Chapter 8
‘Have you been to Mirrorball yet?’
The sound of his raspy voice shoots through my body and I think I’m genuinely surprised that he’s spoken to me. What did I expect? That we would sit in silence for the next hour? Possibly.
His blue eyes bore into mine as he waits for my answer to his question. My mind empties, and for a second I hate myself.
‘Oh, no. I’ve never been.’ I swallow. ‘But um, it sounds fine.’
‘Good.’ His tone doesn’t sound like he thinks this is good. ‘Let’s head over then.’
‘Wait, how do you know these places?’ I stumble behind him as he forges ahead. ‘I thought this was your first time too?’
‘Ham gave me a very intense tour when we first arrived. I know the site better than a first-timer should.’
We wander back in the direction we just came from, the drumstick swaying easily between us as we walk.
There is no chance I’d be able to recall where Mirrorball is – or where pretty much anything is in this festival.
The site stretches across approximately seven hundred acres including the camping, making it extremely easy to get lost here. Maybe a chaperone is a small blessing.
An uneasy silence sits between us as we approach a smaller tent with one side completely exposed, revealing the shimmering interior as it glimmers with dozens of disco balls hanging from the ceiling.
Aretha Franklin plays over the speakers as a small group sways and sings along on a mini dance floor.
Cluttered collections of beanbags and plush cushions sit invitingly on mismatched rugs around it.
Elliot leads me to the bar, where a bored looking man with golden-brown skin and a pile of wiry black hair tucked under a beanie leans forward on the counter.
‘Hi,’ he says before turning to me. ‘What would you like?’
I step closer to the bar and rest my hands on top of it, making Elliot’s follow suit. The drumstick thumps down onto the counter with a loud click and the barman’s eyes immediately slide to it.
‘I feel like this is a… situation,’ he says with an emotionless nod at the drumstick.
‘You could say that,’ Elliot says, his tone flippant.
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,’ I cut in quickly, smiling brightly at the barman to distract him from the situation. Elliot follows suit and requests a beer.
The barman nods after one last glance at our hands and turns away to get our drinks. A load of air escapes me as the reality of our unhinged deal washes over me all over again.
‘I guess we can hardly blame people for making comments about this. We probably look completely insane.’ I stare blankly at our hands and add quietly, ‘Maybe we are insane.’
Elliot rests his hip against the edge of the bar, leaning on his elbow in a way that somehow makes the whole ‘sharing a drumstick’ thing look not abnormal or awkward. He’s always so composed, his body seemingly in total control.
‘We aren’t insane, princess. We just care a lot about something.’
I wonder what exactly it is he cares so much about.
‘“Princess?”’ I give him a dark look. ‘Because of the tiara? Nice. Original.’
He makes a sound that sounds a bit like a laugh. But honestly I can’t be sure.
Looking around, there is no doubt that Elliot chose the perfect place for me. There can’t be more than ten people in this tent. I feel the tightness in my body begin to slacken and try to let myself enjoy the temporary respite from the chaos of Firecrest.
The barman returns with amused eyes and slams our drinks on the bar as Elliot reaches into his back pocket with his free hand and throws a small wallet onto the bar, using the same hand to carefully retrieve a card out of it.
‘Oh wait, you don’t have to pay. I’ll get mine–’
His eyes remain impassively on me as he leans over and taps his card on the machine.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my cheeks flushing for some reason. ‘I’ll get the next round.’
We grab our drinks and retreat to a pair of beanbags sitting unnervingly close to each other. On some sort of bodily instinct, I rush to one and move it slightly further away. When I look back there’s a faint frown on Elliot’s face.
‘Ah, we are still… connected. If you want some space do you want to just let go for a while?’
‘Not exactly part of the deal we made,’ I counter, leaving no choice but to quickly pick it back up and drop it beside the other.
We both sink into the deliciously soft beanbags and my feet practically scream with relief after the stress of standing all day.
As expected, we’re sitting closer than I’d really like. I blush at the unfamiliar contact, fighting the instinct to leap away from him when I feel the rough denim of his jeans against my knee.
Remain calm. For the love of God.
‘Thanks for this. Don’t know if you imagined having a drink with someone like me this evening,’ I say, eager to fill the silence.
His brows knit together in a frown. ‘No. I didn’t.’
I take a sip of my drink and desperately look inward to find something to say.
‘So,’ he starts, avoiding my eyes. ‘Are you from around here?’
‘Nope, I live in Brighton.’ He doesn’t seem to mind tedious small talk. Thank God. It’s all I have.
His eyes light up. ‘Great place to be.’
‘What about you?’ I reach down to put my glass next to me, altogether too conscious of the way his jeans brush my legs again. His eyes dart quickly to my knees as he shifts away.
He clears his throat. ‘I live in London.’
‘Oh, whereabouts?’
‘South-ish, near Bermondsey.’
This means nothing to me. My London knowledge is practically non-existent, but I nod in what I hope is a contented and interested way.
‘Cool.’
I notice him peek at me over the top of his glass as he takes a sip, then cast his eyes back down.
The ensuing silence is painful. This is painful.
We’re suddenly engaging in this charade of politeness out of nowhere when all of my energy should be directed towards deeply hating him. What are we even doing?
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Why are you suddenly being so polite?’
He tilts his head at me curiously. ‘I figured we might as well try to cultivate a pleasant dynamic if we’re going to be stuck like this all weekend.’
I give him a sour look. ‘I’m honoured. But this won’t last all weekend.’
He smiles bitterly. ‘I’m starting to get a feeling it might.’
‘You’ll break before I do.’ I smirk at him. ‘I snore. And sleep talk. Very disturbing stuff, apparently.’
His eyes are unwavering, eyeing me with a steady curiosity. ‘Really? Like what?’
‘Oh, you know. Just channeling demons and ghouls, mostly. Sickly Victorian ghost children asking for their mothers, here and there. Reciting passages from the box office hit Stuart Little. Some reports of Nickelback lyrics.’
‘Sounds like sleeping next to you is very entertaining,’ he says, that little contented smile back on his face.
‘Depends what falls under your umbrella of “entertaining”,’ I reply. ‘And I insist on listening to organ music while I fall asleep.’
‘That’s okay.’ He shrugs, but his eyes are alight with something I can’t look away from.
‘At full volume,’ I add matter-of-factly.
‘Fine.’
‘Sometimes I sing along, too.’
His smirk twists into a grin. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing that, actually.’
‘Good.’
‘Your sleep habits are… among the most interesting I’ve heard.’
They are also totally false, of course. But I must play the game.
‘Do you have any horrifying habits I should know about now? Any satanic nightly rituals or embarrassing phone calls I need to endure?’ I imagine him making kissy sounds with a girlfriend on the phone and instantly wish for a painless death.
He presses his lips together and furrows his brow in thought for a moment. ‘Nope. Guess I lack character.’
I can’t help but frown. ‘Not sure about that. I’ve already told you how unreasonable you are. That’s character.’
‘Hey.’ His face truly lights up when he smiles and I can’t stop myself from returning it. ‘Thanks, princess.’
‘I’m nothing if not honest.’
‘Yeah, I’ve noticed,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure I’m used to being around people who are so brutal. I think it’s quickly becoming my favourite thing about you.’
‘Careful,’ I scoff. ‘That would imply there are multiple things you like about me.’
‘Would that be so hard to believe?’
‘Coming from you? The scowler?’
‘I don’t scowl,’ he says, hilariously, with a scowl.
‘Sure.’ I bite back a grin.
The following silence that falls feels more manageable, less hideously awkward.
I take another sip of my drink and figure I might as well ask the question.
‘So… why do you want this so much?’ I ask, my eyes flicking to the drumstick.
He hesitates, watching people passing by the tent outside.
‘Does it matter?’ he says, eventually turning back to me.
‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t. Technically. But I am curious. I gushed about how much I love the band and would kill to keep this thing, yet I don’t remember you saying why you were so desperate.’
He purses his lips slightly, thinking.
I raise my eyebrows a fraction, inviting him to speak.
‘Alright,’ he says with a harsh exhale, as if he’s come to a decision. ‘I have a feeling you’re probably not going to like this.’
‘Oh, goodie,’ I say, wiggling my bum further into the beanbag to get comfortable.
‘Okay, the stick… it’s not – it isn’t actually for me.’
I freeze.
What?
What??
‘Seriously?’ My chest rises with fury. ‘Who the hell is it for?’
If he is holding onto this for a girlfriend, I think I might die.
‘It’s for my brother.’
Thank God.
‘Oh… so your brother is the big fan then?’
‘Yeah, he is,’ he says quietly. I study him as he casts his gaze away, looking anywhere but me. ‘I mean, I am too. But the drumstick is for him.’
‘You must be close with him if you’re willing to go through this ordeal on his behalf?’
‘Yeah,’ he says with a nod. But he sounds unsure, and his face remains blank as he takes another sip of beer.
‘So, could he not get a ticket?’
He sighs, and I realise that his body language is calmly but undeniably shrieking: I do not wish to have this conversation.
Is he tired of our truce already? I go to cross my arms before realising that I can’t, resulting in me awkwardly half crossing one arm.
‘Sorry, I’m not data-mining. Just making conversation with my fellow prisoner.’
He shakes his head and leans towards me, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘Sorry. I just don’t like talking about my family too much.’ His voice is firm. ‘It’s a weird topic for me. It’s not you.’
Guilt pools in my gut knowing that I pushed for information he hadn’t felt comfortable sharing.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say with a frown. ‘I wouldn’t have asked so many questions if I knew.’
‘It’s okay. Our one and only conflict is still this thing,’ he tells me, lifting the drumstick and also my arm as a result.
‘A conflict that will be resolved in approximately forty-eight hours,’ I say as I raise my glass to him. He returns the gesture with warmth in his eyes.
‘We can only hope.’