Page 79 of All The Ways to Miss You

She laughs, her head lolling back.

I sit up and match her stiffened postured so I can be closer to her. Then I whisper, “I don’t like them either, because you’re perfect the way you are . . . well, except for your dancing. It sucks.”

She gasps and punches my arm but then giggles again. Her shoulders slump inward before she uncrosses her legs. Now they’re crossed at her ankles, her knees pointing toward me. The wine is warming her, making her relax.

As we chat about family, school, and jobs, we finish off the bottle. An hour later, we lock the house, flag down a taxi, and rush to our next destination. A flickering streetlight highlights several trash dumpsters and two brick walls filled with graffiti. A crumpled newspaper tumbles over our feet in a breeze from Lake Michigan.

“This is the big surprise way you’ll prove your fun-ness? An alley in Wrigleyville?” She’s tipsy and acting goofy, a side of her I haven’t experienced, but I like it. It makes her clingy.

She reaches for my hand. Our fingers twine together, our warm palms press tight. My bones are doing that thing again. They’re buzzing with the excitement of being near her and now touching her. I suck in a breath and think of baseball and the grand slam Montero hit in the World Series. It’ll keep my mind off of kissing her. It’s not the right time yet.

I knock on the metal door. A black sign with white letters reads Stage Door. After a few moments, it bursts open and a rush of heat pours out, along with music that floods the alley. My friend Devon fills the doorway. He’s all muscle, and bounces for clubs at night and delivers flowers at the hospital by day. Despite his thick neck, matching tattoo sleeves, and gruff voice, he’s a softy.

“Dude, you’re late,” he says.

“Sorry, man.” Inside, I introduce Cait, and they exchange quick pleasantries.

“Can’t hang tonight, but you know the deal,” he says.

“No worries. We’ll stay out of the way.”

He rushes off toward a loud commotion, leaving Cait and me alone, but she’s already drawn toward the music coming from the other side of a black velvet curtain. She leans onto a large equipment box with a blank stare on her face, stealing a peek of the stage.

“Holy crap. Is that who I think it is?” Her gaze swings to me, her eyes like saucers. She’s found my surprise, the band that’s onstage performing—The Cure. “How did you know they were my favorite?”

“You play their music nonstop, so I thought you’d like this.” I play it cool, but I knew how much this would mean to her. I’m trying to prove myself, and I hope it’s working.

“I guess I can give you a few fun points for this, but only a few,” she teases.

I thread my fingers with hers and lead her through the venue. We emerge at the front of the crowd near the stage. We’re so close that if she wanted, she could touch the lead singer with his far-reaching spidery black hair, rings of dark eye shadow, and smeared red lips.

Cait nears the stage, singing the words to the song “Friday I’m in Love.” I press behind her as she bounces with the music. Her hair is so close, so bouncy, I can smell her candy-scented shampoo. I slide my arms around her waist and settle my chin on her shoulder as the band plays their entire backlist. I’ve never seen her so happy or smiley.

When they play the song “Mint Car,” she turns around and sings, “Kiss me. Now!” She slides her arms around my neck and settles her petal-soft lips over mine. When her mouth parts and we deepen our kiss, I lean into her, tasting the lingering wine on her tongue. Now I’ve never been so happy or smiley.

It’s when the song ends with a cheering crowd that she eases away and says, “Thank you. This is the best birthday gift ever.”

“Birthday? Are you joking?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know.” She sways her shoulders.

“I swear. I didn’t.” If I did, I would have planned something even bigger.

“Then I guess you win more fun points for being sweet and thoughtful, no matter what day it is.” She traces her fingertip over my bottom lip, and I swear it’s all I can do not to capture it with my teeth and then devour her.

At the concert, we drink, we sing, and when she attempts her crazy cat dance, I try it too. I admit, it’s kind of fun.

Around one a.m., I practically carry Cait back to our apartment. With her arm over my shoulder, I lead her to her bedroom and settle her on the edge of the bed. I’ve laughed so much tonight, my face hurts.

She’s a little drunk, so I kneel down and help her take off her heels. I toss them aside and her weight falls into me, her forehead banging into mine. I right her by bracing her shoulders. She’s been rambling the entire trip home. Her drunk filter is on, which for Cait means she has zero filter. She’s been telling me everything about her life. Some details she’ll probably wish she didn’t.

“How did you arrange the concert so fast?” she slurs.

“I had already planned it, but you messed things up by leaving with Steph.”

“Nice save.” She shimmies out of her jacket in slow, awkward movements. I toss it on a nearby chair.

“My turn for a question,” I say, kneeling in front of her. “Why don’t you have any friends?”