Letting go isn’t something I do. I can’t remember the last time I had a night like this. Lola always says I work too much. Maybe she’s right.
The show goes on, a mix of originals and covers they manage to make sound like their own. The haze of alcohol, the injection of sound directly into my veins, the guitarist so perfect I’m convinced he was genetically created in a lab, and the current of energy running through the crowd make time irrelevant.
Even scowling eyeliner woman next to me is enjoying herself. At one point, she leans in and drunkenly slurs, “I thought you were full of shit, but he really can’t take his eyes off you.”
I’d love nothing more than to believe her, but since she’s swaying on her feet, I chalk it up to the power of suggestion. Regardless, I can’t take my eyes off him.
Before we know it, Thicker Than Water has exited the stage, returned for a one-song encore, and exited again. This time for good.
The house lights brighten overhead, and with it, the spell dissipates. Looking at Lola, I want to ask,What am I supposed to do with my life now?But instead, I say, “I need to pee,” because I have a bladder the size of a walnut.
She’s covered in a dewy sheen of sweat and fanning her face with her hand. “Meet me out front? I need to get some air and bum a smoke.”
“Sure,” I agree, and set off in search of a restroom.
“Closest one is in the back, down the hallway to the left of the bar,” a friendly security guard tells me when I ask.
Everyone is exiting toward the front of the building, and I’m swimming against the stream like one of those freakishly determined salmon. Coming down from the dopamine high of the past two hours, I’m in that in-between place where I either need to have another drink in an attempt to hold onto the fun that’s already a memory or go to sleep.
I probably just need to go to sleep.
Narrow hallway located, I snake through its twists and turns and am led to a near-empty women’s restroom with a vacant stall. Small miracles.
After taking care of business, I glance at my reflection in the mirror while I’m washing my hands. Unlike Lola, I’m not dewy. Dewy is feminine and ethereal. I’m sweating like I’ve been tending to an open pit BBQ for hours on a summer day. In the bowels of hell. I probably even smell like brisket. I wet a paper towel and mop away the worst of it, along with the mascara smudged raccoon-like under my eyes.
“Good night?” the woman who steps up to the sink next to mine asks. She has an accent I can’t place, British maybe? Thesmile in her eyes is knowing and friendly. She’s like walking sunshine with her long blonde hair and floral maxi dress.
I nod automatically, not wanting to be rude. “Yeah, it was.” And then realize how true that statement is.
“Was?” she questions, while applying lip gloss. “The night’s still young; it’s not over yet.”
Her accent is Australian and adorable, as is everything else about her. I watch her in the mirror, radiating lightheartedness like Lola, and wonder what it’s like to be the type of person whose night begins after everyone else’s ends.
Dropping the tube of gloss into her purse, she rubs her lips together and pats me on the shoulder, repeating, “It’s not over. Have fun, love.”
I smile back at this radiant woman whose words have reminded me that when I get home tonight, I’ll have to walk past boxes of Chance’s things, climb into an empty bed with his ghost, and likely troll his Instagram feed like a scorned, bitter ex. “How about you have enough fun for the both of us?”
She laughs unexpectedly loud, “Done,” and winks at me on her way out the door.
With a dull ache in my chest, I take comfort in the fact that I have no doubt she will. Taking my cell from the back pocket of my jeans as I quickly exit the restroom into the labyrinth that doubles as a hallway, I begin to tap out a text to Lola,
My bladder and I are friends again. I’m on my wa
And collide like a battering ram into a solid object.
“I’m so sorry,” I reflexively apologize.
At the same time, he says, “Shit, I’m sorry. Totally my fault.”
Eyes still downcast, I realize I’m gripping his arm with my free hand to brace myself through the rebound and regain mybalance. He’s doing the same: cell in one hand, my arm in the other. The difference being that while he’s steady on his feet, I’ve managed to rip his sweatshirt in my inelegant attempt to not fall on my ass.
“Oh my God, I’ve mangled your sleeve,” I say, horrified.
“The sleeve gave way, so you didn’t. That’s a fair trade; don’t worry about it. You okay?” the man I’ve assaulted asks with genuine concern.
His hushed, gravelly voice sends an honest-to-God, full-body lust shiver through me—which has never, in my life, happened. Releasing the soft, shredded cotton from my grip, I take a half step back. “Yeah. The dangers of texting while walking are real. Don’t try it at home, kids,” I joke, before apologizing sincerely again. “I’m so sorry.” When I finally lift my chin to ask, “Areyouokay?” a set of intense hazel eyes are there to meet mine. They’re a kaleidoscope of green and gold.
His head, covered in a black hood, nods, and he laughs quietly. “The dangers are real. I’m fine.” Goddamn, his smile is even cuter up close. I feel the pressure of his fingers lighten, and his thumb gently sweeps my inner wrist, not once but twice. It’s kind, not creepy. His eyes rove my face, assessing for any damage from the impact. “I’m really sorry,” he apologizes again.
