Page 210 of Love Felt Like This

“Does it look like I’m kidding?” he says. “Come back after.”

“I need to get back there,” I insist. “I’m with the band.”

His mouth forms a straight line. “Hilarious.” He brushes me aside with his palms midair. “Move along. Keep walking.”

I grit my teeth and stride over to an island booth with an awning, where Rob stands with crossed arms over his chest.

“Mr. Serious feels like doing his job today,” I say.

Rob rolls his head back along his neck. “Okay. Well, maybe we can get close to the stage.”

I laugh. “At this place? Doubt it.” But the moment I say it, it feels like failure. I look out at the stage, my hands twitching by my sides. I pinch my loose sleeves between my thumbs and forefingers. Griffin will be standing there at any moment. I’m so close, yet so far away.

Not this time.

“Whatever,” I say. “Let’s go see what we can do.”

“Heck yeah. Man, Finch and Nana are gonna lose their minds.”

“We’re probably the last people they’re thinking about when they’re in the car alone.”

Rob’s cracking voice asks, “Wait, what?” but I keep walking.

We cut across the venue’s concrete, flashing our tickets before emptying onto a flat grassy turf. The crowd is packed together. Most fans have likely already secured their spots from the opening band. Hands grasp cups of beer, and there are shirts with Griffin Harvey’s logo scrawled across the back. World-tour dates are listed below. Some people have pictures of him bedazzled on their shirts, striking a disco pose in the baby blue suit from the Grammys. One person is wearing a replica of the baby blue suit itself.

I pull in a deep inhale, then let it out. “All right. Stick with me, Rob.”

“You got it. But do you really think Finch and Nana are…”

“Stick with me.”

He cups a hand on my shoulder as we approach the crowd. My skin crawls when I murmur, “Excuse me” to the first person in the general admission crowd. The only response I get is a laughing side-eye before the guy goes back to talking with his friend. But now isn’t the time for niceties.

I straighten my posture, ready my elbows, and push.

“Pardon me!” I yell louder.

I sidestep bodies and use my elbows to nudge people out of my way. I hear a muttered “The hell?” and “Who does she think she is?” but I carry on. I’m massively breaking concert etiquette, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be haunted by the ghosts of concerts past. I make a mental note to always let someone shimmy by at every future concert. I’ll always pay for the beer of the person behind me. I’ll always bring Advil and water for people in the mosh pit. But for now, I’m getting through this crowd by whatever means necessary.

“Bitch,” someone says. I’ve heard these curses before, after my viral club video with Beau. It’s all the online vitriol carrying to my ears in real time. Repeated mantras that have haunted me for years. But I’m only here for Griffin. I don’t care what happens, as long as it gets me closer to him.

The stage lights dim. The crowd explodes into cheers around me. People collectively close any gaps, shoving tighter like sardines to get a better view of the stage. With the sun dipped below the horizon, we’re in near darkness, save for the stage lights beaming down to illuminate the instruments. I halt in place. Rob runs into my back, tightening his hand on my shoulder.

The band walks out. Poe, Royce, and Dom wave to the crowd. I can feel my heart beating like fire in my chest. My heavy soul is calling for its match. My breath clogs in my throat, anticipating Griffin walking out next. And when he does, I feel lightheaded.

Griffin appears from the wings, and everyone around me screams. My ears ring. Seeing Griffin perform at the Grammys wasn’t like this. He was performing for peers. But here…here, he’s a god. He walks with purpose, commanding attention through every stride of his long legs and every clunk of his heavy boots on the stage floor.

I’m shaking as I watch him take a seat at the piano bench. Phones emerge, casting little rectangles of light around me.

Griffin sits at the piano for a beat. He’s hesitating. It’s like he’s building anticipation, but no…I know Griffin. This isn’t intentional. His posture is hunched. His chest expands as he pulls in a shaky breath. His hands extend over the keys, and a single note rings out. Bodies push around me. Phone screens glare in my eyes.

He leans closer to the mic. I can hear his rough exhalations scratch over the speakers and across my heart. He’s not doing well. I just know it. I understand Griffin, and he’s tired.

“This one’s for her,” he says. Cracked. Rough.

It’s for me.

My heart claws its way up my throat, and before I can think, I yell, “Griffin!”