Chapter 25
After running through any remaining ideas that strike us, it’s clear that we’ve run out of inspiration and conversation eventually moves elsewhere.
Elliot leans his shoulder against the flagpole and takes a swig of his beer, reminding me of my own drink. I take another punishingly cold sip and quiver at the temperature.
‘Too cold?’ Elliot asks, peering sideways at me.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ I say, zipping my jacket up.
‘You need something?’ He points at the sleeve of the black jacket he’s wearing.
‘What? No, you need it,’ I say with confusion, eyeing it.
He shrugs, starting to pull his arm out of one of the sleeves. ‘I’m fine.’
I would laugh at the fact he’s suddenly behaving so strangely gentlemanly if I didn’t find it so unnerving. Spluttering with alarm, I shake my head frantically and flap a hand at him.
‘Please, don’t worry. A lemonade won’t be the end of me.’ I take another sip, as if to prove my point. ‘I can handle it.’
He gives me a once over before pulling it back on. Thank Christ. If I’d had the inescapable scent of Elliot on me for the rest of the night I’m not sure I would’ve coped.
‘I’m starting to get the feeling you could probably handle most things, princess,’ he says, a trace of humour in his voice.
I snort. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well.’ His eyes dance across my face. ‘You know. You’ve been through a lot, and some would say you’ve handled it better than most. A lot of people who face that kind of trauma end up becoming a dickhead themselves or trying to run away from it forever.
Sounds like you’ve faced it head on and dealt with it as best you can. ’
I blush at the observation. ‘I don’t know.
I probably could have handled it all better.
I mean, obviously Hennie and my family held my hand through it all.
But…’ I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath.
‘Honestly, music was such a lifeline. When I found Queen Ego and the escapism that came with it, that changed everything for me. I can’t really explain it. ’
He hesitates, leaving space for me to talk more.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I feel like I’ve done a bit of trauma dumping on you today.’
He shrugs a shoulder. ‘I consented.’
I take a gulp of my drink, its iciness streaming down the centre of me.
‘So this would be your chance to tell them what their music really means to you? If we won?’
I feel my heart expand at the very idea of it. ‘Yeah, I suppose. I don’t know if I’d manage it very well, but it would be nice to at least give it a go. And I feel like artists are always happy to find out someone’s connected with their work in a significant way, right?’
He nods. ‘Yeah, I’d think so.’
As he tilts his head back to drain the rest of his beer, I can’t resist marvelling at how the warm festival glow from below us hits the strong curve of his jaw.
‘Fucking hell, maybe I should have just let you have it,’ he says quietly, laying his empty cup on the grass. ‘You know I would have if it weren’t for my brother.’
I try shooting him my coolest glare. ‘I know. You don’t need to justify your allegiance to your brother over me.’
He turns away, his eyes unreadable. I frown.
‘What?’ I ask more seriously.
For a second, I wonder if he’s considering giving it up.
‘I don’t know. I was thinking.’ He pauses before continuing, his voice rough and uneven. ‘You’re just… generous in the way you love things. It’s a great trait to have.’
The colour in my cheeks deepens and I frown into my drink, noticing how the bubbles float to the top and settle around the ice cubes before dispersing.
‘Artists are lucky to have fans like you,’ he says, his voice evening out. ‘It must be a pretty remarkable thing, to be loved by someone like you. You know, someone who loves things so passionately. And unapologetically.’
My body straightens and I search his face for some trace of humour or mockery, but I can’t find any there. The wind plays with his dark locks as he looks calmly at the clouds above us, tapping the drumstick against his knee in a steady rhythm.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask him, my voice quiet.
‘You just don’t love things by halves, is all I mean,’ he says. ‘It’s a beautiful quality to possess, you know? Kind of a rare trait to have a heart so big. If anything, it just shows how much love you have to give.’
He tosses the drumstick from one palm to the other in a thoughtless pattern before turning to me with a soft smile.
I feel a smile tug on my lips in response before I can stop it.
Nobody has ever framed things that way before; that the particular kind of love I have for Queen Ego is something to be proud of, even celebrated, rather than pitied or mocked.
For a second, I almost feel like I’m naked – like a part of my soul has been bared and exposed. My body buzzes with the excitement, mortification and adrenaline that comes with feeling so wholly seen.
The reality that Elliot is now fully aware of my somewhat troubled past and psyche and how I’ve battled it all is a relief, but also deeply unsettling.
Under any other circumstances, I would have cherished the moment.
That sensation of feeling so understood and known by someone I just met isn’t something I’ve ever experienced, but I’m also keenly aware of the fact that we’re still competing for something and in reality…
I don’t know if Elliot and I are even friends.
Is it normal to be obsessed with the way your newfound “friend” smells like an alluring forest? And the shape of his hands?
And the way I will now think about the way he kisses forever?
It feels like we’re friends, but I’ve only known him for a day. And whenever we laugh together it feels like we could be, but then I’m reminded that I might never see him again after this weekend.
The idea that we have such a limited amount of time left together tears at my gut.
‘Thanks, Elliot,’ I say softly.
‘No need to thank me,’ he replies. ‘Just an observation that you didn’t ask for.’
He taps his knee with a sigh.
‘Maybe we just need to sleep on this clue,’ Elliot declares. ‘Or we need the others.’
I nod, speech still apparently eluding me.
He starts to stand up, picking up his forgotten cup before reaching a hand out for mine. I drain the rest of my cup’s contents and pass it up to him. He spins back toward the bar, leaving me to wallow in my deeply bewildered thoughts for a minute. And I definitely need longer than a minute.
I take a deep breath and lightly shake my head, as if it might dislodge any feelings in there that I didn’t ask for.
I shoot a glance at Elliot walking to the bar, empty plastic cups swinging easily by his sides. He rests them on the bar with a polite nod at the man who’s pouring a pint.
An urgent, horrible realisation squirms inside me, refusing to be ignored now.
My eyes soften as I watch him turn to walk back to me with his hands in his pockets, peering to his right at the sprawling view of Firecrest Festival.
I don’t bother looking away. Denying looking at him is like denying a truth I don’t want to admit.
I can’t even tear my eyes off him as he saunters slowly over, his face strong and unreadable all at once.
The sight of it makes my insides crumple and my heart race and it’s so obvious all of a sudden – so, so painfully obvious – how much I like him.
Enough for it to be a problem. More than I ever wanted to like someone again.
Which is exactly what I wanted to prevent.
All I can do now is brace myself for the inevitable gut-wrenching pain that comes next. Liking someone this much can never end well. And I still have another twenty-four hours tethered to him.
Elliot takes the last step toward me, his blue eyes glowing in the darkness. He’s almost painful to look at.
‘So, um, what do you want to do? Are we sleeping at my tent again or yours?’ he asks with an edge of nervousness. ‘Or call it quits?’ he adds with what sounds like hope.
I pull my backpack on and stand up to face him. Just because I’ve found myself pining over him, that doesn’t mean I’m even close to giving in. ‘While I love the enormo-tent, I really need a night where I have my stuff around me.’
He nods. ‘That’s fair. At least yours is closer too, so makes sense.’
I cringe, deciding it would be better to confess before we get there. ‘I have to warn you… it’s a lot smaller than yours.’
One of his eyebrows shoots up. ‘How small are we talking?’
‘It’s… small. It’s a two-man. A small two-man.’
He looks concerned.
‘I mean, we’ll fit.’ I wince. ‘But it’s definitely no enormo-tent. More of a petite-tent.’
For inexplicable reasons, I pronounce this with a rather surreal French accent.
I suppose my recent revelation might explain this: generally, when I realise I really like somebody, all reason seems to escape me and I – more often than not – begin to spout nothing but complete fucking nonsense.
Luckily, he doesn’t seem to bat an eyelid.
He pushes his hands into his pockets, considering this for a second.
Damn, I really hoped that he might finally throw in the towel and give me some much-needed peace.
‘Are you okay with it?’ he asks, his brows wrinkled.
Good question. Am I??
‘Sure,’ I squeak.
He’s hesitant, but eventually nods in agreement.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’