Then, before she knows it, he’s steppin’ away from the mic, turning for the curtain, leavin' before the last fuckin’ beat drops, guitar strap hangin’, no goodbye, no nothin’. He vanishes behind the curtain, into the dark.
But she ain’t panicked. She knows where he’s goin’.
He always dips when he doesn’t want the others crowdin’ in.
He’s not runnin’ from her.
He’s runnin’ from every other girl he can’t escape.
He couldn’t possibly be runnin’ from her.
Not after the second his eyes said she was everything he’d been wantin’.
She knows it hit him too—every girl before her was leadin’ to Talia.
Shefeltit. All the way down to her fuckin’ acrylics.
That ain’t panic. That’s pull.
She slips past two girls by the stage, both talkin’ loud—“He’s so hot. Wait ‘til he comes back out. I’m gonna ask for his number this time,” one of them says.
“His number? Please. That’s Andrew Harding. I’m after somethin’ else,” says the other.
Sure, babe. You do that.
Idiots don’t even know he’s already leavin'.
Talia hooks left while the rest of the crowd herds right. Her boots hit the side ramp the second she spots the emergency exit. It’s swingin’ shut, as if he just slipped through it. She keeps her head down, hands shoved in the pockets of her leather, walkin’ casual like she’s just steppin’ out for a smoke. Then she catches the door with one hand, following him out into the night.
She stays back by about twenty feet, far enough away not to spook him, but at a distance she can still see the little dip of his shoulders when he walks.
She smiles ‘cause he always walks in that way—hand in his pocket, head tipped down, a beat in his bones. It doesn’t matter if it’s midnight or ten a.m., every step’s got the Harding strut—full Jersey anddon’t-fuck-with-merhythm.
He’s headed to the garage.
She hangs back in the shadows, boots silent, heart ain’t.
She knows he only parks there when he’s runnin’ late. Only in the street if there’s time. And when he doesn’t have the car, he’s on the 123 back to Union City, probably sittin’ by the window, music in, the night slick on his neck, head to the glass like he’s in one of those sad-boy music videos.
He never brings anyone home, never lettin’ anyone see where he eats, where he sleeps—where he dreams. That part of him’s locked up tight.
She knows his bed’s empty for a reason.
He’s been savin’ it forher.
‘Til he can whisperTaliainto the sheets.
They make it to the fifth floor of the parking garage—second from the top. Only five cars left, but she knows which one belongs to him. It’s parked third spot from the wall. A shitty red Civic, beat to hell, hood blacked out.
His boots echo loud across concrete while hers stay quiet.
She knows he don’t gotta see her for him to know she’s there.
That’s the kinda instinctual magic they got. The reason he doesn’t glance back when he pops the trunk and sets the guitar case down. Because hewantsthis. He’s letting her come to him.Finally.
She walks up slow.
Heart bangin’ in her throat.
