Five #2
He was up there with a new collective—a violinist who drew out long, mournful notes, and a drummer who kept it all sparse and tribal.
But it was the bassist who grounded the whole thing—a Black girl with a focused, heavy groove, her fingers creating these melodic, liquid lines that felt like the pulse of the room.
She looked utterly unfazed, like she was the one driving the song.
Grey was singing about wanting another man in a way that was unmistakable. It was blatant. Defiant.
His eyes stayed shut. His face tilted up like he was receiving a signal from somewhere above the rafters. He was completely wide open—uncomfortable to watch, like we'd stumbled into a room where he was either praying or having a total breakdown.
The lyrics weren’t graphic, but they didn’t need to be.
He was singing about another man’s eyes and his mouth and the weight of his hands.
About transformation. About becoming something new.
With The Orchards, everything had been a metaphor—we’d spent years trying to decipher his lyrics like a secret code.
But this wasn't subtext anymore. He was just being honest, and it was obvious. Grey delivered it like someone who’d finally broken free and didn't care who knew it.
The crowd was silent, totally absorbed.
There was this hard, hot ache in my throat, like a fist was closing around my windpipe and I couldn't swallow past it. I stood there, gripped by it.
This was real. Not something practiced in the mirror. It wasn't vintage wingtips and hand-rolled cigarettes and knowing about bands nobody else had heard of yet. Grey looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, but there he was, totally exposed. He wasn't trying to protect himself at all.
It made me feel small. Not because he was more famous than me, but because he was free in a way I didn't even know was allowed.
I glanced over at Nathan.
He was watching Grey with the same expression he’d had earlier this afternoon during Love’s Easy Tears—completely gone, lips parted, eyes wide. Like he was seeing something he’d never be able to put into words.
But we’d try.
Nathan felt me watching him and turned his head. He was breathless, his face flushed, and he raised his eyebrows at me with a look that was pure, stunned recognition. Whoa. Man. He just said it, didn’t he?
I looked back at him, my heart beating so hard I could see the pulse in my vision.
He grabbed the lapel of my jacket and pulled me closer. He leaned in like he was about to say something in my ear—the way you do when it's too loud to be heard—his mouth close enough I could feel his breath buzzing against my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.
And then the girls found us.
Kelly was already grabbing Nathan's arm, shouting something over the music.
He shifted, blinking like he was being pulled out of a deep sleep, and gave her that polite, easy smile he used when he was being a good sport. He nodded and chuckled at whatever she was saying, but I could see the way he kept his eyes on the stage.
Alex grabbed onto me, swaying and dancing. I couldn’t hear her, but I read her lips as she yelled, "So good!"
Kelly was still over there trying to talk to Nathan. He was missing the song, but he was too nice to tell her to shut up. I wanted to scream, Now’s not the time for a chat, Kelly.
He’d never be a dick to anyone.
But it felt like he was letting her take away the moment.
After the show, we spilled back out into the lobby. The lights were too bright again, everyone blinking and dazed.
Somebody came by with a camera. Not one of the professional photographers we’d seen crouched at the edge of the stage all night, just a guy we knew taking Polaroids.
"Get in, get in!" he said, waving Kelly and Nathan closer.
Nathan motioned to me, inviting me into the frame. But Kelly was already between us, her body turned sideways toward Nathan, her knee coming up across his thigh. I stayed where I was, just outside the shot. Or so I hoped.
The flash went off.
He took the Polaroid and handed it to Nathan, who immediately gave it to Kelly. She flapped it in the air—which was stupid, it didn’t affect the development, why did people do that?—and gushed over it.
"Oh my God, we look so hot. Look at your eyes! You look demonic."
She rushed over to show it to Alex, then to me.
Nathan’s eyes had caught the light—red in the photo, his face ghostly pale from the makeup. Kelly was laughing, her mouth open, hanging on Nathan with one leg hiked up. She'd lost the fangs somewhere. Her pose was less vampire, more girl at a party.
And there I was in the dim background, Kelly’s shadow from the flash falling stark across me. My expression was sullen.
They looked like a couple, and I looked erased.
Outside, the cold air hit like a slap.
Kelly hugged herself and shivered dramatically. "It’s freezing."
Nathan didn't hesitate. He shrugged off the velvet jacket—my jacket—and helped her into it like a boyfriend would.
And that was it.
I’d fucking had it.
I forced out a short, disgusted huff and stalked away.
"Huck!” Alex called after me. "Where are you going? Are you seriously leaving?"
I could feel them all watching, but I refused to look back.
I walked fast, my breath clouding in the cold air, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.
If I’d stayed there one more second, I would've said something really ugly.
And Kelly didn't deserve it. She was a nice person.
She had a crush on Nathan. Who could blame her?
He was cute and patient and sweet. He didn't talk over people or brag or act like an asshole.
He let Kelly lean into him because he was too polite to push her away.
He gave her his jacket because he was thoughtful.
Any girl would want to be with him.
I’d been kidding myself. I wanted someone cool. Someone I didn't have to wait on to come out of the closet. But I just... kept fucking waiting.
He'd let her take away the moment. He'd given her my jacket. And I was just the gay roommate, pining like an idiot.
I stopped on a side street and tried to roll a cigarette, but my hands were shaking too much. The paper tore. Tobacco spilled everywhere. It was pathetic.
Somebody walked by, smoking, and I called out. "Hey—can I bum a cigarette?"
He paused long enough to hand me a Marlboro Red without a word and kept moving.
I threw my fucked-up hand-rolled into the bushes, lit the Red, and walked home alone.