Even Lovers Drown

Noise of food prep and gossiping venue workers blanketed Saylor and Davy as they folded clothing. The doors would open soon, sending a stampede of overly excited fans pouring in. The first and biggest rush Davy and Saylor would get at their stand all day, and Saylor wasn't sure how they would handle it separated from the other two merch girls. With a bigger venue came separate tables. Jenny and Sarah had their own. Stationed across the venue, their merch table was farther from the impending stampede. Davy had been the one to pick the danger zone spot he and Saylor had, figured they could handle a large crowd well enough. He had the experience, the expertise necessary, and Saylor could catch on fine. Of course, he thought they would be fine.

It was a good thing they were sandwiched between a beer stand and a daiquiri stand. Saylor would use anything she could to get through this night. Maybe take a few for the road and use them at the next night's concert. A merch stand couldn't be that hard to handle while drunk.

No, she would be fine. Davy was by her side. No one was likely to bother her. All she was doing was selling shirts. No anxiety, no brain power. She didn't need alcohol to help get her through the night. Tense, that was what she was. Blake had thrown her off that morning, and her body wasn't quite ready to relax over the issue. That was all. By the end of the night, she would be able to sell tee-shirts with a smile. The corners of her lips quirked upward, the promise of things getting better making her feel far better than any brooding she had done that day.

She flipped the shirt in her hand picture-up, the way the shirts were stacked in the back for easy grab and toss maneuvers Davy pulled. Blake's face stared up at her. The corners of Saylor's lips tugged down, her mood falling again. Timid, fragile, sensitive Blake, the one that only existed on the tee-shirt, promised a security the real Blake couldn't offer. This Blake was a character. Never could exist, never would exist. She was created to sell shirts, CDs, and other Say Goodbye paraphernalia, to make the younger fans connect. The real Blake was a good-looking jerk.

Saylor glared at the shirt and tossed it onto the pile it belonged. At least she wouldn't have to watch Blake tonight, just listen to her annoying voice pump up fans. That may have been the only plus of having a bigger venue. Not being situated in the performance area. She wouldn't have to see Blake for the rest of the night.

"I want a cookie pizza," her brother's voice jolted her.

Eyebrows drawn, she turned from her pile of unfolded shirts. Davy's eyes were fixed over her shoulder, on what she wasn't too sure. He didn't offer an explanation for his sudden request, just stared at his newfound fascination.

"A cookie pizza?" Saylor asked.

He nodded towards something over her shoulder, where the answer to her question awaited. Saylor turned her head, eyes hooking on some local cookie company's table feet away. Its red tablecloth was decorated with pictures of cookie cakes and, from what Saylor could see, the name was stenciled in child-like block letters. Cookie pizzas, however, were no where in sight.

"I don't think those are cookie pizzas," Saylor said, looking back at her brother.

The fascination in his eyes dropped, making way for the deadpan look he gave her. "They are cookies shaped like pizzas, ergo cookie pizzas."

"No, they're slices of a cookie cake, ergo slices of—"

Davy cut her off, "Cookie pizza."

"Whatever, Davy," Saylor laughed, shaking her head and grabbing a shirt from the unfolded pile.

Cookie pizza, cookie cake, close enough. He could call them what he wanted until he asked for one at the table. The worker could attempt to explain the dynamics of the cookie cake that separated it from the cookie pizza.

She could feel Davy's eyes still on her, possibly glaring at her dismissal of his terminology. Deciding he would drop the matter and go back to folding his own shirts, she didn't look at him, instead kept her eyes on the shirt she was folding. She ignored the picture of Blake decorating the front, reminding herself that she wouldn't actually see her again for the night, and tossed the shirt to its pile once folded. As she started on the next shirt, she realized Davy's eyes hadn't left her. She pulled her eyes from her shirt, meeting Davy's unnerving green eyes.

"What?" she asked

His expression wasn't giving her much to work with. Calm, collected, no traces of anger or worry. Was there something wrong? Was he about to start another conversation about why Blake wasn't really as bad as Saylor made her out to be? Or was she just folding shirts the wrong way?

"Go get me a cookie pizza," he demanded.

Saylor's jaw dropped. A cookie pizza. He was standing there, staring at her, ignoring his work, because he wanted her to get him a cookie pizza.

"Get it yourself," she said, returning to shirt folding.

"But, Saylor," he whined.

"Nope."

"Come on."

"You have legs."

"No, I don't."

"What do you call the appendages connected to your hips?"

"Flippers. I'm a motherfucking mermaid. Now, get me a cookie pizza."

Laughter bubbled from Saylor's throat. She leaned against the table, keeping herself from crumpling to the floor. This conversation was far better than the one she had been expecting. No Blake, not even a small mentioning of her. As long as this persisted, it would be a good night, no matter how many obnoxious fans showed up at the table. She didn't care that she would hear Blake's voice through the walls, that she might see her the next morning. Tonight would be a good one, filled with merch work, fake smiles, and no Blake.

"Hey, Davy," Blake's voice floated around Saylor's ears.

Or Blake could show up at the merch table, less than twenty minutes before doors opened, and ruin Saylor's perfect night.

No, Saylor wouldn't let her. This was her time away from Blake. In fact, all of her time was her time away from Blake. The lead singer needed to leave her alone. Saylor didn't want her, not as a friend, not as a girlfriend, not as a stress reliever. She wasn't ready for that and she wouldn't let some jerk who thought the world of herself push her into anything that threatened her delicate sanity.

"I'll give you five dollars to get me a cookie pizza," Davy said.

"But they're seven dollars," Blake said.

They were seven dollars. She knew. Hayden had already eaten five and was requesting the venue provide at least a dozen more for their dressing room. Mixed with the four energy drinks he consumed, it would be a miracle if he managed to sleep at night, let alone for the rest of tour.

"I need a cookie pizza now, and Saylor won't get it for me."

"Probably because she realized you can get it yourself." She turned her attention to the redhead, the reason she came to the table in the first place. "Right, Saylor?"

Saylor didn't turn around, just continued folding shirts as if Blake didn't exist. The sound of her voice hadn't jogged her from work, hadn't caused any reaction at all. No jump, no flinch, no tensing of muscles, nothing. Maybe Saylor didn't hear her.

"Saylor?" Blake asked, louder this time.

Again, Saylor remained unaffected. She worked diligently on shirts she could probably fold without looking at, that didn't even need to be folded properly in the first place. Blake was ignored and she didn't like it. The heavy feeling of nostalgia left in her gut almost made her nauseous. And she sure as hell wasn't going to stand for it, even if she had to take relatively drastic measures to get a reaction from Saylor.

"Your ass looks nice in those jeans," Blake said.

Saylor didn't speak or turn around but did tense. A response to a comment Blake knew was the wrong thing to say in any situation with Saylor.

Blake leaned against the table. "Yeah, you know, I like the way they cup your cheeks when you bend over." No response. But Blake wasn't giving up. "And your rack, damn. I'm sure that looks good in anything though."

Nothing. What was wrong with this girl? She couldn't have been upset over their conversation in the morning. It was a stupid disagreement. Not really a disagreement at all. Blake made a bit of an ass of herself after being provoked by Saylor. It was done and over with. Saylor needed to get over it.

"You can't seriously be mad," Blake said.

Absolutely nothing. Blake's irritation flared. She shouldn't have to break her back for Saylor's attention. Women begged for her attention, not the other way around. And this stupid little redhead was changing that.

"Would you fucking talk to me?" She slammed her hands against the table, accenting her irritated statement.

Saylor flinched, and Blake swore she heard her whimper. Her fear was so painfully obvious Blake couldn't help feeling terrible. She scared her. All she did was slam her hands on the table, and she scared her. More like terrified her, judging by the slight shakes of Saylor's hands as she continued to fold clothing.

Blake looked at Davy for help, floundering in the realization she had gone too far in attempting to get Saylor to react. "She's really mad at me."

Giving her an apologetic smile, Davy shrugged. "You should go backstage before the doors open."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do that."

Blake nodded to herself, turned on her heels, and walked away before she could frighten Saylor further.