“I thought—I thought I was whispering,” I squeak.
“You weren’t,” Griffin says. “You really, really weren’t.” He winks at me. “But thanks, Pipes.”
I make a strangled noise.
We keep dancing, mostly because stopping would mean making eye contact with the witnesses, and I’m not prepared for that.
After a few more songs, Griffin’s channel switches to something slower. I poke the button on my headset until I land on the same track.
The lights shift to a warm amber as the crowd begins to sway.
Without thinking, I drift closer.
Without thinking, he lets me.
My hands slide up to his shoulders while his hands settle on my waist, big and warm and steady, even though we’re both embarrassingly drunk.
We sway.
We lean.
We orbit around each other like one of us is going to fall, but it feels like the right kind of falling.
“Griff,” I whisper, and thank God, this time I actually whisper.
He looks down at me with a soft, slightly tipsy smile that makes my heart do a backflip. “Yeah?”
“I think this might be the best night of my entire life.”
His thumb moves against my hip. “Good. I’m glad.”
Then, some guy three feet behind us yells, “Go on, hip-man! Give the people what they want!”
Griffin’s forehead drops onto my shoulder.
I cackle so hard I nearly take us both down.
Festival magic: achieved.
Thirty-Eight
Griffin
I’m waiting for Piper outside the portable toilets for the sixth time today.
This is my life now. I’ve made peace with it.
The festival is in full swing around me. Bass from the main stage rattles the ground. The air smells like woodsmoke, food trucks, and whatever mysterious scent every festival eventually develops.
It’s warm, and the stars are doing their best above the light pollution.
I’m standing here with my hands in my pockets, feeling reasonably good about the evening, when Piper appears.
Something is wrong with her face. Her eyes are rimmed red. Has she been crying?
“Griffin,” she gasps.
“What happened?”
