He hesitated, then pointed to a bicycle locked to a nearby tree. “I have one.”
“Right.”Was that too forward? Offering a ride?“I’ ll see you around, then. I guess.”
She opened the passenger side door. Hawthorne pushed off from the hood. But instead of stepping away, he stepped closer, his hand curling around the top of the door as she climbed in.
“You were incredible up there.”
She looked up. But Hawthorne had already turned away and was walking towards his bicycle.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her heart beating fast.
WHEN SHE WAS SEVENTEEN, Tom bought Emeline tickets to see one of her favorite bands, Death Valley’s Little Sister, play in Toronto. But he sprained his ankle a day before the show.
She had an extra ticket, and since Sable couldn’t come, she invited Hawthorne.
As the thick crowd surged towards them, drawn to the stage where Death Valley played, Hawthorne bumped into Emeline. His chest pressed up against her back, sending a jolt down her spine.
She looked over her shoulder to find him scowling at the drunk kids flailing all over the place. Positioning himself between them and Emeline, he leaned in. “Are you all right?”
He’ d never been to a concert before. But Emeline was used to shows where the crowd pushed in too close and the only thing to do was hold your ground. Or push back.
She nodded. “I’m good.”
A few songs later, the tension in him eased. He stood so close now, Emeline could smell the forest on his skin. It overrode the smell of spilled beer and sweating bodies. She liked the heat of him behind her, warm as sunlight. She liked the way his heart pounded against her spine, louder than the drums.
She was suddenly so aware of him, she stopped focusing on the music. She glanced at several couples around them, noticing how close they stood. What would it feel like to have Hawthorne’s arms wrapped around her like that? To be pulled snug against his body? To feel his chin rest on top of her head?
She never found out. Soon, the concert was over, and they were on the train heading home.
Emeline wanted that moment back, so she invited him to the next concert.
And the next.
Each time, he stood a little bit closer.
One night, they were walking back to Union Station from a small, cramped venue called Certain Dark Things. Drunk on the lights and sounds and electric hum of the city, Emeline declared: “I want to do that one day.”
Hawthorne looked away from the lit-up buildings around them, his face awash in colors. “Hmm?” he said, as if he’ d been deep in thought.
“Make music my life.” Traffic honked from the street as theywaited for a stoplight to change. She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if admitting some dirty secret. “I can’t sleep sometimes, I’m so full of longing. To sing my songs up on a stage. To see my name on a marquee.”
Hawthorne watched her closely.
“You will.”
He said it like it was a fact. As if it were destined.
The light changed. Stunned by his belief in her, Emeline started walking, then realized he wasn’t beside her. She turned back to find him still on the sidewalk, transfixed by the sight of a storefront.
A bookstore, she realized, coming back to his side. A used one.
The Open sign was turned face out.
Books were one of Hawthorne’s two great loves, she’ d learned from their train ride conversations to and from the city. The other was art.
He pressed his forehead to the glass as he squinted, reading the spines of the antiquated books in the window.
Emeline opened the door for him.
