28. Souvenir #2
She's next to me, cross-legged on a crate, her hair catching the glow like something cinematic. We can’t talk without shouting over the crowd, so we just exist there, shoulder to shoulder, in this charged stillness wrapped inside all that noise.
Every few seconds our eyes meet, and I have to look away before I can’t stop.
My phone buzzes in my lap.
Flight was good, the turbulence was terrible.
My sister loves it, says it's like a rollercoaster.
love is a strong descriptor
I can take or leave turbulence.
I love that you're here.
She looks up, lips twitching, and I realize this is the best I’ve felt all day. A few more messages bounce between us. Her asking if I always look this tense before shows. Me deflecting with a joke about stage lighting making me allergic. It isn’t enough.
She’s right here. My hand, it keeps brushing my thigh, uselessly wiping away sweat that won’t stop forming. I’m supposed to be the one who performs calm, who breathes rhythm. Instead, my pulse has its own time signature, and it’s nowhere near steady.
Freja, R?vind’s drummer, hits a tight 3/4 groove. My leg starts marking it, instinctive, fingers tapping out each bar against my knee. Then I glance at her, how she’s following the music, head tilted and I get an idea. I reach for her hand, it feels like a dare, but I do it anyway and she lets me.
I turn her palm upward, rest my fingertips there, and start tracing the beat against her skin: one-two-three, one-two-three. Soft, precise. The rhythm that’s been caged in my chest all night finally has somewhere to go. She looks at me then, not startled, just still.
I lean in, close enough for my lips to touch her ear.
“This is what it feels like,” I whisper-yell.
She nods once and doesn’t pull away. So I keep going, each measure sinking deeper into her pulse until I can’t tell if I’m playing the rhythm or following it.
When the song ends, the crowd explodes. The band thanks everyone, guitars hum their last feedback note.
I don’t let go, not right away. Her hand stays in mine, warm, alive, trembling just enough for me to feel it and I realize that for all the times I’ve played in front of thousands, this is the first time I’ve felt real nerves.
By the time the house lights dip again and the intro track rolls, my pulse’s already matching the click in my ears.
The roar that goes up is tidal, every time, it still catches me.
I glance once over my shoulder and there she is, right where I told her to be, tucked into the crowd but still close enough that I can find her and I do, instantly.
Then it’s all motion. Ronan counts us in and I step forward into the heat.
Kiri locks the first line of bass and it’s like a heart beat settling.
I ride the groove, that pulse, that deep pluck of his strings pinning everything in place, while Ronan drives like he’s trying to break through the floor. Every cymbal hit ricochets in my bones.
Rithy’s grinning like he owns the night, swaggering toward me during the first chorus, our old routine, that flirtatious, chaotic back-and-forth the crowd eats alive.
His guitar and my voice tangle midair; the girls scream when he leans too close, when I move against him to the beat of the song, then push him playfully back into place.
He leaves me with a wink before he pops his pick between his teeth, opting to pluck the strings with that beautiful ease he’s always possessed.
I could watch him play for hours, easily.
The set keeps climbing. Every song hits harder, faster.
Sweat runs down the back of my neck and the lights are blinding, but I feel good, loose, wild, alive.
When I hit the first solo, Rithy mirrors me, and for a second it’s perfect chemistry, the kind that tastes like oxygen and adrenaline.
Then it all stills, and the band drops out.
I move to the piano, and the world contracts to a single white spotlight.
The first note echoes, soft and low. I look out and find her again.
There she is, her face lit by screen glow, watching.
The words come out rougher than rehearsal, my voice cracking in a way that somehow feels better.
Every line, every admission, lands heavier, truer.
The audience doesn’t hush so much as lean in; they feel it too, that current running through the air.
By the time the chorus hits, my throat’s raw and it doesn’t matter.
The band joins back in and everything expands again, the lights, the sound, the pulse of the crowd.
I scream through the bridge, and for the first time in a long time it doesn’t feel like a wound.
It feels hopeful. Because she’s here, and suddenly the world isn’t as heavy anymore.
The last chord slams, noise crashes over us.
Then nothing but heartbeat and ringing ears.
We stumble offstage one by one, half-drunk on the energy.
Sweat slicks down my back, my hands shaking, the veil sticking to my skin.
I yank it off, shove it in my pocket, and I’m still catching my breath when I see her.
Before I can think, before I can say a word, I’m moving.
Running, really. She’s laughing as I crash into her, arms wrapping tight, her face buried in my shoulder.
The black paint swirls that once mimicked claw marks have melted into a mess along my arms, and when I hold her, they smear across her white shirt wherever we touch.
When we pull apart, it’s too late. She looks down, sees the streaks, and laughs harder.
“Souvenir,” I manage, grinning like an idiot.
I want to kiss her. Fuck, do I want to. The rush in my veins is screaming for it. Instead I stop, study her face like I’ll never get another chance to. Every line, every blink, every brushstroke of her.
“There’s an afterparty in the penthouse tonight, it’s how we wrap the leg.” My voice is shot, but I keep it steady. “We’re heading back to clean up. People tend to dress up a little for this one. Text me when you’re ready, I’ll come get you.”
She nods. I nod. Neither of us moves. It feels like pulling a thread through flesh when I finally step back. Then chaos floods in, Rithy clapping me on the shoulder, Kiri whooping, Ronan yelling, “That town will never recover! What the fuck was that?”
I just shake my head, still looking at her, unable to answer. Because it was her.