I just shake my head and smirk. “You’re the worst.”
We're about to go back to watching the set, realizing they're now on their third song, some Third Eye Blind track that I swear I've heard a thousand times but can never remember the name, which is when two middle-aged guys approach. One of them'sholding a tiny golden retriever puppy, and both are looking at me like I've got something on my face.
“Are you…Carter Elliot?” one of them asks, almost whispering like he’s nervous to say it out loud.
I nod and smile, mostly because they look nervous and kind of adorable.
They lean in a little, keeping their voices low because of the band. “Would you mind taking a picture with us? No one’s going to believe we saw Carter Elliot while adopting our puppy.”
Before I can even say yes, Paul begrudgingly grabs one of their iPhones and takes a few pictures. All three of us are grinning like idiots: me, because it’s funny and surreal people still care about meeting me; them, because I guess they actually do care; and that puppy, well, the puppy looks like it’s just happy being held.
But as I stand there and smile, there's only one person I keep thinking about, and that's Nate.
It's 4 p.m., and the set ends to loud applause from the crowd. Both Nate and Mel seem comfortable and in tune, with their voices harmonizing together perfectly. Even as the clapping stops and the audience turns their attention back to the puppies, I continue to keep my eyes on Nate. He and Mel pack up quickly and head toward Paul and me.
Before I could greet them, Paul leans in and whispers, “Don’t worry, I’ll grab Mel and bounce.”
I look at him, but before I can respond, he walks over, grabs Nate's guitar, and gently takes Mel's relaxed wrist, leading her toward the exit. I couldn't help but laugh internally because Paul is always so dramatic, loud, and completely over the top.
Nate looks at me in confusion but is receptive, saying, "Um, okay...what was that?"
Grinning, I reply, "I told Paul about you, and he took the hint. Any chance you want to stick around and grab a few drinks?"
Without hesitation, Nate says, “Yeah, why not? I think we need to celebrate how great I did up there. I mean, Mel was good, but how good was I? Am I right!”
It was clear he was being sarcastic, but I genuinely think he was great. He might not have been the lead, but his backup vocals really made the performance pop. I might be biased, but I was definitely focused on Nate more than Mel…oops. Sorry, Mel!
“Yes! I’m down,” I said, almost shouting. “This bar has a drink called a Pink Penis cocktail, and I need to try it. It’s got Tito’s, Bacardi, lemon juice, and simple syrup. Want to know the best part? It’s garnished with a gummy dick.” I say giggling.
“Sir, won’t that be too gay for you?” Nate jokes.
“I mean, you’re not wrong, but I can always deny any rumors. Doubt people are paying attention to what I drink,” I shoot back.
“What about the dick, dummy?” Nate whispers.
“Well then, I’ll just shove it in my mouth real fast,” I say with a wink.
A few minutes later, we get our drinks and immediately devour our fruity gummy penises. From Nate’s scrunched-up expression, he thought it was just as sour as I did. We burst out laughing.
After about forty minutes and two cocktails, the crowd starts to thin. Only a few people still linger. The staff begins setting up some high-top tables, so we grab the available one near the bathroom. I could feel the alcohol starting to hit, as I find myself gazing into Nate's eyes.
“What are you looking at?” Nate asks.
“Your face, obviously,” I tease.
“You mean this face?” he asks, contorting his features into a ridiculous scrunch, with his lips puckered and teeth bared.
I laugh. “Honestly, I think you look hot like that. Can your face stay like that permanently? Thanks.”
We start making increasingly idiotic faces at each other, earning confused looks from nearby patrons. I wasn’t sure what we’re doing, but I’m definitely entertained.
“Let’s play a game,” I suggest. “Let’s see if we can be so ridiculous we scare off the last seven people here. Just hope no one snaps a photo of us at peak ridiculousness and we end up on the cover of a magazine with the headline: ‘Carter Elliott and Friend Should Be Sent to Psych Ward.’”
Nate has no idea, but my real goal is for everyone to disperse and give me some alone time. Maybe I could sneak in a kiss, preferably with his tongue down my throat.
Immediately, Nate jumps up, smirks at me, and shouts, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Mr. Donald Duck!" Then he breaks into a full minute of Donald Duck impersonations. People stare in confusion as he eventually sits back down as if nothing happened.
I wink, then stand up and immediately begin bawling. Nate doesn't know this about me, but I can immediately cry on command. If football hadn't worked out, I could've definitely been a horror movie actor. He chuckles, knowing everyone is staring at us as if we've lost our minds.
