They paid for their tickets and pushed through the gates, the thump of bass rumbling in their chests.
The concert grounds were already a blur of movement—bodies swaying, hands lifted, long skirts twisting in the breeze. Cigarette smoke curled lazily through the air, blending with spilled beer, damp grass, and illicit herbal scents.
Up on stage, Santana had his guitar slung low, coaxing wild, feral sounds from the strings like the instrument was a living, breathing thing. His fingers were a blur of motion, his head nodding in time with the drums. He was electric. Alive. Pure genius.
Nora and Leanne found a spot near the center of it all, unfurled a blanket, and sank down, both of them instinctively pulling off their shoes to dig their toes into the grass.
For the first time, they weren’t in a rush. They weren’t darting through the crowd looking for Eleanor. They were here, simply existing in the now, knowing the show wasn’t over, and neither was the story.
Leanne leaned back on her elbows and smiled at Nora. “We’ll find her.”
“I know,” Nora said.
And just as she was about to close her eyes and soak in the next guitar solo, a familiar voice drifted from behind her.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
Nora glanced up, and there he was—Joe, notebook in hand, a pencil tucked behind his ear like some roving journalist straight out of a French new-wave film.
“I never really got that phrase,” she said, shielding her eyes from the sun. “‘Sight for sore eyes.’ Are your eyes hurting or something?”
He chuckled, tapping the pencil against his temple. “Only my ego. But I’ll survive.”
She laughed too, the sound light and unguarded, and hopped to her feet, brushing grass off the back of her jean shorts. “Mom, I’m going to take a walk with Joe.”
Leanne didn’t even open her eyes, just gave a lazy nod, one hand folded beneath her head while she basked in the afternoon sun and the dulcet riffs of Santana.
The crowd thickened as they wove between booths—macramé vests, tie-dye headbands, patchouli-scented everything. Music floated through the air, bleeding from one tent to another. A couple kissed with reckless abandon near a hot dog stand, and someone in the distance let out a whoop that could’ve been joy or just the mushrooms kicking in.
“How’s the story chasing going?”
“Kinda stalled,” Joe admitted. “I was able to get through to Shep’s manager, and your grandmother agreed to an interview, but then she vanished. Again.”
“A lot like she’s been doing with us.”
Joe chuckled. “Exactly, but—”
A man in a rainbow poncho and round John Lennon glasses leapedin front of them, nearly tripping over his own sandals. He held up a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs like a prize from behind door number three.
“Ever tried love handcuffs?” The man’s eyes gleamed.
Nora’s eyes rounded. “Love handcuffs?”
“They’re symbolic,” the man said with a little shimmy. “But also literal.”
Joe raised an eyebrow, a teasing challenge in his gaze that she couldn’t help but be drawn to. “I’m game if you are.”
“Oh, God,” Nora muttered, rolling her eyes. “Fine. For the bit.”
She held out her wrist, expecting a quick clip and an even quicker laugh. The man slapped the cuffs on both of them—ticklish pink fuzz and all—then cackled and bolted into the crowd like he was training for the music festival’s first annual handcuff heist.
Nora looked down at their wrists. “Wait… Did he just—”
Joe tugged gently, the chain between them clinking. “Yup.”
“Oh my God, we’re going to be stuck together for hours. We don’t have a key! How are we going to explain this to my mom?” Nora groaned, still tugging at the chain between them. “Somehow, I don’t think she’s going to find it very funny,” she added, cheeks flaming as festivalgoers passed by, chuckling at the sight of them joined together by fuzzy pink handcuffs.
Joe raised an eyebrow, the very picture of calm mischief. “I guess you could say we’re…in this together?”
