Page 37 of I Saw You First

This is going to be so much better. I slide my arms around Wil’s neck and for long, long moments—“Purple Rain” is a very long song—we sway together. I nuzzle into his neck, and he lets out a long breath. At some point, we stop moving and stand in each other’s hold, like we’re freezing time. I’m so desperate for this connection, this feeling, this swizzle.

I’ve never been more disappointed than when the final notes resonate, the crowd goes proverbially wild, Wil steps back, and that’s it. Life goes back to what I now recognize as its usual dull, empty, cold grayness, my cells aching for his touch, for color.

Ruh-Roh calls the Creepshow Five guys back on stage for the encore, another catchy one called “Little Titty Ditty” (hard not to roll my eyes at that one), a shock to the system after the sweeping, moving melancholy of “Purple Rain.” I glance at Wil, but he’s staring straight ahead, not looking at me.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” I yell over the pounding bassline, which sounds a teensy bit like “Rapper’s Delight” by The Sugarhill Gang. “I’ll meet you back over by the guys.”

I stand in front of the mirror in the women’s room. My hair sticks to my temples with sweat. My cheeks are pink. “No,” I tell my reflection. “Do not get sucked in. He is your boss.”

“Girl, that is always a mistake,” says a white woman with a hot pink updo, cherry lips, and a Ruh-Roh T-shirt cropped so high, it shows the undersides of her voluptuous breasts. I somehow hadn’t even noticed her at the next sink. “I suppose he’s married, too. Men are the worst.” She blows me a kiss and walks out of the restroom.

Married to his job, maybe. I retie the blouse mid-stomach. It’s practically chaste compared to that crop top. I smooth a hand down my belly, slightly self-conscious at the pale skin but impressed with the strength of my abs, something I haven’t felt since I worked out at the university gym.

After a few deep breaths, I leave the restroom and start back down the stairs. I scan the crowd to find my friends, but what I see stops me short.

Wil, in a Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt, one half of his face bathed in blue light from the stage. Just like the first night we met. I remember his smile when he told me his favorite Beatles album was Abbey Road. The image fills me with longing and melancholy and the physical ache of yearning, a tightness in my chest.

I like him so much, even if he is 70 percent grump. He’s so smart. I like his taste in music, and his drive, and the way he saved me from certain death. And let’s not forget those sexy glasses. And more than anything, I wish I didn’t like him.

“Thanks for coming out tonight, Minneapolis!” Ruh-Roh yells into the microphone at the end of the song. “We’re going to Lee’s Liquor Lounge after the show if anybody cares to join us.”

The lights come up and snap me out of my daze. I blink against the brightness and start down the stairs again. A skunky haze hangs in the air, and I feel pounding behind my eyes. It takes a long time to get back to my teammates.

Wil leans into my ear so I can hear him above the buzz of the crowd. “You sure you’re okay?”

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. I may never be okay again, not after “Purple Rain.”

We make our way out from the middle of the crowded dance floor. Wil keeps one hand on either side of my waist, like I might float away if he lets go. And honestly, I feel like I might, dizzy and swizzly and confused. When we finally make it outside, I pull away and take deep, gulping breaths of colder, only slightly fresher air.

God, how I wish things could be different.

TWELVE

“TALK TO ME” BY TIM MAHONEY, 1995

ABBEY

Aurora holds an unlit cigarette in between the fingers of one hand and a Telxon inventory scanner in the other, ready for battle. We’re in the media warehouse, standing in front of three pallets stacked higher than I ever thought possible: endless plastic totes filled with product we don’t need, what the distribution center called a “cycle malfunction.” I’m both awed and terrified.

I swallow hard. “Want me to start on this?”

“Not yet,” Aurora says. “Not like it’s going anywhere. Cover Courtney’s lunch first.”

Aurora is somehow the most laid-back person I’ve ever met and the most tightly wound. She’ll sigh with resignation over missing signs and say, “What can you do?” but stress-smoke when she finds out someone from corporate is stopping by to look at a planogram or set up a display mock-up, then she’ll rail on us for five minutes about all the things we need to fix before they arrive. Sometimes, it’s an entire group of ultra-trendy twenty-something women wearing chunky-heeled loafers and floral scarves who show up and throw out sales and marketing buzzwords, talk about the “fan experience,” and gush over the latest Celine Dion release. And we all know how I feel about Celine Dion. Cesar calls them the Clunky Shoe Brigade.

We leave the warehouse for the sales floor so I can cover Courtney’s lunch. Aurora’s on her way outside for a smoke break, I’m sure. As we near the media desk, she slows and grabs my arm. Courtney, who’s back from four days off, squares off with Wil, her arms crossed.

“Uh-oh,” Aurora says. She pulls me into one of the CD aisles. “He must have broken the news about your promotion.”

“This is bullshit! I’ve worked here for three years,” Courtney yells, “and you promoted her? Sure, Wil, promote the new girl because she’s hot and you’ve got a thing for redheads!”

Aurora looks at me, her mouth dropping open and her eyes wide.

“Redheads? I’m not a redhead, am I?” I whisper. I don’t hate that Courtney thinks I’m hot, or even that Wil has a thing for me, but I’ve never thought of myself as a redhead.

“In certain light, yes,” Aurora whispers back.

“Woman,” Wil says, “not girl.”