Thirty-Two
THIRTY-TWO
BETTER A WILT THAN A WITHER
When the spotlight hits, Kick and I are grinning at each other as Mateo plays a beat. Normally we go right into “I Kissed Her In An Alcove,” but I’m holding his gaze, drawing it out.
“Hey there, Kick.”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
“Hey there, Mari.”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
“It’s a beautiful night tonight, isn’t it?”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
“It is. I love St. Louis, don’t you?”
The crowd’s cheers drown out the drumbeats, but we stay in rhythm, watching each other.
“What song do you think the lovely people of St. Louis would like to hear tonight?”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
The crowd shouts out song titles while Kick and I keep smiling at each other, ignoring them, working them into a frenzy. A guy in the front row screams “Freebird.”
“We could do ‘Don’t You Want Me.’ People seem to love that one. ”
The crowd’s enthusiasm washes over me. My marigold tattoo is wrapped in plastic underneath my jacket, reminding me it’s there, reminding me of my father, of why I’m here. For maybe the first time in my entire life, I feel like I truly belong here in the spotlight. “I don’t know. We met a new friend today, right here in St. Louis, named Ez. They said they really loved The Alcove Songs.”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
“Do it,” a girl to our left screams. I wonder if she means the song or something else. Me too, girl. Me too.
“The Alcove Songs,” Kick says. “Do you mean the songs we wrote about each other, about that night at the party, when I kissed you in an alcove?”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
I look out at the crowd. “Do any of you believe I’d actually let Kick Raines kiss me?” I shoot him a look. “I mean, I do have standards.”
Bum, bum, bum, bum.
“Oh, I kissed you all right. Question is,” he says, “when are you gonna let me kiss you again?”
He throws his guitar up, strumming the first chords and launching into the song. He sings the first line to me, not the audience, and my knees nearly give out. After this afternoon’s confessions our energy on stage has exploded. Everything is happening at once—Kick’s eyes, full of heat, focused on me, the ear-splitting cheers from the crowd, all four of us absolutely killing every beat, every note, every word.
“Isn’t she something?” Kick hollers into the microphone at the end of the second song.
The roar of approval is deafening. To be fair, Kick and I are both milking it for all it’s worth. There’s a new, unspoken understanding between us, like our confessions tore down an invisible wall and now we can see each other all the way. We still talk shit to each other, but there’s a softness behind it that wasn’t there before. I keep catching him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking, a new heat in his eyes.
The guitar tech runs on stage to grab our guitars as the opening strains of “Don’t You Want Me” boom over the sound system. Thousands of people jump to their feet to dance with us, but Kick only has eyes for me. We flirt and dance and sing to each other and it feels real. The words we’re singing to each other are real. He wants me. And I want him. The way he’s singing to me squeezes my ribcage like a too tight hug. We’ve been sitting on simmer since that first audition and now that we’ve bared our souls, things are threatening to boil over.
When the song ends, he pulls me into an engulfing hug in front of everyone, lifting my feet off the ground. A row of girls on the front row squeal loud enough to break glass. When he sets me down, we take a bow, him never letting go of my hand.
We’re both giddy as we exit the stage, caught up in the music and the moment. The guitar tech hands us each a towel. I peel off my leather jacket and hold it between my knees while I pat my face and neck.
Kick’s face is buried in his towel when he says, “Can you believe?—”
When he pulls the towel away, his voice halts as his face turns to stone.
“Believe what?” I ask.
He’s staring at someone behind me. I turn around and see a tall man wearing an All Access badge who looks just like Kick only thirty years older. Same hair but laced with grey, same eyes, same chin.
“Son,” he says.
Kick doesn’t move, his towel still raised to his face like a terry cloth beard.
Kick’s dad walks over, slowly, his whole body moving in painful hesitation. When he’s finally standing in front of us, his eyes are filled with tears .
“Mari,” Kick says. He pauses, clears his throat. “This is my dad, Art Raines.”
We spent the whole day in the city, talked about his brother, about the accident, and Kick never mentioned his parents lived here.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
Art reaches out for Kick, his hand resting lightly on Kick’s shoulder. “You were really, really good, Son. Really good. I’ve never been more proud of you.”
The moment is charged, like any sudden movement will trip an irreversible explosion. Kick’s mouth is working back and forth, trying to get the words out. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Your mother,” his dad says, pausing to swallow, to look toward the stage where Sparrow is playing their first song, to put his hands in his front pockets and then take them out again. “She wanted to be here.”
Kick deflates next to me, turns into himself, his face etched in pain. Instinctively, I reach out for his hand. He pulls away from me and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s locked in a stare down with his dad, the two of them having a silent conversation.
“I’ll give you some privacy,” I say.
“You were really wonderful,” Art says as I start to walk away. “We didn’t, uh, well, thank you for…for playing with Kick. It means so much.”
It’s obvious the punch those words carry. Kick’s wilted even more in the last ten seconds and it squeezes my heart. I wait to see if he wants me to stay, but he keeps his eyes on the floor.
“It’s me who should be thankful,” I say. “Kick’s wildly talented. The fans love him. But more than that, he’s such a generous artist. You don’t see that very often in situations like ours. Honestly, I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s exceptional. I’m lucky I get to play with him every night.”
Kick’s eyes jerk to mine, his expression a mixture of surprise and something more, something like adoration. I reach out and touch his arm, run my hand up to his shoulder .
“I’ll be in my dressing room if you need me.”
He reaches up and grips my hand, the unspoken tether between us pulling tighter.
“ Thank you .” His words are silent as a breath, a whispered declaration.
I squeeze his hand one more time before walking away.