by Jean Haus
I’m sharing a room with Chloe, Riley’s best friend. I would have preferred my own room—nothing against Chloe, I’m just used to being alone—but she needed someone to split the bill with since Riley is staying with a band member. Of course, she brought costumes—Riley told her to. And of course, in the midst of all my drama, I forgot to bring my own.
I’m dressed as Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Tight black dress, pearls around my neck, long black gloves, and hair in a ridiculous bouffant twisted into a bun topped with, yes, a tiara. Chloe’s choice, definitely not mine. Much, much too attention getting.
Chloe winks at a guy gaping at her chest as we pass.
Well, at least not that attention getting.
Everyone else is here already. According to Chloe and her text from Peyton, they’re about halfway into the crowd on the left. The section roped off near the stage isn’t big enough to fit all of us. Once we get our drinks—gin and tonic for Chloe and a Sprite for me—we head off into the crowd.
Loud conversation, the Door’s “People are Strange,” and an excited buzz fills the room as I follow Marilyn. But the noise stays faintly in the background because I’m filled with a nervous buzz. I haven’t seen Gabe since the night we slept together. When I woke yesterday morning, he was gone, leaving a quickly jotted note on my counter. Had to get to work. Still owe you a real dinner. Your friend, Gabe. The ‘your friend’ had bothered me to the point it turned into a conundrum. Had he wrote it to indulge me? Or was it meant sarcastically? After agonizing over it for most of the day, I texted him that evening with, Everything’s okay, right? About half an hour later, he texted back a mere, Yeah, everything is fine, which did little to ease my apprehension. I’m totally oblivious about how to act after…well, sex with a friend. Now, with my stomach in knots, I’m heading toward him.
We step onto the main floor, then head to the left, squeezing between people as Chloe flashes them a sultry smile and pushed up cleavage encased in a white flowy dress.
Allie, dressed as a pirate, is the first to spot us. She waves frantically. Next to her, Justin is also dressed as a pirate. Peyton and Sam are dressed up as Princess Leia and Han Solo. And at the back of their group, leaning on the rail between the sections, are Romeo and Gabe, both in their normal attire, jeans, boots, and open button ups over plain T-shirts. Well, Romeo is wearing a bandana pirate style on his head, along with bigger silver hops in his ears than he normally wears. His form of dressing up for Riley. Both holding beers, they’re in the midst of a conversation as Chloe and I join the group. The whistles and cheers from everyone as we get to the group brings Gabe’s gaze in our direction.
His eyes widen on me, but Allie wraps me in a hug. “You look amazing!” she yells in my ear.
“Thanks!” I yell back, trying very, very hard not to glance Gabe’s way, wondering—hoping like an idiot—if he’s staring. “You look awesome too!” And she does in a leather bustier that shows off the blue swirling tattoo that winds around most of her left arm.
Blonde Princess Leia—Peyton—clinks her plastic cup with mine, but before she says anything, a ripple of noise trickles through the crowd. It sounds like a mix of awe and excitement.
We all turn toward the stage as the sound grows.
The members of Shush are taking the stage. Except for the singer who wears a long white ragged dress, they’re all dressed in torn black clothes from tights to tattered up tank tops. Their faces are pale, while their eyes are hollowed with black make up, giving them all a ghoulish appearance. I’m guessing they’re supposed to be zombies until Riley hits the cymbal and the guitar player breaks into the opening riff. It takes me a few moments to recognize Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl.” The crowd goes wilder when the singer hits the refrain, understanding the costumes. The song isn’t super heavy on drums, so Riley adds several stick twirls.
Though caught in the band’s performance and the crowd’s enthusiasm, Gabe’s presence behind us won’t let me release the edge of apprehension, especially as Shush rolls through the same set they did at the bar and U-Palooza. The familiarity of it has my brain wandering to the man behind me.
I’m being an idiot. He said everything was okay. Yet it doesn’t seem okay. In between songs, I talk with the girls around me, while Gabe stays in the back, three people over. It’s like he’s ignoring me. Or I’m ignoring him. I feel middle schoolish. I want to strangle myself with the pearls around my neck. But even logic can’t keep my nerves at bay.
Shush close out their set with “Crush” by Garbage, which is another song that is a perfect fit for the night. Especially the line, I would die for you. Since the beat is a touch slower than most of their other choices, the band stays with Riley for the entire song too. And the singer’s tendency toward strong and loud vocals works perfectly with the song.
The crowd goes crazy when they finish and say good night. Whistles, claps, and shouts for more go on for several minutes. Fortunately for Shush—they probably don’t have anything else ready to play—there are two more bands scheduled for the night, and a bunch of stagehands come out immediately and start changing over the stage. The Pixies “Where is My Mind” comes over the loud speaker and people start moving toward the bar and bathroom.
“Need another?” Justin asks loudly, lifting his empty beer.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Everyone but Gabe, Romeo, and I head for the bar at the back of the theater.
Romeo grins at me. “How’d Chloe get you to wear that?”
I can’t help a frown. “Remember? Riley practically begged I dress up.”
He gestures to his head. “Me too.”
“Yeah, well I forgot to bring something simple, and Chloe brought several costumes. This”—I sweep a hand down—“was the least revealing.”
“Then,” Gabe says in a cool tone. “I’d like to see what else she brought.”
Romeo looks between us as my eyebrows rise. I ignore him, watching Gabe take a sip of his beer, his top lip over the plastic rim, and suddenly I’m remembering every kiss and touch from two nights ago. Quick flashes—his lips dragging over my skin, a moan in my ear, him above me—blink in my head, turn the nerves in my stomach to those bizarre fluttering butterflies. Ignoring my reaction to him, I lightly say, “Feel free to check out our closet.”
His eyes narrow and though he doesn’t say it, I read his mind. I want to check them out on you. He forces a smile. “Something I could wear then?”
The forced smile hits me hard. Everything is not okay. I can sense it. Tension hangs in the air between us, even dims the lustful memoires hanging at the back of my mind. “Um…” I stall, wanting to ask him what is wrong, why he looks on the edge of angry, and what I did to get this frost that seems to shoot out at me.
Romeo clears his throat, but before he can make a comment, which I’m sure would be totally asinine, Riley appears, jumping on him in a leggy embracing tackle.
Both Gabe and I look away as they hotly kiss.
Seconds later, everyone returns, including the rest of Shush. I stay on the perimeter amid the congratulations and cheering. In between the cheering, Riley comes over and twirls me around, exclaiming that Chloe out did herself. Chloe beams. But there isn’t time for much else because people from the crowd come over, recognizing the opening band and wanting to get in on their tiny slice of fame for the night until the next band comes out.
When the next band does come out, everyone’s back to hip rocking, head bouncing, and arm swaying concert going robots. The band is loud, fast, and on the edge of heavy metal. They also border on sucking, but the half-drunk, wild crowd loves them.
Of course, the singer of Shush is all over Gabe again, but now the bassist is hanging on his other side. At each smile, each hip rub, each touch, I see out of the corner of my eye, I want to rip the women away from him. A dark, angry coil of jealously wraps around me. My gloved hand nearly crushes the empty plastic cup in my grasp. I shouldn’t feel this way. I have no right t
o feel this way, but as Riley, Allie, and Peyton sway with their boyfriends, I’m suddenly jealous of practically everyone surrounding me.
The poorly played music and shouting singer grate on my ears. The flashing lights are irritating. The Shush guitarist swaying closer and closer to me—after he hit on Chloe, who likes to flirt but is quite committed to her boyfriend—has my skin crawling. In a rush to get away from everything—mostly my ugly jealousy—I whip around and start pushing through the crowd. Since the music is also too loud at the back of the theater, I go into the lobby.
Standing to the side amid empty plastic cups on the floor, I simply draw in deep breaths for several minutes. The taut line of my body finally loosens and the pounding jealousy reduces, but lingers. When I try to get myself to go back in the theater, my feet refuse to move. The thought of seeing Gabe with those women brings on an anger and dejection that borders on overwhelming.
I’m turning into a complete mess. Nothing is making sense. Gabe and I are supposed to be friends but it seems in the blink of an orgasm our friendship has changed, and even I can’t handle my emotions.
I turn toward the entrance. I wanted to leave early. Guess I’m leaving extra early.
At the coat check, I’m digging out the ticket from inside my left glove as Gabe comes up to me.
“What the hell? You leaving?” The question comes out from a sneer.
I concentrate hard on appearing unruffled. Plucking out the ticket, I shrug. “It’s late. I’m tired. I really only came to see Riley’s band.”
He crosses his arms. “Thought we all came to see the band and hang out.”
I hand the ticket over the table to the attendant watching us. “I’m not much for hanging out.” It comes out snottier than I intended, given that I wanted to say hanging on people.
“Too good for us?” he sneers again.
My brows lower. I’d like to wipe that sneer off his face. “You still going there? Grow up,” I huff.
The guy across the counter holds my ticket, watching us.
Face stern, Gabe gestures to my head. “Can see why you choose that outfit, Princess.”
“You forgot ice,” I say through clenched teeth.
“I sure fucking did,” he says, his lips curling into a snarl.
“Why are you being such a jerk?” I snap.
His entire face becomes a sneer. “Maybe because you’re being a cold ass, uppity bitch.”
My mouth drops open, closes, and opens again. Tears threaten the corner of my eyes. “Get my coat!” I grind out to the attendant, who appears as slacked jawed as me. Next, I turn my fury on the person who induced my rage. My gloved finger taps on his chest. “You are a cold ass, slutty bitch! Two days ago you were with me, even spent the night! Tonight you were flirting with two women right in front of me. Slut!” I angrily repeat and continue tapping his chest.
After staring at me in open mouth wonderment, Gabe grabs my hand, pressing it to his chest. “You’re jealous.”
“Not,” I say, tugging at my hand.
The attendant comes back, holding out my short jacket. I didn’t know I’d be going to the concert in a dress. Gabe grabs it and yanks me by the hand to the other side of the room.
“Let me go,” I hiss. “He needs a tip.”
Gabe draws me closer until I’m inches from him.
“You’re jealous.” His tone is full of fact.
“It was disrespectful,” I counter.
“You’re jealous,” he repeats, this time the slightest grin curving his lips.
“It’s natural to be hurt by your carousing so soon after the fact,” I tactfully argue.
“You’re jealous and pissed.” His tone is full of wonder.
“Your flirting made me feel cheap.”
“Super fucking jealous.”
“Like the only thing between us was a one night stand.”
The smirk on his lips dies and he grabs me by the upper arms. My coat falls to the floor. His face creases with tension. “What do you want from me, April?” he demands, his face inches from mine.
Confused by the plea in his eyes, I look down at his chest. “I don’t know.”
“Because the other night you begged to be just friends,” he says harshly.
His bitter tone has me blurting, “What do you want?”
“I don’t know either.” His grip tightens on my arms. “I…this started because I needed to feel—in control, but then, well, I liked being with you”—this warms me up, even with his tight grip on my arms—“and I do want to be friends.”
I try to yank out of his grasp. “Is this how you treat friends?”
He lets go of my arms and takes a step back hitting the wall. “No.” He bumps the back of his head on the wall. Twice. “But then I don’t have a shit load of friends.”
“Me either. That’s why I’m not very good at this. I’ve heard that—that sex can mess everything up, and I don’t want it to mess us up.” I let out a sigh. “I’m pretty sure it is.” I go to bend for my coat, but he beats me to it.
Sighing, he holds my coat for me to get into. “I encouraged those two to flirt with me. I was hoping you would get jealous. But I don’t want anything to do with them.”
Putting an arm into a sleeve, I blink at him. “Why? Why would you do that?”
He looks away. “I—girls like you tend to use guys like me.”
With all the uppity, preppy comments he has made in the past, it doesn’t take much for me to figure out what he means by girls like you. “I’m not like that. The other night…things just seemed to happen.”
“I know you’re different, but it’s hard for me to accept. And maybe—no, tonight when things felt weird, cold,” he elaborates, “between us I just…when you asked to be friends, I assumed that was the reason.”
He draws in a deep breath and it becomes obvious he is forcing himself to explain. That he believes I deserve an explanation, even though it appears to be torture for him, helps me empathize with his twisted view. He expects to be used and treated like crap because obviously he has been in the past. After being told physically by his father that he is nothing for years—and probably verbally—it’s easy for me to understand his fear. My heart weeps and beats—that he is confused about us as I am—for him.
My fingers find his jaw and turn his gaze from the floor to meet mine. “I meant it. I want to be friends. Still mean it. It’s not that I don’t…”—I need him to understand that I think he is more than good enough for me—“couldn’t imagine wanting something more from you.”
In reality, touching him, glimpsing the conflict and hurt in his eyes, I want him with a fierceness that frightens me, and it’s not just the sex, although I want that too. I want to know everything about this man, his past, his dreams, what’s in his glove box, his favorite bands, his …just everything. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. And the depth of my want scares me. Even though I’ve been more honest with him than I’ve been with anyone in a long, long time, I’m hiding my scars. And they’re not like his.
I deserve mine.
I drop my hand and my gaze. “Even if—well, I don’t think either of us are emotionally ready for anything other than friendship. We’re both messed up, and you need to stay focused on music right now and controlling your temper, and I need to stay focused on my education.” I finally look at him. “Being friends is really for the best…”
He studies me for a long, uncomfortable silence, perhaps recognizing I’m withdrawing into my shell and debating on calling me out. A tremble fills my insides. Outside, I’m motionless, hoping he’ll let me retreat. I’m not ready to dissect whatever is going on between us. My brain needs to catch up with my emotions.
He finally says, “You don’t have to go because of me.”
And my hope wins. I shake my head. “I have to get up at five to get back by eight. Someone is covering my shift at the Family Center until then.”
“Can’t take a day off?”
“Not usually, plu
s Romeo is taking the day off.”
He lets out a sigh. “You have to wait for the shuttle?”
I nod, digging in my glove for a tip.
“Then I’ll wait with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You’re not waiting outside by yourself,” he says in a stern tone.
I resist rolling my eyes, give the coat attendant a tip, and let Gabe follow me outside.
We talk about safe things as we wait in the cool night air. How school is going for me, how the new album is coming together for Luminescent Juliet, how his new apartment is coming along, and other mundane items while we wait. The hotel shuttle is supposed to come around to the venue about every forty minutes. Luckily for Gabe and me, it comes within fifteen minutes. Or else all the tension and want floating in the air between us may have unraveled into something that would make a bigger mess. I somehow keep my emotions—that seem to be all over the place—at bay during our trite conversation.
As the shuttle pulls up, Gabe moves closer to me. “I’m sorry for being an ass, April.” He lets out a puff of fog from a deep breath. “And yeah, being friends is probably the best for us.”
I force a close-lipped smile and nod. “Sorry for losing it too.” I step around him, but say over my shoulder, “See you at group.”
And then I’m in the bus, swallowing and trying hard not to cry.
Oddly, it feels like I just lost something that I didn’t want to let go.
Chapter 22
~Gabe~
I try not to think about her, but she comes to me at night in dreams or during mindless activities—like breaking down a carburetor or when I’m practicing some song that I’ve played for ages. The floral scent of her hair, the soft feel of her body, the depth of her aqua eyes, the curve of her cheek, the sweetness of her smile…fucking silly, romantic things that I’ve never thought about a woman before. They assault me at the oddest times.