he was manning his band’s merch table at Warped. He was a fake ginger with a ring through his nose and his head buried in a Chuck Palahniuk book. It was the movie tie-in version of Fight Club. Fuck that shit.

Nothing spells pretentious more than a Chuck Palahniuk book with a movie poster for its cover.

“What, are you an Edward Norton fanboy, or…?” were the first words she spoke to him. Of course, she was half-joking, but she didn’t expect him to send the banter back.

He put the book down and flipped it over, studying the aforementioned actor and Brad Pitt on the cover. “I’m more of a Brad guy, actually.” He smirked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just—”

“Movie tie-in versions of books are incredibly tacky, I know,” he said, adjusting a shirt on the wall that showcased The Maine’s merchandise. “I actually have three copies of Fight Club,” he went on. He had the most animated voice she’d ever heard in her life. “Well, one is Trey’s, but it’s practically mine, anyway. I have it on hardbound, and I have a first edition copy. They’re both at home. I bring the tie-in on tour because I care about it the least.” He gestured to several creases in the spine and on the cover.

It took her a while to recover. This boy took interesting to a whole new level. “I’m Sierra,” she said finally, holding her hand out.

He shook it. “Garrett.”

“So I take it, this is your favorite book?” she guessed, leafing through the tattered paperback.

“Wrong again,” he replied. “It’s my favorite film.”

She didn’t know what to make of him then, and she didn’t know what to make of him now. That had been just this summer, a couple of months ago. They caught each other’s bands’ sets and had water gun fights and quoted lines off of the original Star Wars films. She never thought better of it.

Not until the next time she saw him, at the start of Op Tour. Garrett’s hair was longer, and she noticed he’d brought it back to its original color. “If it isn’t Miss Sierra Kusterbeck,” he’d said as soon as he caught sight of her.

Sierra didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him since the last day of Warped Tour. “Hi, Garrett,” she blurted. “Hi,” she said again, a little bit louder this time, which only made her feel like a bigger loser.

He reached out to give her a friendly hug. When he pulled away, he adjusted his hat and gave her a wink. She watched him walk away until he completely disappeared from her sight.

She was pretty much his.

“Great show tonight,” Garrett was saying now, struggling to place his feet onto the dashboard.

Sierra watched as he failed, one attempt after another. So much for Garrett’s signature brand of cool. “Oh?” She feigned indifference.

“Yeah, I mean, Versa’s sets are always great,” he went on, giving up on the dashboard. “But singing for Cobra was a nice surprise.” He shoved her lightly. “I can’t believe you, though. We were hanging backstage the whole time and you didn’t even tell me until you had to come out.”

“Well, John sang on Bring It and nobody told me,” she defended.

He only grinned at her. “Sing for me,” he said, his voice low. “You know you want to.”

Sierra stuck her tongue out. “No.”

“Please?”

It only took that much for her to give in. Well, that, and Garrett lowered his glasses—his stupid Ryan Adams glasses—and stared her down with his endless blue eyes. She felt it burning into her skin. She didn’t mind.

“Okay,” Sierra said. “What song do you want?”

“How about something no one’s heard before?”

She knew what she’d sing instantly. “Would you mind starting the car?”

Garrett obliged. It wouldn’t be the first time that they’d go for a drive, just the two of them. The drives usually lasted until well past midnight, but so far they always managed to return before anyone found out. “Where to?”

He cocked his head in that adorable way he usually did. He probably didn’t even know he did it, like he did many other things.

“Sierra?”

She realized, a little too late, that she’d been admiring him. “Yeah?” She sat up in her seat and fiddled with the feathers she’d brought along with her.

“Where are we going?” Garrett had already backed out of the parking lot and was now making his way down the street.

“I don’t care,” Sierra decided. “Just drive.”

“And you,” he said, taking his eyes off the road just once to point at her, “just sing.”

Her left hand wrapped itself instinctively around her right arm. “I—it’s not finished.”

“That’s okay.” Garrett looked at the clock. 12:37am. He didn’t want this to end just yet.

Sierra cleared her throat. She wanted to kick herself for her sudden stage fright. Fuck it, she wasn’t even onstage! And this was just Garrett, for Pete’s sake. He’d seen her perform a gazillion times.

But she hadn’t performed with just him listening. And she hadn’t performed this particular song, either. Not in front of anyone, and especially not in front of him. This was different.

This mattered.

“Okay,” she said. And with that, she let everything drop.

Your best illusion is your smile
That little glimmer in your eyes
I’m not saying too much, am I?
Well, this is where my heart lies

God, her voice. Garrett could listen to her talk for days, but he could listen to her sing for fucking ever.

Sierra’s eyes were closed. He tried to keep his eyes on the road, but he noticed that she’d been wearing those glittery purple things on her eyelids under her eyeliner.

He loved those glittery purple things, and he loved being in the van with just her. Somehow, along one of these drives, he realized he’d been into her all along.

That explained a lot of why he had to rehearse his words in his head over and over before saying them to her, why he never looked at his film tie-in copy of Fight Club the same after that day on Warped, and why he just couldn’t stop thinking of her even after Warped was over and before Op even kicked off.

Or, you know, why he suddenly had Good Girls Go Bad stuck in his head when he’d never intentionally listened to it before.

“Well, shit,” he said (after rehearsing it at least three times in his head, of course) when she finished.

Sierra raised her eyebrows. “What,” she deadpanned. “you think it’s absolute crap?” She knew he didn’t, but there was spare mortification in the back of her mind just in case he actually did.

“Fuck, no!” Garrett clapped a hand over his mouth. His mom always said never to curse in front of girls. “Sorry,” he added. “But, dude, Sierra, shit, that was fucking awesome!”

Oops, there he went again. He shrugged as she laughed. Sorry, mom.

“I bet you wrote that for some guy back in high school,” he said. “It’s reasonably different from your band’s other songs. Poppier.”

“What in blazes is ‘poppier?’” Sierra made quotation marks with her fingers.

Garrett shrugged with one shoulder. “Well, it sounds like Taylor Swift could sing it,” he began. Before Sierra could asphyxiate him with her feathers, he held his hands up. “I’m not saying it sounds like a Taylor Swift song. My point is, it’s definitely more of a crush anthem than your usual mindfuck melodies.”

Sierra beamed. Mindfuck melodies. Not even Blake could come up with that phrase, and yet it captured VersaEmerge perfectly. But she didn’t admit it to Garrett.

“And you would know that, how?” she asked instead.

He shrugged again, which made her want to grab a couple of his Fuck-you-I’m-punk safety pins and make sure his shoulders stayed down. “I don’t,” he answered. “I just…know you, I guess.”

Well.

“You don’t know everything about me,” she insisted.

“Sure I do.” He said this confidently. She couldn’t argue with him. “You’re Sierra Kusterbeck. You like to mess up your hair and you sneak up on people and you cried when you couldn’t go to Space Camp.”

“And you’re Garrett Nickelsen,” Sierra replied matter-of-factly. “You wear a ring on your nose and your heart on your sleeve.”

“I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve,” Garrett defended. He’d stopped in the middle of the road, right next to a gas station. “I—I don’t.”

She grabbed his left wrist. “But you wear three hearts on your wrist,” she said, a little wistfully, dare he say it.

“They’re, uh, they were—” He kept finding himself stuttering. Silently, he cursed Pat. He never stuttered until he met Pat. He sighed. “They were for this girl.” No, she wasn’t just this girl. Not ever. “Alice.”

“You must have loved her very, very, very much,” Sierra concluded, tapping each heart once for every very.

Garrett just looked at her.

Not the way I love you.

But of course he couldn’t tell her this.

So he pulled his arm away and looked out the window. “And she obviously doesn’t care about me very, very, very much.” He tried saying this sarcastically, almost acidly, but the nervousness was clear in his voice.

And now it’s Sierra’s turn to look at him.

But I do.

She’d heard everything she wanted to—and more—about Alice Sayers. That she was incredibly gorgeous. That she was straight-edge. That she captured Garrett’s heart one summer night in Gilbert and proceeded to gradually break it over the next year and a half.

Of course she’d known all about the tattoo for quite some time. It took all her guts and a ghastly amount of Red Bull to approach John and Jared and ask them about it.

She wished she could have Red Bull right then. Fuck it, maybe even a full keg of beer. This conversation had obviously taken an undesirable route.

“I’m sorry,” Sierra said softly, reaching out and taking Garrett by the wrist. They were still in front of the gas station, and a couple of people were already looking. “Hey,” she went on, “you want to switch places? I can drive and you can talk and…well, yeah.”

Garrett flicked his gaze back to her. “Okay.” He climbed out of the van and walked over to the passenger side, where he pulled the door open for her and helped her out.

He was about to walk her to the driver side when she put both hands up. “It’s okay.” She laughed, an open laugh that sounded even better than her singing. “You’re too nice, Garrett. I’m fine.”

When she got back in and started the car, she contemplated switching on the radio. “Do you want to sing this time?”

He smiled at her. “Why not? I’m sure you’ve heard worse.”

“No songs about Spiderman wallets or Watermelon Sour Patch Kids, okay?”

“Ha-ha. Just fuckin’ drive, alright?”

Just like that, they’re cruising back to the parking lot where they’d come from and singing Backstreet Boys songs at the top of their lungs.

“Fuck you,” Sierra sputtered, hardly able to control her laughter. “You know how much I secretly love I Want It That Way.”

Garrett only laughed with her, until it stopped being funny and all he could do was stare at her. All those stolen glances were nothing compared to being here with her, looking at her without inhibition.

She stopped laughing. “What?”

He shrugged. “This.”

That’s always how it happens, doesn’t it? One minute you’re making a total fucking goof of yourself, laughing at how she pronounces “tell me why” when she’s singing, the next you’re kissing her because doing anything else seemed stupid.

So that’s what he did. He reached out and cupped his hand around her chin, smoothing his thumb around the area under her lips. She sighed as his lips collided with hers, like she wasn’t breathing the entire time they stared each other down. He realized that he, too, had been doing the same.

She reached up and tugged at the tattered collar of his shirt, as she placed her other hand at his chest, tracing the letters of Young & Dumb with her fingers. His own fingers slid from her chin to her hair, ghosting her cheek and her ear. She shivered.

He was all hers now, too.

But then he pulled away. Sierra stumbled forward, but he caught her in his arms.

“Oh,” she stammered. “Th-that.”

“Well, uh, yeah.” His grip on her tightened as he gave her a shaky smile.

“Well, what was it for?”

“Uh—you were there.” A blush crept up Garrett’s cheeks. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in the process.

She held her hand out to fix it, patting it down. “Yeah, and?” Her voice was low, unsteady. Kisses from Garrett Nickelsen were hard to recover from, she decided.

“Do I still have to say it out loud?”

Well, shit. Of course he did.

“I guess I kind of like you? A whole fucking lot?”

“But I thought you loved Alice?” she pressed. She couldn’t believe all of this.

“Sierra, that was two years ago. I’m over it, I promise.” He shrugged. “Besides,” he smirked, “it’s kind of hard to resist you.”

Sierra wanted to jump him right there. But then that would sort of ruin the moment, so she smiled her widest smile instead and hugged him tight.

“Hey—” Garrett laughed, burying his hands in her hair. “Does that answer your question?”

“You swear on your lesbian phase?” she whispered in his ears. She hated how giggly she sounded, but she couldn’t help it.

He pulled away and pouted. “I’m starting to regret kissing you.”

“No, you don’t.” She kissed him again, for good measure. “I wrote that song for you, you know.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “The one you were singing?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I love it. And I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

Sierra started climbing out of the van. Garrett caught her by the hand. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Back to the bus,” she replied. “The boys might be worried.”

“But you’ve got them whipped,” he protested. “Stay a little longer.”

She cocked her head to the side and gestured to the front of the van. “You want to give them a show, or something?”

He looked up. His bandmates and their crew had come back from wherever it was they’d come from. Oh.

“See you tomorrow, then?” He made a show of kissing her hand, which made her laugh.

“Don’t you always? At least, for a couple more weeks?” Sierra winked.

Garrett raised his eyebrows. “Okay, then.”

“So, goodnight?”

“Good morning.”

He watched her walk away just as she had done to him a couple of days ago. John opened the passenger side door and gave him a light shove. “What the fuck was that, Gary?”

“Sorry we interrupted the love-fest,” Jared added.

Kennedy and Pat looked on with amused smiles.

“You can ask all you want, man, I’m not saying anything.” Garrett hopped out of the van and shoved John back.

“You gotta tell us something,” Pat insisted.

“Okay,” Garrett said. He took his place in the back of the van, suddenly too aware of how restless he still was.

“I’m never going out with you guys again.”