“Oh yeah?” asked Dalton
“Uh huh,” said Cooper. “It’s nice to spend time with a band who still appreciates the little stuff. Most of the people I tour with are either completely jaded or constantly intoxicated. It’s rare to hear anyone talking about the majesty of American cities.”
“So, you’re saying…you like us?” Dalton teased.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” said Cooper, raising his eyebrows.
What an asshole.
“Oh, drop the act,” I said. “You love us.”
Cooper rolled his eyes. “Only because I’m contractually obligated to,” he said. “You’re an absolute pain in my ass, Levi. And I’m pretty sure I told you to be on vocal rest after your mysterious sore throat the other night, so shut up.”
Called the fuck out. I wondered if he had any idea why my voice had been so wrecked.
“I told you, I’m fine,” I muttered.
“Sorry, I can’t hear you. You’re going to have to drink some tea and stay silent for the rest of the day so you don’t burn out before the show tomorrow night,” said Cooper loftily.
I flipped him off, which he totally deserved.
“Hey, check this out,” said Dalton, waving her phone at me. I leaned forward to see what she was looking at. It appeared to be some kind of indie music website, and I raised an eyebrow at her.
“You know I don’t keep up with that stuff,” I said dismissively. My hatred of music blogs was deep and well-documented.
“Well, you want to read this,” Dalton insisted, shoving her phone into my hand. I sighed but began to read aloud.
The Ones to Watch: Serotonin Sindrome
By Timothée Hammer
This week I’m shaking things up a bit. I know that when it comes to The Ones to Watch you all expect a solid mix of singer-songwriter, folk, and bluegrass. Those are my usual jams, and I don’t tend to deviate much. But last night a friend had an extra ticket to a show in Concord, and I wasn’t about to pass up a free concert. So I went along, feeling dubious about a pop-punk trio with the name Serotonin Sindrome. By the time I left, I was a convert. These guys are a rush of nostalgia…think all the best bits of the bands you loved in the early 2000s, but with a fresh edge.
Their lead singer, Levi Montgomery, has an absolutely magnetic stage presence. From the first minute he took to the stage, I was engrossed. He commands the crowd with an ease that is usually born of years of performances but given his age—he’s just 21 years old—I have to assume that the skill comes to him naturally. Of course, it wasn’t just him…bass prodigy Leila Dalton and drummer extraordinaire Eddie St. Germain chimed in throughout the night as well. The three of them have a really fun vibe going, and the crowd was extremely responsive to their banter.
A bit of research brought up their discography—two independently produced albums and a handful of covers—as well as their tour lineup. If you live in a state that borders the ocean, you’re in luck! This dynamic trio is going to be hitting most major cities along the East Coast, heading westward across the Southern US, and then wrapping up with a West Coast leg. I highly recommend giving them a shot. If you’re anything like me, they’ll have you digging through the boxes in your attic, looking for your pop-punk CDs of yesteryear. My poor fiancé is going to have to put up with My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy for the next couple of weeks…or until I find the next ones to watch.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s…really cool actually.”
Cooper was grinning. He looked so fucking proud, and it made me feel surprisingly emotional. I guess a big part of me craved Cooper’s approval, loathe though I was to admit it.
“That’s exactly the type of stuff we want to see at this point. Pretty soon it will get the attention of bigger publications and then you’ll start getting asked to do interviews,” he was saying.
“Fuck yeah,” said Dalton.
I made my way to the front of the bus, still holding Dalton’s phone. When I reached Porter, I propped myself against the back of his seat and said, “Did you hear what I was just reading?”
Porter glanced into the rearview mirror, catching my eyes in the reflection.
Holy fucking shit. Having his eyes on me after everything we had done in Concord made me want to throw myself at him, consequences be damned. I managed to restrain myself, seeing as he was driving, so I definitely deserved some kind of medal for superior restraint or whatever.
“I did hear you,” he said with a smile. “That’s great news, man.”
“I’m, like, walking on sunshine, dude. This is…man, like, really nuts. God.”
I glanced back toward Dalton and Cooper, who were chatting animatedly and completely ignoring the two of us. They had no idea that I was barely holding myself back from jumping Porter’s bones right then and there.
“You gonna keep distracting me for a while?” Porter teased.
Fuck, I loved being teased by him.
“I mean…maybe?” I said, biting down on the stupid, love-struck grin that was threatening to take over my face.
“In that case, can you make yourself useful?” Porter asked.
“Sure thing,” I said. “What do you need?”
“I think we’ll be getting close to the hotel in the next ten minutes or so, but my phone keeps glitching and the GPS isn’t updating. Can you look it up on your phone?” Porter turned his head for just a second to look right at me.
Be still my fucking heart.
My stomach dropped as if I were on a rollercoaster.
“Yep, I can…I can do that,” I said, pulling up directions on Dalton’s phone. “Are you enjoying driving us around? You can be honest.”
Porter laughed, deep and rich and joyful, before he replied.
“I actually am. I wasn’t sure what to expect when you said pop-punk band, but you all are very…chill, I suppose. There hasn’t been any of the drama I was concerned about.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, “drama isn’t really our thing. Unless someone steals Dalton’s weird gross banana ice cream…then heads will roll.”
“Ah shit, was that Dalton’s?” Porter asked, completely deadpan.
What an absolute twerp. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hug him or sass him right back.
“You joke, but that would possibly lead to your immediate termination. She’s really serious about dessert,” I said.
“We have that in common, actually,” said Porter.
“Really?” I asked, intrigued. “How so?”
“Well,” began Porter, “I’m not generally territorial about my food. I kind of can’t afford to be with my roommates—Leo steals everything he can get his hands on in the kitchen—but when it comes to chocolate, I lay down the law.”
“God, that sounds serious,” I said, hanging on his every goddamn word.
“It really is,” said Porter. “Finley is the only one who actually gives a shit about who eats what…he literally labels every single thing he buys at the grocery store. But generally speaking we’re all pretty laissez-faire about it. So this one time I had bought this super expensive chocolate—I’m talking bourbon-infused, local, and hand-crafted—and I come home from a shift at the bar and it’s just completely gone. Not like someone had taken a nibble, but like it’s vanished. So I look in the trash and sure enough, there’s the packaging. I go into the backyard where everyone is hanging out and start demanding that whoever took my chocolate replace it. Everyone is looking at me like I’m insane, except for Finley who is like, this happens to me all the time and Leo who looked like he was dying trying to keep from laughing.”
“Oh no,” said Levi.
“And then Leo just loses it, cracks up completely, and is like, I’ll replace it man, just tell me how much it was and I was like, bro, that cost twenty bucks and the look on his face—I swear to god I have never seen anyone look so horrified,” said Porter.
“And ever since then you’ve been covetous of your chocolate?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” said Porter
.
“I’ll make sure to keep that in mind,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody was paying any attention to us before reaching down to stroke Porter’s bicep. He shivered visibly. Fuck me. “You cold?”
“Nope,” said Porter, his eyes trained on the road ahead of him. He looked like he was concentrating super hard.
“Because I could warm you up when we get there,” I murmured just loudly enough for him to hear me. Then I added in my normal tone of voice, “Which should be in a few minutes. You were right, we’re almost there.”
I didn’t spend much time at the hotel once we got there. I just flung my bag onto one of the beds in the room I was sharing with Dalton and Eddie, and immediately wandered outside. I somehow managed to wrangle Porter into meeting me in the parking lot—by which I mean I sent a string of lewd text messages—and from there we set off for the nearest T station.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Porter asked me, his tone dubious.
“Of course I do,” I lied. I glanced at the nearest transit map and pointed vaguely toward the downtown area. “I’m taking you to see the USS Constitution.”
“A boat?” Porter said flatly.
“A ship, you imbecile,” I shot back. “God, it’s like you’ve never took social studies.”
“I’ll have you know that I was the reigning champion of my elementary school’s annual social studies quiz competition three years running,” said Porter.
It was pretty fucking cute how proud he was about that.
“Well then you can play tour guide when we get there. Come on,” I said, grinning and pulling him toward an arriving train.
The T took us right the hell through the heart of Boston, and I reveled in getting to watch Porter experience the city for the first time. It was like doors were unlocking between the two of us or something, Porter opening up as we rode together. He pointed excitedly at everything from stately brick row houses to the Bunker Hill monument. I was completely distracted by Porter’s infectious excitement, and before long we were watching the city dissolve into neighborhoods.
Oops.
“We’ve got to be almost there, right?” said Porter.
I shrugged, feeling sheepish. “If I’m being honest, it’s entirely possible that we missed our stop.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously,” I said. “Here, let’s just get off and see where we are.”
“Are you sure? Doesn’t it make more sense to stay onboard?” asked Porter.
“Oh, come on. Let’s have an adventure,” I urged, tugging at his sleeve and leading him off the train. Gorgeous, million-dollar homes were goddamn everywhere around us.
“Uh, I think we’re in the suburbs,” said Porter, glancing around nervously. “Do you even know how to get us back to the hotel from here?”
I grinned, oddly charmed by his nerves. I think it was because he was being vulnerable with me, and that was pretty much the thing I wanted most in the world.
“That’s the thing about the T…it runs both ways. All we have to do is hop on a train going in the other direction.” I reached out and took Porter’s hand, my heart pounding as Porter linked his fingers through mine. Score. “And besides, we’re only a bit outside of the downtown area. This is hardly suburban.”
“Well excuse me for not knowing the difference,” said Porter, squeezing my hand and shooting me a fond look.
“You’re excused,” I said primly. Just then, an absolutely scrumptious smell hit my nose and I added, “Do you smell that?”
“God, yeah, what is that?” asked Porter.
It was a lovely mélange of spices; the kind of thing I’d grown up eating at home. My mom, always bold with her cooking, had mastered classic dishes from all around the world. I turned my head and saw a small sign near the top of a staircase that led into the basement of one of the handsome townhouses.
“Oh man, it’s Ethiopian food,” I said excitedly, pulling Porter toward the stairs.
Porter raised an eyebrow, looking suspicious. “Do you really trust a restaurant that’s located in a basement? We definitely can’t afford to get food poisoning this early on in the tour.”
I laughed, dragging Porter along.
“Real estate is crazy expensive in Boston,” I explained. “It’s really common for restaurants to take basement space. I promise this isn’t sketchy at all. Have you ever even had Ethiopian food?”
Porter shook his head. “I’m not exactly an adventurous eater.”
Oh boy…
“Well that is about to change,” I told him. “You’re in for the treat of a lifetime. C’mon.”
We descended the stairs, which spit us out into a dimly lit restaurant. It was mostly empty—not surprising given it was still the late morning and the lunch rush was likely about an hour away. There were squat, woven straw tables scattered around the room—mesobs, I remembered. Each mesob was surrounded by plush cushions situated on the floor.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” said Porter, his voice awed.
“The food is going to change your life,” I assured him.
Okay, okay, I might have been laying it on a bit thick. But it’s Ethiopian food. You’re not gonna find anything more delicious, in my humble opinion.
A woman with long dark hair and a friendly smile emerged from a pair of swinging doors that must have led to the kitchen.
“Hi there,” she said, her voice rich and accented. “You can take a seat wherever you would like.”
We selected the table furthest from the stairs and I plopped down onto one of the cushions. Porter took his time about getting onto the ground, seemingly self-conscious as he lowered himself. It got me all hot and bothered to see how nervous he was…made me feel like we were on a real date or something. Once he was sitting cross-legged on his cushion, he turned to the server.
“I’ve never, uh…this is my first time,” he said bashfully.
“No worries,” she said with a smile. “I’d recommend getting a sampler plate since you aren’t familiar with the food. That way you can try a whole bunch of things.” She handed us a couple of menus and retreated back into the kitchen.
I regarded the menu with relish. “I love pretty much everything they serve here,” I told Porter.
“I’ve never…wow, they serve lamb here. And goat.” Porter looked up, a small smile returning to his face. “This is pretty cool.”
“I know, right?” I said. “I think she’s right about getting a sampler. There are so many amazing dishes and I don’t want you to miss out on any of them.”
We settled on a variety of plates, and the server brought us warm, damp washcloths.
“For your hands,” she told Porter when he looked at her blankly. Fondness bubbled up inside me.
The food, when it arrived, was served on several thick pieces of injera—a spongey, sour bread pebbled with air bubbles.
Atop the injera were thick meat stews, mashed yellow peas, red lentils simmered in wine, oily wilted collard greens…each dish was spiced to perfection, searing my taste buds as I scooped them up. Even more tantalizing than the food itself was the front row seat that I had to Porter’s first experience with Ethiopian food.
His expression shifted from suspicious to delighted as he tried a bit of everything. Despite his assertion that he wasn’t adventurous when it came to food, he didn’t skip over anything. Again and again, he turned to look at me, his eyes bright and a smile playing across his lips. We finished off everything super quickly—I guess we were pretty famished from the drive—and after thanking the server and tipping her generously, we rose and ascended the stairs, spilling out into a bright Boston afternoon.
“That was incredible,” Porter said. “Thank you so much.”
“What are you thanking me for?” I asked. “I certainly didn’t cook that meal.”
“Yeah, but you convinced me to give it a try,” said Porter. “I never would have just waltzed into a basement restaurant on my
own and tried a bunch of things I had never even heard of.”
God, he made me feel good.
“Maybe next time you will, yeah?”
“As long as you’re with me,” Porter said.
What a grade-A flirt. I dunno if he meant to or not, but he was really turning on the charm.
We stared at each other for a moment, eyes locked, and I felt a shudder run through my entire body. It was like my short-ass body couldn’t contain the joy that I was feeling, the magic of the moment. I took a deep breath and slid my hands up Porter’s chest, looping them around his neck. His arms instinctively came around my waist, pulling me close. We broke eye contact, falling into a tight embrace.
Not to be melodramatic or anything, but I’m pretty sure I could’ve died happy in that moment.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I muttered against Porter’s chest.
“Me too,” he said, pulling me even tighter against him.
7
Porter
Boston, MA
We never did make it to the USS Constitution. Instead, we got distracted by the Boston Public Garden, walking hand-in-hand beneath the leafy trees. All of the colors seemed hyper-saturated, as if someone had photoshopped the city around us. I dragged Levi over to a row of duckling statues following their bronze mother across the cobblestones.
“These look so familiar,” I said, wracking my brain. “Where have I seen this before?”
Levi’s face lit up. “Did you ever read Make Way for Ducklings?”
“Uh…”
“It’s a picture book by Robert McCloskey,” Levi explained. “Green and white cover? Charming story about ducklings waddling around behind their mother? Is this ringing any bells?”
“Oh my god, yeah…I remember that,” I said. “This is taking me back to the first grade. I’m pretty sure Mrs. Keokuk read it aloud to us about a million times.”
“Well, here’s to Mrs. Keokuk,” said Levi, solemnly saluting the ducklings.
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