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Later I’ll have bruises from where he tightens his grip on my hand. Later my fingers will ache from where he crushes them.
Cassie snatches the bottle from my hand and shoots me a disgusted look as she bins it.
God, why is everyone so up-tight?
Archer watches Pale Waves in angry silence. I grin the entire time, mainly because I have a decent view of Dave’s blue head, mainly because Archer’s quiet is just ridiculous. Chase disappears into the crowd somewhere, and Cassie, Demi, Brian, and Greg execute the can-can in off-kilter procession.
I like the atmosphere here. There’s just something about all these people coming together to share music that makes me look around and smile. For once, no one cares about ethnicity or race or sexuality; music brings them together, and for a brief moment the world seems so simple. This is one of those moments where time pauses and suspends so you can truly admire the present. You’re not dwelling on tomorrow’s worries—you’re here, and you’re alive, and you’re breathing, and that’s all there is.
I can’t help but admire the outfits some women have the confidence to wear—albeit with reluctant envy. And I can’t help but notice Archer’s gaze wandering—at one point he deliberately leans around me to stare at a girl in a skin-tight jumpsuit.
And he wants me to wear jeans. Even if I did oblige his demands, I bet he’d find a bone to pick. I don’t think he’d be satisfied unless I’m in bubble wrap with one of those metal cages covering my lady garden.
I snort at the thought.
‘Want another drink?’ I ask, because I know if I were to just wander off, he’d follow.
He nods without looking at me.
I go to the bar, but I don’t get him a drink; I grab myself a bottle of wine, glance at him so I know he’s not watching, and squeeze into the crowd.
Because fuck him, that’s why.
Two young men let me in between them just as George Ezra steps onto the stage. The men match my excitement as I scream and hold my bottle above my head. I throw my head back and laugh as empty plastic cups fly over me and spatter me with saliva and beer, as an inflatable alligator soars above the crowd, as a blown-up condom bounces from person to person. Someone even throws a shoe around.
I thought I didn’t know a single song by George Ezra, but it turns out I know most. I sing and dance and scream and my chest feels light and I completely forget about Archer. I’m singing with two strangers beneath the stars.
By now Archer will wonder where I am. He’ll look for me. He’ll go to the bar and ask if anyone has seen a girl with pink hair and brown roots. His night will be consumed with finding me, and I’m glad.
I’ve ruined his night, just like he’d ruined mine.
I’m sweating and gasping and laughing and I lobbed my bottle into the crowd somewhere by the time George finishes his set and the crowd begins to disperse. I hear my name, and for a wild moment the severity of abandoning Archer slams into me.
But Chase waves at me and makes his way towards me—
Suddenly, something squeezes my ass.
Not something—a hand.
A hand belonging to one of the young men who’d let me stand between them.
I feel his friend’s fingers trace up my leg, up my inner thigh—
I stagger back, and my mouth moves but I’m not sure what I’m saying.
‘Frankie?’ Chase seizes my hand and turns me to face him. ‘What’s wrong?’
I’m so relived he’s here I nearly sag into him. ‘Please.’ Why the fuck am I crying? ‘Please help me—‘
His hands cup my cheeks. ‘It’s okay. I’m here. Tell me what happened.’
‘They… they touched me—‘
‘Who?’ The word is a deadly growl.
‘I don’t know—‘ I glance around and point. ‘Them. It was them.’
He releases me and steps forward.
