Chapter Text
The bright lights illuminated the room. The dressing room was empty besides you and Emily. You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through socials, occasionally looking up to see your girlfriend getting ready for her show. She had a dozen different little jars and makeup palettes on her table, all marked with yellow tags so she’d know which one was which. You thought it was ridiculous – how could someone not know their own stuff? But as long as it made her chaotic life a bit less stressful, you didn’t care.
Emily had her iPad on a stand with a timer showing how much time she had left before the show, just to make sure she stayed on track. It was a habit she’d picked up at the beginning of the tour after realizing she wasn’t so great with time management. And, of course, the Dodgers game was on her phone.
“Multitasking queen,” you joked.
Oh, the Dodgers – how she loved that team. Sometimes she even forced you to go to their games with her. You didn’t get the appeal, but if it made her happy, then it made you happy too. Even if it meant eating overpriced food and sitting through the whole game in bewilderment just to see her beautiful smile.
“Fuck!” she suddenly yelped, throwing her hands in the air.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up quickly, snapping out of your overthinking trance, your gaze shifting from your phone to Emily.
“The Yankees scored against the Dodgers,” she said irritably, as if her life depended on the Dodgers winning. Her eyebrows formed a deep frown. “Fucking Yankees. Fuck. Fuck this,” she whispered under her breath in despair – which you found hilarious. You let out a small laugh, at which Emily said sarcastically, “Oh, you think it’s so funny.”
Your lips curled into a tiny grin. “Just a little bit,” you admitted. Emily scoffed but smiled, rolling her eyes playfully as she realized how silly she sounded. Closing the lip liner with a sharp click, she placed it on her desk.
“Alright,” she sighed, standing up. “Help me pick my shirt for the concert.” She pulled two T-shirts out of the closet. “This one?” she asked, holding a black shirt against her body. “Or this one?” She did the same with a yellow shirt covered in various prints.
You pointed at the black one. She nodded. “Okay,” she said, putting the yellow one back.
Then suddenly, she took off her shirt, leaving her in just a sports bra. You tried to act normal. But what did “normal” even mean for you? Looking at the wall and counting cracks? Staring straight at her with no shame? Checking your chipped manicure? Maybe the time on your phone?
Luckily, she had already changed before you finished figuring out how to behave. You felt like a child watching an inappropriate movie scene with your parents sitting beside you. For a moment, you were back on that couch, staring at a woman’s boobs on a big screen, pretending it didn’t affect you.
Releasing a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you just hoped you looked natural. Because everything was *totally* normal.
You felt your cheeks burning and silently thanked yourself for applying foundation this morning, hoping it hid the blush.
“You okay back there?” Emily’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts again.
“Hm?” You felt as if she had caught you doing something wrong.
“You’re really quiet back there,” she said, starting to braid her hair.
“I’m always quiet, you know that,” you reassured her, making her believe, that it was normal for you not to talk much when not needed. She is the kind of person who talks and talks, hating the silence and always feeling like she has to fill it. You were the opposite – you could sit in silence forever as long as the other person didn’t mind.
“Yeah, but right now you’re like *awfully* quiet,” she said. Her hands slipped mid-braid, and she sighed, starting over. Maybe it was nerves – the concert was starting soon. No matter how many shows she did, the beginning always made her a little anxious, even if she tried not to show it. Or maybe she was just impatient.
Noticing her frustration, you walked up to her. “Let me help,” you murmured. She lowered her hands, letting you take over. Unlike Emily, you were very careful and precise with your movements, creating a smooth and equable braid. When you finished, you kissed her cheek.
“Looking pretty,” you whispered.
Her face broke into a smile. “Thank you,” she mouthed.
During the concert, you stood backstage, looking at your girlfriend screaming into people’s faces under the flashing lights. After it, you found yourself wrapped in her warm and brawny embrace. You couldn’t believe that just minutes earlier, the woman who had been yelling her lungs out at people (who seemed to like it) was now kissing you. But you loved every part of it.
You didn’t get to come on tour often, but when you did, it was worth every second. Getting to know more of your girlfriend’s world meant everything to you.