The soupof mid-day air coats me as I step out of my ride in front of The Rusty Spike. According to what I could find online during the drive, the bar has been a local mainstay since the sixties and derived its name from the fact that it’s an old, out of commission train depot. The tracks remain out back, grown over with weeds. The spikes beneath, truly rusty, in this oppressive humidity.
After letting everyone know I made it here in one piece and checking in with the manager and stowing my backpack in his office, I ask permission to roam the grounds and take photos outside while I wait. I can’t start inside until Hannah gets releases signed by everyone agreeing to potential inclusion in the film.
It’s surprisingly quiet for the outskirts of downtown, and I quickly lose myself in the resilience. This is an area refusing to submit to gentrification taking place a few blocks away or the decomposing effects of time on architecture. It’s well-worn, but proud. A photographer’s dream.
It’s not until I hear my name shouted that I realize how lost in my surroundings and my own head I’ve been. There’s a blonde standing next to the building waving her arms overhead to get my attention. Hannah.
As I approach her, she’s as adorable as I remember, but somehow tinier. Grinning, she hugs me, and at 5’ 10” I tower over her.
I must be under the spell of new surroundings and lingering Xanax, because, even sweaty, I surprise myself and hug her back. Unless your name is Lola or Benji and I share DNA with you, I’m not a hugger.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says warmly. “You ready to get to work?”
I nod, “And out of this hellish, wet heat,” and follow her like she’s the Pied Piper.
She’s magnetic like Lola. Lola’s superpower is confidence and not taking herself too seriously. I think Hannah’s might be friendliness.
I’m searching my pocket for a hair tie to tame the frizz that’s multiplying by the minute as we walk through the front door and am not prepared when Hannah says, “Guys, this is Sophie.”
Lifting my chin, my eyes lock with Ever’s. They’re every bit as intense as I remember.
And my nipplespop. It’s an instantaneous, cartoon-like reaction. The only thing missing is a champagne cork sound effect. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. I usually skip a bra because a: They’re medieval torture devices, and b: I’m not a D cup like Lola so lift, support, etc. has always seemed pointless. I can’t deny that a little coverage would be nice to muzzle them right now, though.
The man nearest me is the first to take my hand when I offer it up to the general space in front of me. I’m so bad at this.
“Hi, Sophie. I’m Ben. We’re all happy you’re going on this journey with us.” When I say Ben talks slow, I mean sloth-like slow. But paired with a Texan drawl, it’s oddly engaging.
I can’t help but smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Ben.”
He squeezes my hand gently with both hands. “You’re shakin’ like a leaf, darlin’. You nervous?”
Dammit, he noticed. “Honestly?”
He nods. “Of course. We’re all friends here.”
“I’m shitting myself.”Way to give them all of you right off the bat, Soph.
But they laugh.
Ben’s hand is replaced by Jesse’s. He’s every bit as big as he looked on stage. I don’t have small hands, but his dwarfs mine. “Hi, Sophie. We talked on the phone. I’m Jess.” I wonder how much caffeine is running through this guy’s system because he ishumming.
“Hi, Jess.” And then the unthinkable happens and I giggle.I fucking giggle.I know it’s nerves getting the best of me, but I’m flushing the other pill in my pocket the first chance I get. I recover by repeating what I told Ben. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Then Ever steps forward, and I swear my nipples try to bridge the gap and touch him.Jesus, calm down, girls.
“And we meet again.” The dimple settles into his cheek.
Holy shit, he remembers me?My mouth is dry, unlike other areas of my body because…that voice. I clear my throat before I manage, “Hi, again.”
Hannah looks from me to Ever and back again, and asks skeptically, “You know each other?”
Ever’s smile tips down on one side, like he’s amused. “We ran into each other not long ago.”
“Badumbum.” When I say it, imaginary sticks in my hands tap drums, then a cymbal crash.Stop, Sophie. Just stop. I lookat Hannah. “You and I actually talked that same night too. It was after their show in Denver.”
Her brow furrows, and I can see she’s sifting through her memory bank as her cheeks begin to blush.
Anxious to relieve her unnecessary embarrassment, I add, “It was totally in passing while we were washing hands in the restroom. I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”
