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The lights go on. They're shades of blue and purple and there's a spotlight on me.
Familiar notes fill the room as Ethan strums his guitar. He's playing the intro to my favorite song, I'm Only Happy When it Rains, by Garbage.
His eyes meet mine as he starts the first verse.
Oh God, he wants me to sing it.
I shake my head. I can't sing on stage. I don't care that the venue is almost empty. The mic is still hooked up to the amp. Someone is going to hear me.
Ethan laughs as he starts the song over. He moves up to the backing vocals mic. "Vi, I've got all night."
"Doesn't New York City have quiet hours?"
"Volume is turned down low enough nobody outside can hear." His eyes light up as he smiles. "If you don't play rock star now, I'm gonna have to drag you on stage at our next show."
That sounds mortifying.
He raises a brow as he restarts the intro. All the joy i
n his expression flows into me.
I close my eyes as I let out the first line. Nerves rise up in my chest then settle. My voice gets louder. I pour my feelings into my performance.
This song deserves everything I've got.
By the second verse, I have my eyes open. I stare out at the empty seats with as much confidence as I can muster. I shift my hips, wrap my hands around the mic, and sing like I'm a fucking rock star.
When the song fades into the outro, Ethan looks at me. He speaks into the mic. "Crowd is demanding an encore after that." He cocks a brow. You game?
I nod. I am. This is fun.
He plays another Garbage song, I Think I'm Paranoid. I relax enough to sing every word with passion. Then he's playing another one of my favorite songs. Another. Another.
He plays and I sing until the stage manager, Jim, is motioning for us to cut the lights.
Ethan holds up his guitar and bows to the non-existent crowd. "Show's got to end sometime." He throws his guitar pic into the stands then he pulls another from his pocket and presses it into my palm. "You make a good rock star."
"No, I don't." I intertwine my fingers with his. "But it's fun pretending."
The next day, I show Ethan around all my favorite touristy landmarks—the mecca of commercialism that is Times Square, the tranquil sanctuary of Central Park, the gorgeous views from the Empire State Building—then I move on to secluded spots—the Strand bookstore, real New York bagels, the view from the top of the NYU student center.
In his heavy coat and a Yankees cap, Ethan blends in enough he isn't recognized. It's a rainy, grey day, but my heart is floating on blue skies and sunshine. Everything, even getting caught in the pouring rain on our way back to the subway (I'm too stubborn to take a cab), is fun with Ethan.
Life is fun when he's around.
I'm alive when he's around.
The four-block walk from the subway to my apartment is cold and windy, but with his arm around my waist and his smile lighting up my heart, I don't feel the chill.
My hands are wet. I fumble over my keys. Ah, there.
I look back to Ethan as I press the key between my palms. "We haven't talked about what happens tomorrow."
"Something you want to say?"
I nod. "Stay here with me. Until your next show."
"The show is Monday. You sure you want me here all weekend?"
