His brows lift, and it’s then that I notice part of the reason he looks so intense all the time. His pupils always seem to be enlarged, dark and huge. It gives his eyes another layer of intensity.
“Oh, all sorts,” he says in his rough voice. At this proximity I can feel it in my bones. “I like people with a lot of soul. The performers. The ones with stories to tell, even if they aren’t their own.” He pauses and looks out at the crowds, passing his hand over his beard. “Tom Waits, for one. Nick Cave. Jack White, even. A lot of the classics, too, the good old soul singers with the voices that hit you right here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. “What about you?”
“I’m kind of a nerd,” I say.
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m not so big on rock or pop or anything like that. I just love classical. Composers. Anything with strings and a piano, really.”
“That’s not nerdy,” he says, shaking his head.
“No? Well, I for sure can’t tell you what’s on the radio,” I admit. “But I know what kind of music makes me feel.”
He tilts his body closer to mine, his elbows resting on his knees, bottle of water in his hands. His thigh taps mine. “Do you know who Ryuichi Sakamoto is?”
“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “My mother is Japanese. Of course I know who he is. And even if she wasn’t, and she didn’t play the soundtrack to The Last Emperor over and over again while growing up, I would still know who he is.”
He nods appreciatively. “I saw him in Edinburgh a few years ago. Small theatre. Amazing show.”
“Quit bragging,” I tease.
He flashes me a smile and we go back to watching the set.
Time flies by and the festival grows to epic proportions. During Sam Smith I’m feeling buzzed from another glass of wine and I find myself swaying back and forth against Lachlan’s shoulders to the music. He’s so damn solid and he doesn’t shy away.
It’s dark out when Sir Elton John comes on, opening with “Benny and the Jets.” The crowd goes nuts. I go nuts. It’s impossible not to sing along to every single song, and it’s like every person around us is singing along too, hugging each other, drunk and happy and united by Elton.
It’s probably the wine bolstering my courage, but when “Your Song” comes on, I lean into Lachlan and put my head on his shoulder. He tenses for a moment and I hear him suck in his breath. I pray he doesn’t move, doesn’t shrug me off.
Then he exhales and relaxes. I can feel his beard brush against my hair as he turns his head to look down at me. I close my eyes, thinking I can fall asleep right here. With this song, with my head on his shoulder.
It feels beyond right. It feels like an answer to a question I never knew I asked.
He shifts ever so slightly and puts his arm around my waist, holding me to him.
My heart leaps, my whole body fizzing like champagne. Never has such a simple gesture turned me inside out like this. I can’t help but smile with pure unfiltered joy, still mouthing the words to the song. I don’t want anything to change. I want the song to go on forever, the concert to never end. I want to stay in this spot until the end of time, his large, strong arm around me, holding me to him like I’m being sheltered against the world.
And, for some reason, time does seem to still. In the dark, with the colorful lights from the stage flashing, with this tune, with this man, time stretches on. Whatever worries and cares I had before, they’re gone in this moment.
I’m the opposite of alone.
Somehow we stay like this through “Daniel” as well, even though the song makes me tear up a little bit, thinking of my brothers. I feel Lachlan’s thumb rub against my side, back and forth along my shirt, a slow, teasing motion that introduces some fire to the soft peace inside me.
Look up at him, I tell myself. Kiss him now. You may never get the chance again.