He responds with a GIF of a pathetic looking dog waiting at a closed door and I sigh. He has a way of sneaking right into my heart, even when we’re having an innocent conversation. I need to hide my phone from myself or I will be the worst date ever, rereading old messages from Anders while drool runs down my chin. I silence my phone, stuffing it in the bottom of my purse where I can’t sneak peeks at the screen.
There.
Now I only have to work on staying mentally present, because this man is totally ruining my concentration.
“Are you warm enough?” Eric leans in to shout into my ear, maybe for the tenth time. It’s hard to be heard over the music and noisy crowd around us, so he keeps ducking in and talking right intomy ear. He’s been doing this all night. If the concert doesn’t make my ears ring, Eric is determined to finish the job.
“Yep,” I shout, pulling my blanket tighter in front of me and focusing on the band. They’re doing a decent cover of my favorite Fleetwood Mac song and I’m into it. They’re good. My date, though? He’s like a golden retriever and it’s like I have a forgotten hot dog in my pocket or something.
I don’t have any hot dogs for you, Eric.
He throws an arm around the back of my seat. “Are you thirsty? I can get drinks,” he says, way too close. His tan, hairy leg brushes against mine. It’s not a warm night. I don’t know how he isn’t shivering in those cargo shorts. This amphitheater is at the base of a canyon and once the sun goes down behind the red cliffs it’s downright chilly. Most concert goers are wrapped in blankets or are dressed in hoodies and hats, even on this spring day. Eric’s shorts and t-shirt make me question his sanity. And I wish he’d stay out of my bubble for a minute so I can enjoy the music in peace. This gives me an idea.
“A drink would be great,” I call over the band, inching away nonchalantly.
“What do you want? Pepsi?”
He shouts the hard P in Pepsi and I swear it blows the hair back from my face. His breath smells like he hit Taco Bell on his way to my house. And who drinks Pepsi?
“A Coke would be great.”
“Do you want diet?”
I want to listen to this song, man.“Diet is great! Thank you!” I call over the band with a smile. He is a nice guy, just oblivious.
To my great relief, Eric makes his way down our row, apologizing with a loud, “Pardon!” in the face every person he passes. One guy winces. Those poor souls.
But now the seat next to mine is vacant and luxuriously silent. I’m loving the feel of the cool night air on my face and the music echoing off the canyon walls around me. I lean back and snuggle deeper into my crocheted blanket. I love this afghan. Its zigzagging multi-colored rows always make me happy. My mom made it for me after my idiot boyfriend broke up with me in high school. She said the crazy colors are supposed to remind me of Joseph from the Old Testament whose brothers betrayed him and sold him into slavery. His life got really difficult before it turned out amazing. So will mine. My mother is good at gifts with meaning and this one brings me pure joy.
I’m so focused on the colorful pattern of the blanket that I barely register when Eric returns to his seat. That was way too fast. Since when are concession stand lines short? Maybe if I keep my attention on the stage he’ll sense that I want to enjoy the concert in peace
“Having fun?” a deep voice mutters from Eric’s seat, though it’s certainlynotEric.
I spin to face the man beside me. His poor disguise is laughable. A baseball hat barely hides his wavy hair and the thick-framed glasses he must've stolen from Oliver do nothing to distract from his stormy ocean eyes.
“What the heck are you doing here, grumpy butt?” I nudge Anders’ shoulder with mine.
“Listening to some Fleetwood Mac classics,” he almost snarls, slinging his arm around the back of my chair.
I grab his hand and drag his heavy arm over my head and back to his arm rest. “Eric will be back any minute,boss.” I emphasize the word. “And speaking of. Where is Imogen?”
He has the nerve to shush me. “I’m trying to listen.”
“I know you didn’t leave her with Oliver.” Suddenly I’m less interested in the band and more worried about Imogen and the man beside me.
“She’s fine. I found a babysitter.” He slouches into Eric’s seat.
“Who?”
He completely ignores my question. “Having fun on your date?”
“You don’t have to make that face.”
“What face did I make?” He’s trying way too hard to sound innocent.
I’m not buying it. “The face that says you know I’mnothaving fun and you only came over here to rub it in.” I imitate his smirk the best I can, making it extra dopey because he’s being a pain and he needs to be brought down a peg. “Like that.”
He chuckles. “Well, are you having fun?”
