I watch in real time as his eyes light, spark with mine.
But again, I don’t make that move.
I freeze up because I can’t. And his eyes slip to my shoulder, the light fades, and I have to know I did that. I put that doubt there. Added to all of what he already has. And it feels like a sword in my gut.
A squeal comes out of nowhere. Amber’s got an arm around his neck, shouting, “You did it!” His hand’s on her hip, and he says something in her ear that I can’t hear. She stands on tiptoes and kisses his cheek, then turns to watch the show. Shashi, on her far side, gives me another once over before focusing on the band.
They’re both gorgeous, these women. Shashi, with her dark skin and black hair and intelligent eyes. Amber, short and pale and ginger, full of vitality. Amber’s dancing and Shashi’s singing and they’re forcing sips of beer on August. And he’s happy with them.
I had him down as so alone. He says he’s lonely. But I’m beginning to get a picture of his life not too long ago. This was it. Every night, probably. He must have been close with them. Then Jon kept the friends in the break. And everything else. The band, the fans, the nights out, the lot.
There’s a nervousness in August, directed at me. His shoulder’s always turned a little to me, like he doesn’t want to leave me out of any of it. But his hips are moving a bit. He wants to relax, and he wants to have fun. I’m not going to be the one to stop him.
“He’s pretty good,” I yell across, even if it’s like swallowing daggers of fire.
“Do you think so?” Before I can wrestle my mouth into confirmation, he says, “I hoped you’d think so. I wanted you to understand.”
If he wants to say more, it’s cut off by the effort of shouting it to me over the music. But he doesn’t need to. Jon’s incredible, and everyone here’s so into it. It’s all perms and black T-shirts, and it doesn’t matter if they’re not really Bon Jovi. To everyone here, they are. Every single person is playing make-believe, and they love it. If they have shitty jobs, or if they’re broke, or if they just broke up, or if they’re falling in love, or if they’ve lost someone they care about, it’s all on hold. It all stops for the hour or two Jon and his band hold them here in their hands. It’s a mass hallucination. It’s magic. It’s a time slip, but one of their own very deliberate creation.
And August was at the centre of it all. For years.
The jealousy is still there—these beautiful women, this gorgeous man on stage, and August, this star that seems to hold all the rest of them in balance, even when he doesn’t want to be that anymore.
When I want him to be mine. When I want August to be the thing that holds me in balance. When I wish I could be that for him too.
The song ends, and everyone applauds, then Jon starts to speak. The usual band talk about where they are and how great it is to be here. Then he stops, casts his eyes over the crowd. “August, where are you?”
Amber screams and jumps, flinging August’s hand up into the air.
Jon waits just long enough to get a clear view of him, gives the kind of smile that makes half the audience squeal, then nods. Instantly the band launches into ‘Bad Medicine,’ and it’s pandemonium.
August’s grinning from ear to ear, and as much as I hate to say it, it’s contagious. I love watching him, even if I’m doing it as discreetly as I can manage with him checking in on me constantly. Amber’s worked her way over in front of us, and she’s dancing against me too now, pouring her beer into my cup when it gets low. And she, and Shashi, and August are shouting the words together.
Their sheer joy takes the edge off the night. The illusion goes on, unbroken and fantastic.
Next is ‘Runaway,’ followed hard by ‘In These Arms.’ Somewhere in ‘Wanted Dead or Alive’ Amber and Shashi disappear, then they’re back shoving full beers at us, chugging their own, Amber’s arms tightly around Shashi’s neck as she screams out the words.
On and on it goes, one hit after another, and with every song, every sip, August relaxes more and more. He’s got a shimmer of sweat about his brow and neck, and his shirt has ridden up even higher, his jeans slinking a little lower.
Jon finishes his song and, dramatically, takes his studded jacket off. I don’t think you could even call it a shirt, the thin sliver of material that dips down between his pecs, showing off his arms, eliciting perhaps the loudest screams from the crowd so far.
He plays it off like he doesn’t even notice how much they all adore him, casually flipping his waist-length hair to the side to take up his guitar. He fronts up to the microphone, tight leatherpants shining in the light, then slides his hand effortlessly down a plucked string, breaking out the first note of ‘Blaze of Glory.’
My jealousy’s hit a new low. Because now it’s not the molten rage over this messy piece of shit on the floor begging for August’s attention. He’s a rock star. Truly. And he’s stupidly talented. And even if I could take a chance with August, I cannot compete with that.
It’s a crushing disappointment. Shame, even. I don’t think August would have had time to register it had I shown it, especially when, with that first note, he bounces, grabs my arm, and says, “It’s my favourite!”
His joy is ecstatic, pure, and he’s insatiably beautiful. I can’t get enough of him. I can’t get enough of him dancing against me. I can’t get enough of him throwing his head back and singing. I can’t get enough of every inch of him. And Jon and all my jealousy fades into the background, and it’s August, like he’s the one on stage.
Somewhere towards the end of the set, new drinks arrive, and it’s clear Amber’s going out of her way to make sure I’m having a good time. She obviously loves August, and even if Shashi’s not too sure about me, she’s been busy enough kissing Amber between songs that I certainly don’t hold anything against her.
They close the set with ‘Someday I’ll be Saturday Night,’ and my stomach scrunches when they say goodnight.
Amber’s up close, on her tiptoes. “Are you coming backstage?”
August answers for me. “We’ll watch it from here.”
“But the encore’s the best bit,” she argues.
