I’m about a half hour late, well after the music’s started, when I head inside the concert hall. Tiny spotlights poke holes through the otherwise dark and crowded room, now and then lighting up a face. I keep my eyes peeled. Everyone’s focus is on the stage where Soul Biter is jamming out. I keep seeing cowboy hats and baseball caps, but every face beneath them is either completely shadowed or not familiar at all. It’s standing room only in here, just like at the Horseshoe, so I spend the entirety of the opening act wiggling through the crowds.
When the last song finishes and the lights come on, it isn’thisfamiliar face I nearly crash into.
“What the actual fuck?!” she screams, recognizing me. “I can’t believe you’re here! My precious savior! Dude, you’re all wet.”
Her black hair is twisted atop her head, held there by a set of purple chopsticks, neon green tips flared out. I thought I’d never see her again. Now isn’t the best time for a reunion. “Sorry, I’m—”
“I still hate Chase Holt,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure one of the guitarists of Soul Biter—Did you see it? The opening act? I’m inlove—I’m pretty sure he eye-fucks me the whole show. It started at the Horseshoe, that show you got me into, the one with the scam artist scalper fucker,” she reminds me—I didn’t need the reminder—and then bites her lip and shakes her head. “I owe you so much. I owe you so much and I don’t even know you.”
“I’m TJ,” I tell her, then realize I forgot to say Timothy.
“Miranda, I’m fucking Miranda, it issogreat to actually meet you officially.” Then she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a hug that literally squishes my soul out of my body. “Wait, is that a Chase Holt hat you’re wearing? I didn’t think you were a big fan. Anyway, can I buy you a shirt or something? I never got to say thanks! The Soul Biter ones aresobad-ass. I have money now.”
I glance off to the left, then the right, watching as everyone shuffles around forming their social clusters, several leaving for the restrooms or to maybe buy something from the table outside. Even with the room lit up, I don’t see Austin. Did he even come?
“Whatever, I’m getting you a fucking shirt,” she decides with a happy giggle, hooking her arm into mine and dragging me off.
My foot’s bouncing all over the place in theoneline they have open. It’s long and slow. Guess they’re short-staffed, only the twonot-lovebirds working. Miranda, whose presence I remind myself to appreciate since she’s helping me feel less alone tonight, won’t stop talking about Skeleton, the literal and actual name of the hot guitarist in Soul Biter. I’m sure it’s a stage name, but she insists it’s not. “Look, I know you’re probably here for Chase …” she says.
“Actually, I’m here for someone else,” I tell her.
“… but I’m gonna get you a Soul Biter shirt anyway. Oh, and maybe a CD, too. Do you collect CDs? Or do you prefer vinyl? You need to get your head fucked now and then, y’know what I mean? I recommend their second album. Hits way harder than the first.”
My eyes are all over the lobby, on the hunt for someone I’m becoming increasingly sure I won’t find.
What am I doing, really? What am I expecting?
The more I stand in this line and think about it—and witness the vendors sneaking glances at each other while they’reworking, appearing increasingly frustrated and horny for each other—the more I worry I have this whole thing wrong.
Maybe I messed Austin up in the hotel room. Drove him crazy. I’m sure he went all the way back home, abandoning the rest of the shows because of me. I went in too deep, too fast, and laid it on so thick, he could barely breathe by the time I was through.
How selfish of me. To expect him to become everything that’s missing in my life. To expect him to save me from myself.
I think he wrote the wrong message in that hotel note. I don’t deserve more. Ineedmore. As in: a damned therapist. And a few more banana plushies to squeeze at night.
It’s hitting me now, the delayed tears, just like in the back of the Horseshoe, except it isn’t betrayal I’m feeling. It’s shame.
He doesn’t owe me anything. Least of all an explanation.
I should never have driven the first mile out of Spruce.
I don’t deserve a shirt.
The next second, one is being slapped against my chest. “Yeah I know, it’s two sizes too big, but that’s how you wear them,” says Miranda with authority, “and it’s gonna looksohot on you.”
To be fair, the shirtispretty cool, even if it’s completely off-brand for me. Fiery eyes and snake tongues slithering out of skulls is going to struggle finding a spot in my closet. “Miranda … these are so overpriced. Please, let me pay for—”
“Nope. It’s my treat. Happy Birthday-Christmas-Valentine’s. I would put it on now so you can be dry. Also ‘cause it’s hot. Like I said. Chase should be on any second. I had a perfect spot near the side. We can go in and, like, hate-listen to him together.”
I’m not sure I’m even capable of hate-listening at this point. “I really appreciate this, uh, shirt. But …” Now I’m about to feel even worse than I already do. “I think I need to, um … go.”
“To take a shit?” she asks helpfully.
“To leave.” I meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
For a moment, I see genuine concern in her eyes. With all the cussing and rage she always exhibits, it’s actually stunning to see something sweeter in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she gently asks.
I nod quickly, ready to let out my automatic answer of yes.