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Elijah’s eyes meet mine and I swear the whole world stops. Then he says, “What were we talking about?”
“The internet,” I choke out. A wave of light-headedness makes me lean on the railing harder.
“Ah, yeah.” His tongue flits across his bottom lip. “I’m not really a fan.”
“We wouldn’t be here if it didn’t exist,” I say. He laughs, his skin vibrating next to mine.
“True. Very true. I guess I have to like it a little bit.”
“Only a little?” I say, pouting. “The internet brought you Sasha.”
“And you.”
The way he gazes at me makes my heart stop. The air goes cold, the only warmth coming from his hand as he slides it around my waist, tugging me off the railing and against his body. On stage, the curtains whoosh open behind me, the sound of JJ’s drums and the roar of the crowd drowning out the silence between Elijah and me.
“The band is starting,” I whisper. Somehow he hears me, because he nods.
“I see that.”
“We should probably watch it.”
He nods, his other hand sliding around my waist until he’s holding me so tightly not even the crowd could knock me over.
I swear I’m not breathing.
“Just one more thing,” he says, his eyes dropping to my lips. I breathe in, my entire body ablaze, and then he does it. With just a tilt of his head, he closes that tiny space between our lips.
My hands slide up his chest, up Sasha’s shirt, and they grab his face and hold it tightly as he kisses me, his lips moving like he’s always done this, like kissing me is as natural as breathing.
A guitar rhythm plays and the crowd jumps, and Elijah kisses me like we’re all alone in this packed room.
The lead singer, Andre, introduces the band, and I know we should stop. We should turn around and watch the show, but I’ve never wanted something so badly in my life. We don’t stop kissing until Andre says, “I dedicate the first song to this couple in the front. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”
I break away from Elijah and look back, my head spinning and my body reeling, and find Andre looking straight at me.
He winks.
Chapter Nineteen
Nothing can kill my high for the next week — not even the ever-pressing and gnawing fact that Elijah hasn’t contacted me since the concert. He’d promised that he would try and told me not to give up on him.
Something in his eyes made me believe in him. Sasha’s eyes wouldn’t betray me, not ever. Her brother’s won’t either.
I’m going on with my days, school and work and school and work, and I’m pretending like everything is peachy. Sasha has more adventures for us, and Elijah promised to be at every one, no matter how crazy his life at home became or how many extra shifts he picked up at the body shop. He finally admitted that he’s been working more to save up money for college tuition, or at least the computer he’ll no doubt need once classes start.
I swallow a lump in my throat and drag the broom across the floor at Izzy’s, sweeping up glitter, ribbon cuttings and little pieces of floral tape. After the concert, Elijah and I had a wonderful time together. We held hands and walked to a coffee shop that had a poetry reading on the balcony. We didn’t kiss any more after that earth-shattering embrace in front of the lead singer of Zombie Radio, but something in us changed. Now I know he wasn’t avoiding me.
Still, no matter how passionate he seemed when he promised that he was fine, that he’d be there for Sasha’s next adventure, I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. It’s hard knowing someone isn’t accessible every second of the day, thanks to cell phones and social media. This distance truly keeps us from getting to know each other.
The bells on the door jingle, so I abandon my broom in the back of the shop and head up front. Izzy is at a chiropractor’s appointment this afternoon, and she’s left me in charge for the first time ever.
I open my mouth to greet the customer. Then I see a sweep of white-blond hair and yet another velour tracksuit, so I rush up and hug her instead.
“Mrs. Cade!” The real flowers all around us are no match for her floral perfume. It has a nostalgic appeal that will always make me feel at home. “How are you?” I ask, instead of What are you doing here?, which is on the tip of my tongue. I know why she’s here: because the flowers on Sasha’s grave need to be updated. It just sucks to be reminded.
“Sweetheart, I’m doing just fine,” she says, releasing me with a good squeeze on my arms first. “How’s business?”
“Everyone wants black roses for Halloween,” I say, glancing toward the wall of the shop that we’ve decorated for the holiday. “It’s kind of morbid.”
