Page 3 of Glass Wings

“You’re grunting.”

I turn my head, meeting her eyes, and she rolls hers, but then she leans her head against my shoulder like she always does, and I slip my hand to her thigh, squeezing once.

For a minute, it’s quiet. The city outside is loud and flashy, but inside the car, it’s just the hum of the AC, Harley’s perfume, and her hand searching for mine.

When we pull up to the gates, it hits us immediately—the spring heat and humidity, blaring noise, and hundreds of bodies. Music from the main stage is pounding even this far out, shaking the concrete like a never-ending earthquake, and the air smells like sunscreen, fried food, and spilled alcohol.

Harley’s already grinning, tugging me out of the car before I’ve even unbuckled. She throws a thank-you over her shoulder to the driver, grabs my hand, and drags me toward the entrance like a kid dragging a parent into Disney World. Yet, this is nothing like Disney World. I’d much rather be there; these festival vibes are a lot and coming at me all at once.

Kennedy finds us before we even scan our tickets.

“Harley!” she squeals, blonde ponytail bouncing as she launches herself into Harley’s arms. “You made it!” Kennedy steps back, eyeing Harley’s outfit like a stylist approving a client. “You look so cute.”

Harley blushes, and I bite back a comment. Kennedy doesn’t know about the anorexia. She doesn’t know that her scrutiny only makes it worse, and I can’t break Harley’s trust by telling Kennedy.

Then I see him—the boyfriend. Miami guy.

Ethan is leaning against the VIP entrance, designer sunglasses perched on his perfect face and Rolex flashing in the sun. His shirt probably cost more than my truck.

“Ethan,” Harley says, tugging me forward.

He shakes my hand, smile smooth as butter. “You must be Easton. Glad you guys came. I’ve got the wristbands; we’re headed into VIP.”

I glance at Harley, then at the sleek tented area beyond the gates, and force a polite nod. For my Little Bird, I’ll play nice, even though every bone in my body is telling me this is a bad idea.

The VIP lounge isn’t what I pictured.

It’s worse.

There’s a velvet rope and a bouncer with a QR scanner that confirms your wristband isn’t fake, almost like we’re walking into an exclusive nightclub. Inside the tented area, couches line the edges with many low tables covered in half-empty bottles and melting ice buckets. There’s a DJ close by, music pulsing so deep it rattles the floor under my sneakers.

Ethan flashes a smile, hands out the wristbands, and the bouncer waves us in without so much as checking IDs.

Kennedy’s eyes go wide. “God, this is insane,” she says, tugging Harley along. “We’ve got bottle service.”

She says it like it’s magic, like the word “service” means luxury.

I keep my hand on the small of Harley’s back as we move through the crowd, her shoulders brushing sequined strangers.

“Drinks?” Ethan asks, already flagging down a waitress with a tray of cocktails.

Kennedy squeals, grabbing a glass before she even sits down. Harley takes one too, a bright orange glass that smells like sugar and tequila.

I didn’t plan on drinking today; I wanted to be alert just in case.

I plant myself next to Harley and scan the room. VIP or not, it’s the same chaos: music too loud, people too loose, and too many hands reaching for too many things.

Ethan’s off again, clapping one of his “friends” on the back, laughing like they’ve known each other for years. He’s talking fast, drinking faster.

Harley and Kennedy are already on their feet, tugging each other toward the dance area just outside the lounge.

“Come dance with me, handsome,” Harley says, her voice bright, hopeful.

I shake my head, leaning back against the couch. “Not yet, baby.”

She smiles, leans down to press a soft kiss to my lips, and then she’s gone, hair flying as Kennedy drags her toward the mass of people swaying deliriously to the beat.

For a minute, I let myself relax. I watch my girl laughing and smiling. In this moment, she’s so alive, and maybe, just maybe, I start to think it’s wrong of me to be so uptight about being here.