Chapter 1 #2
Her heart seizes and tiny bursts of color explode in her brain.
He walks out from across the stage to take his place, his bass in his hand, the tattooed sleeve more expansive than the last time she’s seen him.
He still looks so young, even though he’s two years older than her.
His gray plaid button-down accentuates his compact frame, his walk slow and unhurried.
In an instant, she’s transported to a dive bar in North Hollywood seven years before.
“Are you all right?” Maria asks, dabbing at her forehead with a microfiber towel. “It’s time to go on.”
She can’t speak. Her mouth has gone completely dry, and her pulse skips. “It’s Dante. Dante Baker.”
“Yes.” Hank sighs in relief, tapping his pen to the name on the clipboard, as if he had come to the same conclusion the second she saw him. “Yes, that’s right. Dante Baker. We’re lucky he just flew into town. He was in, like, Finland or someplace like that. Comes really highly recommended.”
Of course he would. He came. Warmth strengthens her legs, numbing the discomfort from her shoes. Her old sense of self taps against her skin, wanting out. Her lungs expand downward, making breathing infinitely easier.
From across the stage, he catches her gaze, his hazel eyes as soothing as a hot bath after a long hike.
She barely has time to register that instead of dreading this concert, she is suddenly…what? Excited? Eager?
Her mouth forms his name but she doesn’t speak. Dante Baker.
“Good evening, Los Angeles!” the lead singer from Monarchist, their opening act, says into the microphone, gesturing toward her in the wings. “Please welcome to the Agora, Elvie!”
She doesn’t need Hank’s gentle press on the small of her back or Maria’s whispered “break a leg.” She knows, for the first time in a very long while, that what she’s doing has value. Maybe she has value too. Everything is going to be okay.
Tonight will be epic.
* * *
Dante
Dante grips his bass so hard his knuckles whiten.
He hasn’t seen her in ages, and his body reacts the same way, like it’s a note calling out for harmony.
Ellery walks across the stage in her too-high heels and tight little skirt, making her hips sway like the badass she is, her artfully curled hair flowing around her heart-shaped face. She’s luminous.
Then again, he’s always thought so.
He wishes it’s because of him, but he’s wished that before, and wishes are for other folks. Those who can hear their own thoughts through the din of the crowd as she struts onstage. When he walked away, he knew exactly what he was leaving. That didn’t make it easier.
The eye contact between them is intense and electric, like a perfectly tuned instrument sounding the right note. Every moment he’s spent with her over the years washes over him. Ellery. She’s simultaneously different and the same.
She breaks eye contact with him only when she reaches the mic centerstage.
She raises both arms into the air, channeling her inner Evita, and like the people of Argentina, the crowd falls silent.
Anticipation hums through the amphitheater, coiling in the bowl created by the hills.
Dante’s never loved Los Angeles, but when he sees it like this, he can appreciate why its devotees are ravenous.
The sunset has bathed everything in a peachy-pink glow, heightening every other color along its path.
“Hello, LA!” Ellery’s voice is light, buoyant, and the crowd responds to it as though it’s been waiting its entire life for her to greet them like that. He didn’t expect this Ellery. Not after the messages she sent him last week.
“Thank you so much for coming out tonight! Isn’t Monarchist amazing?
It’s gorgeous here at the Agora, isn’t it?
” There’s a rumble of appreciation and assent.
Ellery looks out over the packed theater, her hair flying in the breeze, before she catches his gaze again—for only a moment this time—but those expressive eyes find him.
He thrills, from the base of his spine to the roots of his hair.
“Tonight is the last night of our tour. And what better place for a grand finale than here?” She spreads her arms wide and leans back, the white sequined tank she’s wearing riding up over her abdomen.
She looks free, like she could close her eyes and float off the ground.
The crowd’s approval can do that, make you feel like levitating.
She taught him that, that the audience isn’t only there to judge, but to lift you up.
They love this version of her too. It’s apparent from the way everyone’s on their feet already, two minutes into the concert. It’s been ages since he’s seen her perform live, but that’s how he always feels. Like he would eat from her hand, kneel at her feet, and beg for more.
Selene and Lorraine play the opening strains of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and Dante drops his fingers to the frets, ready to play. They gave him the set list when he arrived twenty minutes ago; he knows all the songs by heart. Hell, half of them he helped to write. Some music is written in your blood.
Hearing the instrumental overture, the crowd surges. It’s a good song to start, the band’s arrangement of Bon Jovi’s classic tune both atmospheric and lilting.
Instead of turning to the crowd, Ellery turns to the band and gazes fondly at Selene and Lorraine. Finally at Dante, holding his gaze longer than the others.
Anticipation and other, deeper, long-buried emotions churn beneath his skin. He grips his bass more tightly.
“Tonight is special,” she says into the mic. “I know we usually start with ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ but let’s do something different tonight.”
He feels the excitement and surprise of the bandmates, but they’re professionals. He’s a professional. They will all roll with it. Wherever Ellery goes, they’ll follow.
“Let’s play ‘Shake It Out.’” She turns to the band, covering the mic with one hand. “You guys okay with a little Florence?”
Selene shrugs and rolls into a percussion of agreement. At her piano, Lorraine points to the sky and gives a “hell, yeah!”
Ellery turns to him last, her gaze warm and almost mysterious. “Dante?”
It’s the first time he’s heard her say his name in ages, and her voice is soft, woven silk, slipping through his fingers. “Anything for you, El.”
The crowd surges, like the smile that lights her face.
The concert begins.
* * *
Reviews of The Agora, a concert venue in Los Angeles, TripAdvisor
May 25, 2019
…I still can’t feel my face. The music, man, the music in this place just rises until it rolls through you and gets under your skin…
September 4, 2019
…Saw a girl get loaded buck ass naked into the back of an Uber by Chris Mulroney, from that show on the thing? Like, for real. The man glows.
The concert was great, too…
January 17, 2021
…First time I’ve been out of the house in ages and thank $#^% the Agora is open.
Everyone was cool, kept their distance, but the minute they started singing, I think ninety percent of the place fell silent.
It was magic, just pure magic. I know I wasn’t the only one in tears.
There was this sense of, like, this can only happen here, this can only happen now.
I’ve been to thousands of concerts, but I’ll remember this one forever…
August 22, 2021
…Hot af but it’s summer in LA and the drinks here slay. And when the sun set, the temperature dropped like fifteen degrees, and it’s like all the shit we’ve all been dealing with melted away with the heat…
March 23, 2022
…Was this place built on some ancient lucky hot spot?
Because I swear there’s something here. My sister and her girlfriend got engaged here three years ago after only two dates, and they’re the happiest people I know.
My coworker and her husband were on the brink of divorce, and they saw Josh Groban here, and now they’re having another baby. It’s weird, that’s all I’m saying…
September 29, 2022
…Elvie and Dante Baker? The Vendetta was back at last. Best. Night. Ever….
* * *
Excerpt, Rolling Stone
…The Agora sits inside Los Angeles’s largest green space, and they’ve done everything they can to preserve its OG, ancient acropolis vibe. All of the greats have played here, Aretha Franklin, Sir Elton John. You name them, and they’ve rocked this house.
Almost one hundred years old, this natural amphitheater is an LA icon.
Those who have been to Red Rocks in Denver or the Hollywood Bowl maintain that at the Agora, something magical happens.
Some say it’s the ghosts of the World War II soldiers who used it as barracks, or the summer stock performers from the 1950s, maybe the buried rage from the punk and Motown bands that dominated in the ’60s and ’70s.
I say, who cares? There’s something about this intimate setting, being out in the fresh air, and seeing some exceedingly talented people creating music on this stage.
It feels like hope. It feels like possibility.
Some say it’s the secondhand marijuana smoke, but I say it’s just the Agora…