He’s thinking. I can tell because he gets that focused, calculated look. He turns and cranes his neck until he spots a group of men two rows back. They are big, cheerful, and clearly several beers in on a great day.
He wades toward them. I follow because the alternative is being lost in a sea of shoulders.
I watch him say something to the biggest one. The man’s face goes from neutral to absolutely delighted. Two of his friends turn around and give me the same expression.
Griffin comes back and pats his shoulders. “Get on.”
My mouth falls open. “What?”
“Up. On my shoulders.” He crouches slightly. “You can’t see. This is the solution.”
“Griffin, I’m wearing a dress.”
“Don’t care. They don’t care.” He nods toward the men, who are all grinning. “Nobody cares. Get on.”
“If I fall—”
“You won’t fall.”
I look at the stage, then at his shoulders, and finally at my outfit.
Oh, for the love of God.
With a squeal and very little dignity, I scramble onto his shoulders, gripping his hair and cackling like a maniac, boosted by the two huge men.
The second I’m up above the crowd, the beat drops again, and I scream into the sky, arms raised, heart pounding, hair soaked in sweat.
Griffin’s hands are on my thighs the whole time, anchoring me in place. He doesn’t even flinch under my weight. He just stands there in the thick of it while I lose my mind to the music.
I belt out the lyrics. The whole crowd is vibrating, surging, screaming, and bouncing with every beat.
Halfway through the second verse, I lean down, grab Griffin’s face, and press a kiss to the center of his forehead.
He blinks up at me.
For a split second, the world stills.
His mouth parts like I knocked the wind out of him. His eyes are wide with that look that says,What the hell are you doing to me?
And maybe I don’t know.
But I’m alive, I’m loud, and I’m laughing.
I know he sees it, all of it, because for once, I’m not hiding.
∞∞∞
“Hey, violin girl! Over here!”
I stop mid-stride. Griffin stops with me, his shadow falling over mine.
I turn and spot the group of hippies who bore witness to the absolute train wreck of my emotional state last night.
And with them?
The psychic.
They’re grouped in a loose circle near a cluster of tents, with instruments resting against their knees. A thin curl of smoke rises above them, smelling like damp earth.
