Chapter 5
Funny that this used to be an album Cherry would listen to when she was sad. She hadn’t stopped smiling tonight since the
moment Goldenrod started playing.
She was reminded of how great Russ Sutton was at concerts. Most people weren’t great at concerts . . . They complained or got too drunk or wanted to leave before the encore to beat the rush in the parking
lot.
Russ was completely present and engaged. He’d sing along and dance in place. He’d look over at you every few minutes, like,
Isn’t this great? He’d get invested in your options at the merch table. How many shows had they dragged Stacia to over the year they were dating?
(The year that Stacia and Russ were dating.)
Stacia had always been game for a concert—she was game for most things—but she didn’t love music. She got bored at long concerts, especially if no one was drinking, and she didn’t like situations where everyone pressed
against each other. She didn’t like being jostled by strangers. (Jostling was probably more unpleasant for hot girls.) Cherry
kind of loved getting lost in a crowd, everyone dancing together like one organism. Sometimes Stacia would leave Russ and
Cherry in the thick of it and wait for them at the back of the room or sitting at the bar.
It felt familiar for Cherry to be shoulder to shoulder with Russ Sutton in the dark like this. It felt easy.
“I wish we were closer,” she said between songs. She meant, to the stage.
“We could be closer,” Russ said. He knew what she meant. He shook the back of her chair so it rocked. “Let’s get closer.”
Cherry scrunched up her nose. She didn’t want to give up her seat—but she also didn’t want to spoil Russ’s fun. “You can go.”
“Oh, does Her Majesty not want to leave her throne?”
She made another face. “It’s not me, it’s my lower back.”
“Come on, Cherry. We’re still in our youth. We’re Millennials.”
“And I’m aging like milk.”
The next song started. It was another of Cherry’s favorites. Another one she’d played over and over when she was feeling low.
“Unf, ” she groaned. “I love this song.”
Russ’s arm slipped from her chair to her shoulders and squeezed. “Come on. We’re moving up.”
Cherry bit her lips for a second, then hopped down off the chair.
“Attagirl.” He tugged her forward.
She let him lead her through gaps in the crowd. Russ had a way of moving like he was on his way somewhere. People always stepped
aside for him.
He kept his arm around Cherry, and she kept close to him, all the way up to the front, just a few people away from the stage.
Close enough to read the lead singer’s ironic T-shirt—OMAHA IS FOR LOVERS . . . of free parking.
Russ looked over at Cherry and raised his eyebrows like, See? I told you this would be great.
She grinned back at him.
He turned to the stage, already swaying and nodding his head to the music. His arm still in place.
Cherry noticed. And didn’t move away. She swayed with him, her shoulder against his chest, letting her head swing back and
forth.
They wouldn’t have been standing quite this close back in college.
Russ wouldn’t have put his arm around her.
But he used to dance with Cherry sometimes at concerts—if the beat was right, and if there was room.
By the time Stacia and Russ broke up, Cherry had learned the basics of East Coast Swing and a little bit of the Lindy Hop.
This was different. Closer. Tighter. Russ’s chin was brushing against Cherry’s hair, and her hip was solidly against his—and
he didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t seem worried about anyone seeing them. Maybe this was standard Russ behavior these days.
Find a friend. Get cozy. Have a good time.
It was not standard Cherry behavior. It had been a while since she’d felt cozy with anyone.
This was all very irregular for her . . . Beyond irregular—surreal.
Cherry was currently singing along to a song, about unrequited love, that had been her soundtrack for the second half of senior
year. And the boy she’d been thinking of back then? Was holding her now, also singing along, completely oblivious to Cherry’s heavy feelings, past or present.
Life was absurd.
If the last year had taught her anything, it was that.
Was the universe actually talking to Cherry tonight? Had it sent Russ back across her path as auspiciously as possible? (“Stop saying ‘the universe’ when you mean God,” her sister Honny would say.) Or was this night just another thing that was happening? A coincidence. More chaos.
Cherry’s voice caught on the chorus of the song. Her eyes teared up. She laughed out loud.
Russ looked at her, nodding his head with the music. He gave her another squeeze and leaned over so she could hear him. “I
forgot how great you are at concerts. I missed you, Cherry.”
“I missed you, too,” Cherry said softly.
She hadn’t actively missed Russ. She hadn’t really thought about him in ten years. But now that he was right beside her, she missed him like
crazy. Every good and bad memory was rushing back at her.
Concerts. Lunches. Studying in her dorm room.
Driving to Broken Bow to visit Stacia’s family at Easter.
Cherry had spent a whole year stealing glances at Russ and then squirreling her feelings away somewhere that Stacia—and Russ himself—would hopefully never see them.
And now Russ was here, and Stacia wasn’t. (Stacia was married! To another chiropractor! She had three kids!)
The song ended. Russ’s hand dropped below Cherry’s bra strap. “How’s your back?” he asked, like he’d heard her think the word
“chiropractor.”
“Fine. It won’t hurt till tomorrow.”
“Oh, good,” he said, “I’ll be long gone by then.”
Cherry laughed and elbowed his stomach. His arm tightened around her waist. She stood up straighter, instinctively, like she
could straighten herself skinny. It had been so long since a man had touched her for the first time . . . (She didn’t have
to straighten for Tom. He knew what Cherry was hiding under her clothes.)
Cherry’s favorite song ended. Another favorite song began. Russ kept his arm around her. His fingers were cupped around her
side, right in the crease of her belly. She was standing so tall, her eye line had jumped from his chin to his cheeks.
He glanced over at her. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I’m good.”
He squeezed her again. “This okay?”
“It’s good.”
He pulled her even closer. Fully against him. If Cherry turned her head, it would be in his neck. She was close enough to
hear him singing along. She sang with him.
Now when Russ swayed to and fro, Cherry really did sway with him. They were dancing together. Properly.
He kept glancing at her, singing to her. It wasn’t awkward. Because he didn’t make it awkward. (Russ never got embarrassed, so he was never embarrassing.)
There was only one hit song on Goldenrod’s first album, and it had become a hit years after the fact, when it was featured
on Grey’s Anatomy. The song was practically a cappella—more or less spoken word. Everyone in the crowd knew it. Cherry knew it. It was about being in love with the wrong person.
The lead singer stopped singing during the chorus and let the audience recite the lyrics, pointing the microphone out at them.
Russ and Cherry looked right into each other’s eyes and said/sang the words. He put his other arm around her, across her stomach.
Cherry stretched another sixteenth of an inch taller. She turned toward him, inside his arms, and touched the placket of his
button-down shirt. (Russ was the only one here wearing a button-down shirt.) He noticed her touching him, and his smile quirked
up on one side, happy about it. Cherry rolled her eyes, like she thought he was being dumb. She didn’t think that. She thought
he was being unbearably attractive. She thought he was unbearably attractive. She’d always thought so—she’d never been able to bear it, especially when he was aiming all of that
floppy-haired, blue-eyed Russness her way.
He was aiming it now. Cherry felt very . . . targeted.
She flattened her hand against his chest. He was warm. Hard. Russ was still thin and boyish—at how old, thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?
Still sharp-jawed and loose through the shoulders. He didn’t hold himself up like someone who was divorced. His posture was
light. It was difficult to picture him with a kid.
Cherry stroked his chest and Russ stroked her hip. He’d stopped singing. So had she. The song had changed. It was the final
song on the record, Cherry realized—the song she knew the least. She’d usually fallen asleep or gotten out of the car before
she got to this one.
Russ tilted his head down toward hers, and they swayed, slow-dancing.
When the song ended, so did the album.
Cherry let go of Russ and turned back to the stage, holding her hands above her head to applaud. Russ didn’t let go, just
shifted a little bit to stand behind her. The crowd was going wild. Truly. Russ’s mouth was by Cherry’s ear, but she could
still barely hear him over all the cheering—“We should go.”
She looked back at him. She was still clapping. “Is the concert over now?”
He looked right in her eyes. He was close—their chins and noses would touch if Cherry said something too emphatically.
“No.” He shook his head. “They’re going to play more from their other albums.”
“Oh.” Cherry was confused.
“But if we left now, the album would be perfectly discrete. A complete experience with a beginning and an end.”
“That seems rude to the band,” she said.
Russ laughed. “I think they’ll manage.”
She’d stopped clapping.
“If we left now . . .” Russ said, his eyes gleaming, “. . . we could leave now.”
“Oh,” Cherry said, understanding.
She felt a sharp and immediate slice of guilt—even before she felt the thrill.
(The absolute fucking thrill. Like someone had dumped a shot of adrenaline down her spine. Russell Sutton, as she lived and breathed.)
But the guilt hit first . . . Why guilt . . . ?
Because of Stacia?
Because Cherry had spent a whole year of her life stewing in guilt, knowing she was lusting after her best friend’s boyfriend?
Knowing she was looking too long and laughing too much, and cracking too many jokes that were meant for him, not for the room . . .
Stacia had never seemed jealous. Even when Russ and Cherry were dancing together or bantering like vaudeville professionals
right under her nose—Stacia never seemed to mind.
She must have suspected how Cherry felt about her boyfriend . . .
And she must have known that it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter. Stacia and Russ broke up after a year because Stacia wanted to date someone else, and Russ didn’t fall into Cherry’s
arms for comfort. He moved on. She—Cherry—didn’t see him again after that.
That was a dozen years ago. More. It was old news. What did Cherry have to feel guilty about tonight?
Was it Tom?
Tom was gone.
“Cherry . . .” Russ said, still looking for something in her eyes.
Cherry nodded. “Let’s go.”
Russ closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against hers, smiling so wide.
Goldenrod started playing a song from their second—more sophisticated, but less iconic—album.