You’re all mine, my love so sweet
This is one of Evergreen’s most popular songs. It’s got a sexy bass beat, drums that make hips shake, and you sing it like one long suppressed moan. Your guitar comes in every few seconds, like it just can’t help itself. It reminds me of the way you’ll suddenly lean over and kiss me full on the lips when I’m mid-sentence.
“God, he’s so hot,” a girl near me says to her friend.
I smile to myself. This is fun, getting to be the girlfriend in your world. I should have made a T-shirt: Gavin’s Girl.
Kyle—the ride you arranged, breaking your own rule about me being alone with a member of the male species—looks over at the salivating girls near us and cracks up.
“Girl fight! Girl fight! Girl fight!” he chants.
I laugh. “Shut up.”
“Better watch your man, Grace,” he teases. “Those girls look like they came to play.”
I listen to the songs, listen to how much you love me. When your eyes search for me in the crowd and you smile a secret smile just for me, all the crap my parents put us through is suddenly worth it.
“This next song,” you say, “is for my beautiful girl, Grace. Can I get a Fuck yeah for my girlfriend?”
The entire room swoons and yells, Fuck yeah! I shake my head, laughing, almost crying because can you be any more wonderful? Your eyes never leave mine as you sing. It’s like we’re the only people in the room. In the world.
Your skin against mine
Let go and let love
Let go and let love
Let me be your anthem, baby
Let me be your song
The crowd sings along, your fan base getting bigger every day. All of a sudden it becomes real, the fact that you might actually become a legit rock star. Girls will ask you to sign their boobs with a Sharpie. I push the thought away and sing along, too. Almost all the songs are about us, and I wonder if anyone outside the band realizes it. Kyle must. I can’t tell what he thinks about them, though. What picture do your words paint? What he and Nat have is so tame compared to us. It’s sweet, innocent. We’re anything but.
You have a few more songs left in your set, some I’ve never heard. They’re about being exhausted, sad beyond belief, horny. They’re about confusion and love and the sense that something’s not quite right. Ryan’s bass feels like a heartbeat—frenetic, stressed. Dave’s drums remind me of you hitting your hand against the steering wheel when you’re angry, throwing shit around in your room when you’re jealous. I start to come down off the high of your nicer songs but then you play the sweetest one of all, a lullaby you wrote for my toughest nights at home. When you finish, I blow you a kiss and you catch it with a smile, grabbing it out of the air and putting it in your pocket. It’s something you’ve always done with me and the familiarity of it puts me at ease. We are still Us.
I check my phone—it’s almost two. I’m praying my mom doesn’t come into my room for some reason. Watch: with my luck, the house will catch on fire tonight. I can just picture the look on The Giant’s face when he realizes the body sleeping under the covers of my bed is a series of perfectly shaped pillows.
You guys do a rendition of the Beatles’ “Happiness Is a Warm Gun” as your last song and it’s breathtaking and scary. You sing the words with such longing—I can almost see you willing the gun into your hands. I hate this song. It makes me think of you and that bathtub filled with your blood. The first time I used the guest bathroom in your house, I couldn’t stop staring at the tub. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t stained. I couldn’t reconcile what had happened in it with the fruity shampoos and bars of soap.
The last note of the song fades into the audience’s loving roar and then you’re done. Wild applause. Every girl in this room wants you. I worry that I don’t look cool enough, deserving enough. I’ve got bloodred lips. A short skirt. Heels. A tight T-shirt. It’s all for you.
The club you’re playing in is like a big black-box theater. There’s a bar all along one side where I get a Coke with Kyle while we wait for you and the band to break down your stuff. There are posters on the wall—Pearl Jam, the Arctic Monkeys, Modest Mouse. Everyone here is older than me and I wonder if I stick out. This is your world, but it doesn’t have a place for me. Not yet.
Arms around my waist, sweaty hair against my neck. You, you, you. I turn and wrap my arms around your neck and press myself against you.
“You were fucking brilliant,” I say. Gush.
Right now, you are the Gavin Davis, the boy I loved from afar. Unattainable and yet here I am, with my tongue in your mouth. I’m never like this. You love it. Your arms tighten around my waist and I feel you go hard and I don’t care that everyone’s watching us.
I kinda want them to.
Kyle coughs. “Um. Guys. This is very romantic and all, but—”
“Jealous?” you say, only half kidding.
Normally this would bug me, but I like you territorial tonight. I like you sweaty and sneering at anyone who comes too close to me.
Kyle laughs, uncomfortable. “Uh … whatever, man.”
You let go of me and wrap an arm around his neck.
“I love you, brother—I’m just giving you shit.”
I watch as you accept hugs and congratulations and free drinks. The words to your songs thrum through me, some of them at odds with you being the life of the party:
Mud up to my neck, swimming in dirt, gotta get outta here
You cut me to pieces, you spin me around, you push me off a cliff and smile as I go down
Lay down, close my eyes, think of all the ways I can die.
How can the same guy who wrote these songs be the Gavin who’s clearly having the time of his life? I can’t keep up. But then there are your other songs, the ones that take my hands and spin me around until I’m delirious:
God, I want her so bad, she’s mine, she’s mine, all mine
Kiss me again, tell me you love me, hold me close and don’t let go
She’s perfect, gets better every day. Love her, don’t care what they say.
“We’re going to Denny’s,” you say, grabbing my hand. You turn to Kyle. “You in?”
“No, man, I gotta bail. Good show,” he says. He salutes me, then heads out to the parking lot.
“Gavin Fucking Davis,” says a girl in a tiny black dress and knee-high boots. She wraps her arms around you, her fingers lingering as they slide around your waist. “You are such a rock star.”
I like that you don’t hug her back and as soon as she lets go, you reach for my hand.
“Thanks, Kim.” You nod to me. “This is my girlfriend, Grace.”
Her honey-brown eyes go to me and a slight frown turns down her lips.
“Hey,” she says. “Gavin and I are in the same freshman comp class.”
“Cool,” I say, a clear dismissal. Then I turn to you and tug on your hand. “We have coffee and greasy food waiting for us.”