5. Liv #2
On stage, a handful of aging men sang, and I bounced on my toes, too hyped up to sit.
The creased leather of my boots flexed with my movements as I shifted my weight back and forth.
As a precaution, I’d put on my earmuffs before we walked inside, and as thousands of people sang along with an opening act I wasn’t familiar with, their mid-level roar beat against the foam blocking the worst of it out.
A full body shiver at the sensation sent me brushing against Ash’s warm body. He stood arms crossed and legs spread, and he raised a barely visible eyebrow in the dark.
“You good?” he asked, looking pointedly to my hands gripping my elbows, my arms squeezing tight against my torso.
“It’s loud.” I had to yell, standing on my toes to reach his ear.
“Concerts are loud.” He leaned in to speak, his cologne engulfing me in a pleasantly subtle cloud. I couldn’t identify all of the components, but its scent felt warm and masculine. Something woodsy and leathery, but with lighter notes of something floral and spicy with a hint of tobacco.
I scowled and shifted back to the square I imagined drawn in the air in front of my seat. If I stayed in it, hopefully no one would invade my personal space either. Ash did, but since I sort of knew him, it didn’t bother me as much. And he was a nice buffer to the crowd on his side.
Between sets, my mind wandered as techs raced around to reset the stage for the next band. I’d seen this a million times; hell, I’d lived it when I traveled with my dad for gigs during summers before he retired. The familiarity sent an aching longing through me, missing Dad and home and music.
I’d missed music so much, especially live music, and it was nice to be with someone who didn’t judge me for my taste. And being here somehow made me feel a little bit closer to everything I left behind.
As the lights lowered, I glanced over at Ash, intending to ask what he thought about the first set, but the tense set of his pretty mouth made me pause.
The part of me needing to erase that expression switched on, but I chided myself.
No longer was I a pathological people pleaser.
After my ex stamped out every other part of me but the ones he chose, what remained was a person who needed to keep him happy above all else.
If I liked what he liked, did what he did, he’d keep me around.
In the end, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.
All the broken pieces he’d snapped in half and made me bury slowly flickered back to life, and along with rejuvenation came a new resistance to compliance.
I knew what I wanted and who I was now, and I refused to lose sight of her again. And okay, maybe sometimes my words came out harsh or angry, but sometimes I was harsh and angry, and I wasn’t filtering them out anymore.
Back then, I hadn’t known how broken I was.
Probably still was.
But I didn’t go to this concert to drift in the waves of past mistakes. Nope. We were going to have fun, damn it. Both of us.
The song ended, and the rotating spotlights illuminated Ash beside me, arms crossed across his chest, bobbing his head lightly to the music.
Something in me shifted and realigned with the pounding beat.
Too much time had passed since I did something purely because I wanted to.
Because I loved it. And I loved this. I didn’t show people the way I loved music and let it pull my body into its cresting sound waves.
Someone taught me to burn enthusiasm, to kill it, cut it out with surgical precision.
Liking— loving— things—and by extension people—too much gave them power over you.
Vulnerability was something I avoided like the plague.
But this enormous hockey player with whom I should have nothing in common was like me.
And he showed me one of his scars, so I’d show him one of mine.
I lied to the person who told me I was too much, to calm it down.
I let him think he won, but I buried it.
I hid it from him in a dusty box full of vinyl records older than both of us.
And for the first time in a long time, I thought it might not be so bad to pull them out and blow off the dust of neglect.
Besides, after this concert we didn’t have to see each other ever again.
What would it hurt to let someone see this side of me? Just once.
“Dance with me!” I yelled, easing close enough to let his warm scent wrap around me again.
He nodded, and I reached out and took his hand again, the way I did in Le Rêve.
Guiding, not dragging, moving with the music.
Bass thrummed in my bones, the melody sparking in my soul, for once letting go of the tight grip on myself and just… moving in our little bubble.
Exhilaration threaded my veins as we just moved .
And God, I’d missed this. Sharing space without speaking, moving and reacting without worrying about what someone else thought. Ash’s body loosened up quickly, and sometimes I caught myself grinning at him, elation bubbling of its own volition.
This was fun .
I scream sang to one of the best/worst songs in history—the eighties hair bands aren’t exactly known for being feminist—and when I met Ash’s gaze, we connected in the moment. A spark ignited inside me, or maybe it was the pyrotechnic show for the finale.
Heat blazed and golden sparks showered the stage, raining a safe distance from the aging rock band, and the moment was perfect . Even when I realized his hand still engulfed mine.
I rode the high through the encore, finally sinking into my seat as the lights flashed back on, achingly bright after the softness of the stage lights and red-gold fire.
Pleasant soreness enveloped my body from the hours of dancing.
People began leaving, streaming from our row, and the aisle seat, which I’d appreciated before because it meant no one sat on my other side, meant everyone sitting on the row passed me.
Ash leaned back in his seat, checking his phone, moving enough out of the way for no one to trip on him but still enough of a hindrance they had to edge around him.
As I guzzled water to ease the dry parch of my throat, I turned my knees sideways facing Ash without touching him.
Better to be too close to him, someone I knew, than a stranger bumping or tripping over me.
Finally finishing the bottle of water, I pulled my phone out of my pocket.
“What the fuck?” I muttered. Seventeen missed calls from a Raleigh number, a handful of texts, and a voicemail. The only person who ever called me was my dad, and he was a strict single caller. He texted on occasion, usually to ask me to call instead.
Curious dark eyes met mine as I looked up for answers.
“Sorry, I’m gonna—” I waved my phone vaguely, then opened the voicemail.
“This message is for Olivia Barnes. We have a Darren Barnes here at Duke Raleigh Hospital, and you’re listed as next of kin. He’s currently unconscious, and—” But I no longer heard her.
The arena, holding thousands of people suddenly grew too small; the sticky cold of panic moving faster than my blood.