I froze as SK came up behind us and gave Abby a quick side hug. “Thanks, Abby. And thanks for coming, ladies. We definitely have the prettiest fans.” He smiled at me, and I was glad for the darkness concealing my furious blush. “Could I borrow you for a minute, Tate?”
He called me Tate. Abby’s eyebrows perked up. “Sure,” I said, and gingerly took the hand he extended toward me, like it was something we’d been doing forever. As he led me away from my friends, I sent a quick “oh my goodness” look over my shoulder at them and tried not to swoon too hard at the thought of his hand—warm, firm, calloused—holding mine.
“Is this okay?” I blinked at the sound of his voice. He held up our entwined fingers.
“Oh. Um, yes.” Majorly surreal that I was hand in hand with someone who, until an hour ago, had been a figment of my imagination, but definitely okay.
He laughed softly. “I thought we could roast some marshmallows. You do like roasted marshmallows, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. Who doesn’t?”
“Well, that’s a relief. Because I don’t think I could handle a girl who didn’t like them.”
I sucked in a breath. Flirting in person was so much better than over the internet. His teasing nearly knocked me off my feet. My fingers twitched, and he held them tighter.
We arrived at the fire pit, flames dancing in the light breeze, and he let go of my hand so he could retrieve two sticks and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. The instant he broke contact, I wished he hadn’t.
SK stuck a marshmallow on a stick and handed it to me. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” I was still so surprised he was here in the flesh, I didn’t know what else to say.
He made one for himself and sat down next to me on a bench before we stuck our marshmallows into the fire.
“So, are you a lightly toasted fan, or do you like it charred and dripping?” he asked. I could hear the smile in his voice. “Because I myself like my marshmallows somewhere in the middle. Gooey so the sugar starts to caramelize, but not all blackened and falling off the stick.”
“You sound like an expert.”
“Well, I have been on a camping trip or two.”
“Cub scouts?” I teased.
“You know, I look really good in khaki.”
“I bet.” He probably looked good in everything.
We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the fire lick the air. I pulled my marshmallow out first.
“Brown,” I said, smiling shyly at him.
“Brown.” He nodded knowingly.
Mine was perfectly crisp; I licked my lips. He licked his as well, and we both stuffed our faces with the sugary deliciousness. When I’d finished chewing, I felt ready to burst. There was so much I needed to know.
“So, how did you know it was me? I mean, I was me? When did you know?” I blurted.
“Honestly, I didn’t figure it out until rehearsal last week. Abby was there, and said something about how Tatum the graphic designer, who made the poster, was sneaking out to the show.”
I smacked my hand on the bench. “Of course, me sneaking out would tip you off.”
“Well, that’s how I knew the girl I’d been emailing all summer was going to see us play. I didn’t realize we’d met in person before until right before we went on stage. Hunter pointed you out, and it all clicked. Like a ton of bricks, as they say.”
“I hope you didn’t get hurt.”
“Nah, I’m pretty solid.” He knocked on his head as I remembered smacking into him at McIntosh and exactly how solid he was.
“I feel like so silly for not connecting the dots earlier.”
“How could you have? I never told you my name when we bumped into each other at the art showcase.”
I flushed yet again, recalling how we’d originally met. “You could have told me it was your poster I was shredding, you know?”
He laughed. “But you were so cute when you were giving your honest opinions. I couldn’t break your heart and tell you how close you were to the performer himself.” He ran a finger over the top of my hand; I may have shuddered a little.
“So, performer. Who are you in real life? SK? Shay? What do you want me to call you?” I hid behind my lashes.
“Perhaps now would be a good time to reintroduce myself.” He stuck his hand out confidently. “Seamus Kipsang. Pleased to meet you.”
“Tatum Elsea. Charmed.” I gave him my hand, and he squeezed it. “Gosh, if I’d asked for a little more information, I might have realized you were you way earlier. The night I snuck out to band practice, maybe.”
“Or if I’d had the guts to ask you for your number in the first place.”
“That too.” We both laughed, and he threaded his fingers through mine again. For the first time since we’d sat down, I noticed the band on stage. They were good, but definitely not as good as the Frisson. We listened together, hand in hand, just enjoying the moment.
When the song ended, Seamus turned to me. “What did you think of your song?”
My song. “Wrecked again. I’m surprised you didn’t find a puddle of me on the ground afterward.”
He grinned. “That’s good, right?”
“Yes, very good. I loved it. How did you have time to do that, anyway? I mean, if you only knew this week that I’d be here?”
“Truth? I started on the arrangement while I was in Ireland. I dunno, I felt inspired, I guess.” This time, he blushed. It was adorable. “I like to think I would have had the courage to send it to you, and then you would have demanded we meet in person. But this worked out even better, I think.”
“Demanded, eh?”
“You did ask me a lot of rather bossy questions.”
“True.” I watched as the firelight reflected golden flickers in his green eyes. “I have to ask you something I’ve been wondering ever since I first heard you perform.”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too personal, but I am dying to know what you think about when you play. The look on your face is unbelievable. I could feel it in the recording too. So many emotions.”
He suddenly became shy. “It’s not too personal,” he said, but I knew it was something important by his small voice. “I actually think about my parents.” Not the answer I was expecting. “You know how I told you my mom’s from Ireland and my dad’s from Kenya?” I nodded. “So my dad told me how they met at a dance club, of all places. He was studying at GW and my mom was at NYU. She was down in DC for the weekend, visiting a friend, and, to make a long story short, he pretty much saved her from some skeevy guy who wanted to dance with her and wouldn’t leave her alone. He pretended to be her boyfriend, and that was that.”
I laughed. “That’s awesome. But how does that translate to your playing?”
“They dated long-distance until they graduated, and my dad went back to Kenya to take care of visas and stuff, and it was really hard for both of them to be apart. They knew, right away, they wanted to be together, but because of life, they couldn’t.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. So that’s what I think about when I’m playing the wistful, bittersweet pieces.” He offered me a small smile. “I think I might get it now.”