“I think everyone feels like that a little. At least sometimes.”
She nods, and immediately, I feel like shit. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to play it off like it’s no big deal.”
She relaxes, giving me a soft smile. “I don’t understand how I feel half the time. Well, that’s not true. I do. I know how I feel. I think I just get stuck between expressing how I feel and how I think I should feel. I mean, I was born a girl, right? So I should feel like a girl all the time. Shouldn’t I?”
“Should you? Says who?”
She presses her mouth flat. “What does feel like a girl even mean, anyway?”
“Exactly.”
She blows out a breath, releasing an ugh sound with it. I want to take her hand, want to tell her I love her. That’s true no matter how she feels, regardless of any Tess or Alex.
So I do. I grab her fingers fluttering near the defrost button—?even though it’s sunny and nearly seventy degrees outside—?and lace us together.
“I love you. You know that, right?” I try to keep emotion out of the words—?or at least, any kind of longing?—forcing strength and steadiness into my voice.
She nods and squeezes my hand, keeping her eyes on the road, and she doesn’t let go until we pull into the 3rd and Lindsley parking lot.
“Mara,” she says, cutting the ignition. Our hands fall away. “About last night. I didn’t mean for Tess—”
“It’s okay,” I say, unbuckling and opening the car door. If we talk about Tess, we talk about Alex, and I don’t want to talk about either.
“But—”
“You’ve got an audience to enrapture.” I push her shoulder toward her own car door. “So let’s go enrapture them.”
She smiles, but it quickly wobbles, her nerves leaking into her expression.
“Enrapture,” I say again, enunciating every syllable and tilting my head so she has to meet my eyes.
Nodding, she inhales a huge breath and takes my hand, squeezing it one more time.
3rd and Lindsley is a dark bar and grill with black floors and servers with lots of piercings and tattoos. The second level has a bunch of tables and chairs, people eating dinner and slurping beer. The first level is where all the action is: a huge stage filled with a drum kit, several microphone stands, and a ton of wires. In front of the stage, a crowd waits for the show to start.
I’m jostled here and there as Charlie and I walk down the side of the room, following a guy named Grant, who has an affinity for the word dude, so Charlie can get a sound check. How they do that with a crowd full of people, I have no idea.
“The sound guy uses headphones!” Charlie yells behind her when I voice the question out loud.
“Okay, dude,” Grant says, stopping at a door that leads backstage. His closely buzzed head glints under the stage lights. “Head on back and drop off your stuff, then set up your guitar on stage. You’re on third, so you can hang out backstage until your turn. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” Charlie says vaguely, eyes wide as she takes in the scene.
“Everything all right?” I ask. Or rather, yell.
She nods, swallowing hard.
“Can I come with her?” I ask Grant.
“Sorry, dude. Musicians only. We’ll take care of her. You can grab a shady spot out in the audience.”
“You’ll be okay by yourself?” Charlie asks as Grant gestures toward the door.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, but I already feel pressed, all the bodies behind me like walls shrinking inward. “Good luck. You’ll be great, I know it.”
She pushes her free hand against her stomach, her other hand tight on her guitar case. “Try to get a spot close, okay? So I can see you?”
“Of course.”
