“I can’t wait.” He smiles, and I feel his hand press gently against the small of my back as we make our way through the crowd. I shiver.
We find a spot down front, wedged into the corner of the venue. Paper Girl have just come onstage and the crowd is cheering like mad. They burst right into their big single, “Tell Me You Love Me,” and people start to shimmy and move. The energy is electric. You can feel the love in this room.
Concerts always make me feel awkward and out of place, at least at first. Where to put my hands, how much talking is acceptable. I wish someone would just tell me how to move. But I go anyway, because I love the music, and I want to champion the situation. I want to be able to do it right. There’s a girl in front of me, on the left, and she looks like she knows what she’s doing. I keep one eye trained on her and follow her movements. When I glance at Will, he is grinning, slowly nodding to the music. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, either, I realize, which sets me at ease.
That’s when I see Elliot a little farther down front, hopping from foot to foot as he bobs his head and moves his shoulders. Dancing was made for someone like him, with energy coming out the tips of his fingers. I stop still, suddenly on edge. Didn’t he say he had band practice? Then he turns and looks directly at me. I watch his eyes find Will behind me, and he nods in greeting. We both wave back. Elliot hesitates, as though not sure if he should come over or not, but then he does.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” I say before I can stop myself, and Elliot pulls his head back.
“Well, here I am,” he says.
I roll my eyes in response.
“Elliot, right?” Will yells over the music. “Good to see you, man.” I shoot Will a look, but he doesn’t notice.
Elliot casts a glance at me, and I force a stiff smile. They slap hands hello and are immediately engrossed in yelling over the music about how awesome the band is, because it’s actually comprised entirely of influential members of other great bands. I chew the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to seem difficult, but this just feels like all kinds of weird.
Two songs later Will goes off to see if he can scrounge up some beers, and Paper Girl slows it down, slipping into a song I love, that I was hoping they’d play: “She’s the One.” Before I can stop myself, a high whoop escapes my lips, and several people in my vicinity turn to stare. But most of them aren’t judging; they’re smiling. We’re all fans. I turn to Elliot, an embarrassed hand over my mouth, my eyes wide, and he is chuckling, his whole face lit up. It makes me laugh, too.
I face the stage again and let the music sink in. I close my eyes and sway, and that’s when I feel Elliot right behind me. Like, right behind me. My back is almost leaning into his chest, and I can feel his warmth on my skin. The music is liquid, pooling around us. He doesn’t smell like Will, like cedar and detergent. He smells like deodorant and an unwashed T-shirt. He smells like boy. He smells like Elliot.
And the weirdest thought occurs to me. He smells . . . good.
And then in an instant Elliot is laid out flat on the ground, and his hand is holding his skull. A drumstick is on the ground by his side, and the singer is yelling, “Sorry, bro!” into the microphone, before the band picks up the tempo again. And as quickly as it all started, it’s over, and I throw one of Elliot’s arms around my shoulders and haul him out of the room.
“I can’t believe I got hit by a drumstick,” Elliot won’t stop saying, his voice grainy and tired, as I move my finger in front of his nose. I am trained for this. I took an EMT class last year. “When has that ever happened? Barry Gross is one of the best drummers of our generation. I worship that guy! He is my idol. My idol just hit me with a freaking drumstick!”
“Shut up,” I say. “What’s your full name?”
Elliot frowns, but obliges. “Elliot James Apfel,” he says.
“How old are you?”
“I am eighteen years old.”
“What street do you live on?”
“Oakwood Avenue.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s where I live.”
“Same thing,” Elliot grumbles.
“What street do you live on, Elliot?” I ask again.
“Fourth Avenue.” He sighs.
“What’s the name of your band?” I ask.
“Don’t have one.” He smiles. “Remember?”
“You’re a pain in the butt,” I say, tilting my head.
“I know.” He grins, and it all comes back to me for a second as I look down at him. That weird moment earlier, when everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. That moment I found myself standing close to Elliot, breathing him in—and liking it.
“What happened?” Elliot and I both turn to see Will pushing his way out of the theater. “I got your text. Did you really get hit with a drumstick? Someone was talking about it at the bar.”
Elliot just grumbles in response.
“We had a slight accident,” I explain.
“Annabelle,” Elliot interrupts. He looks so defeated, crouched against the building like that. “I wanna go home. I need Advil.”
“Right,” I say, thinking. “The only problem is, you really shouldn’t drive right now, and I can’t drive stick.”
“Whatever,” Elliot says. “I’ll get Sam to drive me back tomorrow and pick up the car. Good advertising for the shop.”
“Tomorrow it might be towed.” I bite my lip.
“You worry too much,” Elliot tells me.
“You don’t worry enough,” I push back, and it comes out flirtier than I intend it to. Or did I? Suddenly, my stomach is fluttering in a way I don’t understand, and before I can figure out what any of it means, Will is offering to drive Elliot home. As he helps him off toward the car, I can’t help feeling like somehow, I ended up on a date with both of them.
“I look like such an asshole,” Elliot says from his position on the couch, legs propped up, a bag of peas resting atop his head.
“Good thing nobody cares,” I shoot back, coming out of the kitchen. I don’t know what I was thinking before, back at The Wiltern, but I’m trying to forget about it as quickly as possible. “I made you some coffee. You shouldn’t fall asleep for a few hours.”
“Did you use the good beans?” Elliot asks petulantly.
“I know the way you like it,” I reply, and I can feel Will watching me from his seat next to the TV.
“I should probably get going,” Will says eventually. “Annabelle, can I drive you home?”
I spill the coffee a little bit as I set it down, unsure of how to answer. I know what the correct answer is. It’s yes. Yes, you can drive me home because it’s 10:15 and it’s a school night, and also you’re a total babe who smells like magic and packed an extra sweater for me without even asking. And you also didn’t ask, “Do you need a ride home?” You asked, “Can I drive you?” because you are deliberate and you know what you want.