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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?"
I nod. "I need you here all weekend." I press my forehead to his. "Promise you'll stay."
His voice is sweet, earnest. "You need me here?"
"Yes."
"Then I promise I'll be here." He presses his lips to mine.
I sigh as I pull back. Ethan will be here, in my apartment, all weekend. We have a whole weekend to explore New York City and to christen my bed as ours.
This is good.
No, this is great.
I turn the lock, open the door for Ethan, and step inside.
Athena is sitting in our tiny living room on the couch. Her long hair is in a ponytail. She's wearing makeup—something she never does when she's home alone.
She takes us in with a knowing look. "You were right. He is hotter in person. Especially as a Yankees fan."
Ethan laughs as he takes his baseball cap off. "Afraid I prefer the Angels."
