Chapter 7
Natalie
Nat: You make some bomb ass cookies…next time you bake, save me some.
Candace: It’s my mother's recipe. They’re always a hit. Of course, I’ll save you some.
Nat: How much shit did those PTA losers give you today?
Candace: Strangely enough, not much. It’s been a little silent.
Nat: Good riddance. What are you doing this weekend? There’s a show I want you to come to.
Candace: Am I ready?
Nat: Of course…and don’t worry I’ll be there with you the whole time ;)
“I can’t believe you’re going to The Postal Service without me, you’re such a fucking whore,” Megan growls. She figured right now, while zipping up her work jacket, would be the best time to bring this up.
“You’re the one who picked up an extra shift, what are you bitching about?” It looks like we moved in this morning, shit is literally everywhere. It’s been twenty minutes, and I still haven’t found my other boot.
“Does your friend even know who they are?” Her annoyance is the furthest thing from subtle. The ticket was supposed to go to extra groceries like she insisted. Oops.
“Nope. It’s not really her scene. She didn’t even know who Taking Back Sunday was.”
“So, you like her? The Prez?” she asks with a raised brow. Do I like Candace? Short answer: yes. Long answer… I don’t know.
“Found you!” I shout, grabbing my boot from underneath a pile of blankets. Megan’s stare is burning a hole in the side of my head. She’s known me since we were kids, so there’s no use in me trying to hide from her.
“It’s…complicated. She just got divorced, has twins in middle school, and we’re basically from different planets.
There’s a solid age gap that'd make any respectable PTA member blush. Oh, and did I mention she was married to a guy, so I’m not exactly holding my breath for a sudden switch from eggplant to taco. ”
“Sure,” she murmurs. “Because no one’s ever gotten tired of the same flavor and shaken up the menu.”
I roll my eyes at her. As right as she might be, I can’t afford to take the risk and get my heart broken. “We’re friends. Even if she looks like she stepped right out of an Ann Taylor catalog, I’m super drawn to her. I'm a malnourished bee, and she’s a giant honeycomb dripping with honey.”
Megan wiggles her eyebrows and makes obnoxious kissy noises. “Already thinking about her dripping, eh? Sounds like more than friends to me?”
“Grow up.” I throw a pillow, and it goes flying at her head, but she couldn’t care less. She’s too busy hugging herself. “Oh no, Mrs. PTA president, don’t make me hand out any more flyers. I promise I’ll be a good girl.”
It’s a dick move to slam the door behind me, but it was that or throw something stronger at her. I don’t need any shit right now. If a friend is the only thing I’m getting from the Prez, that's more than enough for me. I hope.
Driving down mega-mansion alley makes me dizzy.
Everyone’s trapped in this fucked-up house of mirrors where every home is the same.
They’re all asylum white, with pristine front yards, except for the blue flowers lining the property lines.
The gardening bill must be astronomical.
They definitely all come equipped with environmentally unfriendly SUVs.
I printed out directions instead of writing them on my hand like I did the other night, because no one has time to get lost in this maze.
I pray my brakes don't give out, or worse, develop a spontaneous oil leak as I park my car in Candace’s sloped driveway. I’m sure they’d call a neighborhood watch meeting to discuss a payment plan for resurfacing it.
The doorbell rings once before Candace swings the door open.
When I’m a crotchety old lady, I hope this is the memory I’ll think back on the most. She ditched the country club dress and spotless white tennis shoes for a curve-hugging black dress with long sleeves and a short hem.
Her curly hair, that's usually down, grazing her shoulders, is pinned up in a black clip.
My favorite part is her shoes: fire engine red Mary Janes. Stepford meets rockstar.
Note to self: do not finger bang the Prez tonight, no matter how cute she looks. Those shoes might be my undoing, but I’m stronger than that.
“I love your jacket.” She runs her fingers down my arm, admiring the smooth leather. “Do I look nice? I didn’t know what to wear, so I borrowed a dress from my sister. I hope it’s okay.” She looks down double-checking her choice.
“You look hot. Everyone in there is gonna try to nail you.” Oh shit, did those words actually come out this time?
She doesn’t run away after that foot-in-mouth comment. Instead, she giggles and hurries off to grab her stuff.
The ride to the concert house is about forty minutes away, so I spend most of it educating her on the band– whom she’s never heard of.
When we’re not running through songs, I’m biting my lip frantically, hoping she’ll get the itch to caress my arm again.
My family and I aren’t crazy affectionate with each other, and physical touch has never been my love language.
But when Candace does it, I melt into a pile of goo.
“I refuse to believe you don’t listen to music.” I adjust the radio volume slightly. “Seriously, when you’re cleaning your house or planning out school fundraisers, you’re just sitting there with your thoughts?” I ask.
“Yes, although my girls typically have music on when they come home, so I guess it’s not nothing. More like nothing of my choosing.” Her fingers drum the dashboard playing along with the melody.
“But before you had kids. You never just turned off all the lights, plugged in your headphones and felt the music?”
She stares intently out the window at cars passing us. “I thought we were supposed to listen to music, not feel it.” She turns to me, lips pursed tightly.
I laugh a little. “You absolutely feel it. It’s supposed to take over your mind, body, and soul.”
“I’ve never felt anything like that.” She turns back to the traffic, her face lit by passing headlights.
“Music’s the drug that fixes everything. It’s life-changing. If you let it in, she’ll become your soulmate.”
“Maybe I’ll meet my soulmate tonight if I’m lucky.” She messes with the CD player until she finds a song she likes. I smile like she’s a kid on Christmas morning.
“This one sounds nice. Do you like this band?” She turns the volume back up until a guitar solo is blasting through the speakers.
“I do, actually. It’s Good Charlotte. They’re supposed to be coming out with their third album next year. Fun fact: the lead singers are twins.”
“No way! I wish I had some cool trivia, you’ve always got something witty up your sleeve.” She frowns and flips through my CD case.
The rest of the drive is filled with a comfortable silence while we repeat Say Anything about five times. She learns a few lyrics and is ready once the chorus comes around.
“Stick close to me.” I warn as we get out of the car and head inside. Don’t ask why I say it, some cavewoman part of my brain took over.
“I wouldn’t leave your side if you paid me.
You’re stuck with me.” Her eyes light up as we enter the building, before showing the bouncer our IDs.
Her grip tightens on my arm, and I notice she’s buzzing with excitement.
We’re practically skipping, which is totally not cool, but she makes me feel like the raddest person here.
The house band is warming up, clouds of cigarette smoke and the faint smell of urine clog my nostrils.
There’s a seating area up top, with chairs and tables so you can eat if the band’s a little more on the mellow side.
Down below is standing only. Normally when the band’s insane, there’s a mosh pit where people go if they’re feeling like bleeding from the head.
“Let's go upstairs, and we can sit and order food.” I grab her hand, leading the way.
The crowd is younger than her and dressed a lot grungier than usual.
Her shoes stick to the floor with a squelch that makes her grimace every step.
For a school night there’s a shit ton of people here.
I’d hoped because this isn’t a rowdy band it’d be a good one to pop her cherry at.
You know what I mean. Don’t make it weird.
The main floor lighting is dim, illuminating the stage as the musicians walk in and greet everyone.
Her hands are on the railing, gripping tight, eyes wide as the lights bounce off the walls.
The club stays dark apart from the stage—she's not hard to see though. I could spot her from space, she’s unbelievably stunning.
Every curve from her breasts to her hips, down to those sexy, long legs, is highlighted by the warm light.
It’s a good thing I’ve already seen this band because I’m watching her watch them and not paying attention to the songs at all.
When “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” comes on, all reason flies out the window as I scoot my chair closer to her.
In return, she leans into me, allowing our shoulders to touch as the melancholy music plays around us.
We’re back in our bubble, just the two of us.
Music loud, lights low. It’s everything I wanted her to experience and I have front row seats to it.
“You were right. I think I feel this song.” Her voice isn’t loud or meant to be heard by me.
“I think I feel it too,” I whisper.