Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ABBEY
I can’t wait for a live show and a crowd of happy, carefree music lovers. Donnie’s swinging by for me after he picks up Devon, the computers team captain, who’s barely out of his teens and out of his mind excited for his first show at The Golden.
I’m tying the sides of a white blouse in a knot at my waist when the buzzer sounds.
I tug on one leg of my jeans and hop out to the hallway to buzz Donnie in.
“Come on up,” I say into the receiver, then pull on the other leg and button the fly.
I flip the deadbolt, crack the door, and go back to the bedroom.
There’s a knock, silence for a couple of seconds, and then, “Rhodes? Hello?”
That raspy voice sends a swizzle from head to toe. Not Donnie. Wil.
But Wil is not supposed to be here.
I catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser.
My wet hair is still wrapped in a towel, and I haven’t done my makeup.
The apartment looks like the Tasmanian Devil blew through because—surprise— Brianna and I are both working obnoxious, preholiday hours and don’t have the time or energy to keep the place clean.
I have to work early tomorrow morning. I absolutely should not be going to this show tonight, but The Golden! Live music!
“Hello?” Wil calls again.
“Oh, hey.” I try to steady my voice. “I’m not quite ready. I’ll be right out.”
I duck into the en suite half-bath, blow dry my hair, and initiate Glamour magazine’s Glowy, Fresh Look in Five Minutes, wondering why in the world he’s here. When I go out to the kitchen a few minutes later, I grin. Moses is hissing and has Wil cornered against the wall next to the garbage can.
“Call off your guard cat,” Wil grumbles and I burst out laughing.
When Moses hears me, he takes one last swipe at Wil’s leg and scurries away. “That’s what you get for showing up without warning,” I say. “Good boy. Hiss at the bad man,” I whisper loudly enough for Wil to hear.
“Your cat is kind of an asshole.”
“He’s not an asshole when he’s snuggling with me in bed,” I say without thinking. Wil coughs and I turn away so that he can’t see how my cheeks have burst into flames. “Why are you here? Donnie was supposed to pick me up.”
Wil tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, dark ones.
My mouth goes dry. Goddamn. Does he have to look so good all the time?
He’s wearing a black Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt—the same one, coincidentally, that he wore the night we met.
At The Golden. I wonder if it was intentional.
I shake my head. Of course it’s not intentional. What is wrong with me?
“He got stuck at work and asked me to get you. If you ever checked your answering machine, you would have known I was coming.”
“Our answering machine is broken.”
He ignores me. “You shouldn’t leave your door open like that. Not in this neighborhood.”
“What’s wrong with my neighborhood?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “I didn’t realize you were going tonight.”
“Tyrell was supposed to go but can’t, so Donnie gave me the extra ticket.”
Barf. Tyrell. If I’d known he was going, I might not have said yes. “Didn’t know you were a big Ruh-Roh fan,” I say, astounding even myself at how stupid that sounds.
“I could say the same for you,” Wil says.
“Please don’t. Then we’ll both sound like morons.” That gets a tiny twitch of a smile out of him. “I’m not, but it’s kind of a big deal for Devon. Why are you going? Let me guess. You’ve always wanted to get your groove on to ‘Scooby Snax.’”
“I don’t dance.”
“What are you going to do? Stand around like a statue while the rest of us have fun?”
He shrugs. He’s not giving anything away tonight.
“How did you get my address, anyway?” I put my hands on my hips. “Did you look it up in HEAS?”
His brow crinkles. “Of course not. Donnie gave it to me.”
Oh, right.
“We should get going,” he says. “Are you about ready?”
“Nope!” I say with my biggest, brightest smile. “Help yourself to water or a Snapple. You’re way too early.”
The line for the Ruh-Roh show snakes around the block. Devon is practically bouncing, he’s so excited. Wil and I stand quietly in the chilly, early October air. The ride from my apartment to Donnie’s was silent, too.
Finally, the line moves. Wil puts his palm against the small of my back to guide me forward.
His touch sends swizzles up and down my spine, and I suck in a breath.
After the bouncer checks our IDs and stamps our hands, he puts it back.
We enter the loud, happy chaos of the club, and still, he doesn’t remove his hand, not until Devon has found the exact perfect spot on the floor and Creepshow Five, the opening act, takes the stage.
I kind of love that hand on my back.
Wil, our DD, drinks expensive bottled water all night, and I limit myself to one bottle of Rolling Rock.
Ruh-Roh is a tall, chunky Black twenty-something wearing a Pulp Fiction T-shirt, baggy athletic pants, stark white tennis shoes, and his signature stocking cap with dog-ear flaps. He puts on a loud, high-energy show.
Devon is beside himself, bursting with joy every time Ruh-Roh starts a new song.
“I love this one!” he shouts again and again.
I can’t help smiling at his pure, genuine emotion, not caring what anyone around him might think.
Wil stays close, but he’s relaxed a little, at least, a small smile playing on his lips as he surveys the crowd.
He even sings along to Ruh-Roh’s hip-hopped-up cover of “Informer.”
When the baseline and opening notes for Ruh-Roh’s catchy hit single “Scooby Snax” drop, Devon screams yessss! and joins the mass of synchronized, bouncing fans. I laugh and bounce, too, yelling along with the crowd.
Ruh-Roh! Give me snax! Ruh-Roh! I need snax! Ruh-Roh! Scooby Snax! Who brings the juice? Ruh-Roh!
I laugh at the stupid lyrics and bounce and spin and before I know it, I’m separated from my friends, up in the mosh pit.
Wait. Is this sort of hip-hop madness even called a mosh pit?
Someone slams into me, and then I’m pushed into someone else’s back.
This sure feels like a mosh pit. It’s so hot, my lungs are tight, and I can’t take in air.
Another Scooby Snaxxer (if I make it out of here alive, I’m going to trademark that) jumps up, way up, and then takes me down, way down, with him.
I hit the floor hard, and someone steps on my hand.
Motherfucker, that hurts. I curl myself into a ball, squeeze my eyes shut, and tuck my head against my knees.
I’m going to die. Death by trample at a Ruh-Roh show.
My last night on earth, my last concert is this?
“Hey.” The familiar voice is close to my ear. “Rhodes, I’ve got you.”
Wil’s strong hands curl around my upper arms, and he hauls me up. My god, even while I’m on the brink of death, his touch sends a delicious swizzle through my body.
“Breathe,” he says. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
“Oh my god,” I gasp out. I can’t catch my breath.
He pushes a couple of Snaxxers out of the way and practically drags me out of the mosh pit, toward the staircase and into a small alcove. I bend over, my hands on my knees, and take big gulps of air.
“You okay?” He rubs my back. Swizzle, swizzle swizzle.
I stand up, too fast, and nearly topple as the room spins. His arms are around me before I can even try to right myself. Warm and safe and strong and so Wil.
“I’ve got you. I’m here,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m always here.”
I’m always here.
I take slow, deep breaths—Originaire for Men, sweat, Wil.
Campfire and crisp, woodsy mountain air.
Not that I’ve ever been to the mountains, but I’m a writer.
I have a good imagination. And as he tucks me in closer, my imagination goes somewhere else, somewhere definitely not the mountains.
I told Hal I’d write about the Ruh-Roh show—mainly because he didn’t know anyone else who wanted to go—but I definitely won’t be sharing about this. Oh, no. I like this too much. Too much.
I pull away and immediately miss Wil’s arms. His eyes lock on mine, his eyebrows narrowed. He’s worried.
It’s so loud in here that I need to prop up on my tiptoes to speak close to his ear. “I’m okay.”
He nods.
“Let’s go back.”
He nods again.
But then “Scooby Snax” ends with a loud “Ruff!” from Ruh-Roh, and he yells, “Minnnnnnn-eeeeeeee-apolis! Tonight, we’re gonna play one from my idol, my inspiration, your very own, the one and only The Artist!
” The noise of the crowd makes it nearly impossible to hear him, so he puts a finger to his lips.
“Shush, now. This one goes out to all the lovers here tonight. Grab hold, and hold on tight, because life is short. And if you ain’t here with your lover, stay right where you are, grab hold of the music, and let the music take care of you. ”
That’s a beautiful sentiment, letting the music take care of you. I wouldn’t have expected something so poignant from someone called Ruh-Roh.
More than anything, I suddenly want to grab hold of Wil and hold on tight. I swallow hard. I’ll have to grab hold of these last few moments of swizzle and keep them close to my heart. That’s all I’m going to get.
The crowd quiets and the opening chords of “Purple Rain” fill the venue—a song I’ve loved ever since Scout sneaked me into the theater to see the movie of the same name, a movie I definitely should not have watched at the tender, innocent age of 11.
He at least had the sense to cover my eyes during that one scene, although he probably should have found a way to cover my ears, too.
I make a move to return to our friends, but Wil pulls me close and wraps his arms around my waist.
Oh.
Okay.
Yes.
I can’t remember the last time I slow danced—maybe once with Tucker when I drunkenly dragged him out to the dance floor at Grandma’s Sports Garden and we stumbled our way through “I Love the Way You Love Me” by John Michael Montgomery. A country song! I know!
“That was humiliating, Abbey,” he told me on the drive home. “I don’t like you when you’re drunk.”
What an awful, Tucker-like thing to say. I stuck out my tongue at him. He told me I was immature, and dumped me three weeks later.
This is going to be so much better. I slide my arms around Wil’s neck and for long, long moments—“Purple Rain” is a very long song—we sway together.
I nuzzle into his neck, and he lets out a long breath.
At some point, we stop moving and stand in each other’s hold, like we’re freezing time.
I’m so desperate for this connection, this feeling, this swizzle.
I’ve never been more disappointed than when the final notes resonate, the crowd goes proverbially wild, Wil steps back, and that’s it. Life goes back to what I now recognize as its usual dull, empty, cold grayness, my cells aching for his touch, for color.
Ruh-Roh calls the Creepshow Five guys back on stage for the encore, another catchy one called “Little Titty Ditty” (hard not to roll my eyes at that one), a shock to the system after the sweeping, moving melancholy of “Purple Rain.” I glance at Wil, but he’s staring straight ahead, not looking at me.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” I yell over the pounding bassline, which sounds a teensy bit like “Rapper’s Delight” by The Sugarhill Gang. “I’ll meet you back over by the guys.”
I stand in front of the mirror in the women’s room. My hair sticks to my temples with sweat. My cheeks are pink. “No,” I tell my reflection. “Do not get sucked in. He is your boss.”
“Girl, that is always a mistake,” says a white woman with a hot pink updo, cherry lips, and a Ruh-Roh T-shirt cropped so high, it shows the undersides of her voluptuous breasts.
I somehow hadn’t even noticed her at the next sink.
“I suppose he’s married, too. Men are the worst.” She blows me a kiss and walks out of the restroom.
Married to his job, maybe. I retie the blouse mid-stomach. It’s practically chaste compared to that crop top. I smooth a hand down my belly, slightly self-conscious at the pale skin but impressed with the strength of my abs, something I haven’t felt since I worked out at the university gym.
After a few deep breaths, I leave the restroom and start back down the stairs. I scan the crowd to find my friends, but what I see stops me short.
Wil, in a Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt, one half of his face bathed in blue light from the stage.
Just like the first night we met. I remember his smile when he told me his favorite Beatles album was Abbey Road.
The image fills me with longing and melancholy and the physical ache of yearning, a tightness in my chest.
I like him so much, even if he is 70 percent grump. He’s so smart. I like his taste in music, and his drive, and the way he saved me from certain death. And let’s not forget those sexy glasses. And more than anything, I wish I didn’t like him.
“Thanks for coming out tonight, Minneapolis!” Ruh-Roh yells into the microphone at the end of the song. “We’re going to Lee’s Liquor Lounge after the show if anybody cares to join us.”
The lights come up and snap me out of my daze. I blink against the brightness and start down the stairs again. A skunky haze hangs in the air, and I feel pounding behind my eyes. It takes a long time to get back to my teammates.
Wil leans into my ear so I can hear him above the buzz of the crowd. “You sure you’re okay?”
I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. I may never be okay again, not after “Purple Rain.”
We make our way out from the middle of the crowded dance floor.
Wil keeps one hand on either side of my waist, like I might float away if he lets go.
And honestly, I feel like I might, dizzy and swizzly and confused.
When we finally make it outside, I pull away and take deep, gulping breaths of colder, only slightly fresher air.
God, how I wish things could be different.