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My hands shake as I take in the next shot. I’m on his side now, my mouth forming a word I can’t remember, and he’s looking down at me, smiling, laughing at me.
The final shot he’s still smiling, but its soft around the edges. Affectionate, almost. Maybe even sad. And he’s looking at me—like, really looking. It’s as if he’s drinking me in, as if he’s lost and found, as if he’s bathing in the rays of the first day of summer.
And I look… pretty. In a way someone is pretty when they don’t know you’re looking. My head is thrown back, and I’m laughing, my eyes crinkling at the corners.I think about pictures and realise they’re just snaps of a brief second of someone’s life, how it’s impossible to gauge someone’s circumstances just from looking at a picture of them. How misleading and deceitful they can be, and how easy it is to hide the pain and heartbreak just for that flashing moment.
Because even as I look at myself, I don’t feel like that right now. That moment’s passed. But for a fleeting second, as I clung to Chase’s side, I was happy. With complete abandon. Without the weight of my burdens anchoring me to the ground.
Chase stares at them for some time. I wander to grab another drink—a bottle of wine to last me a few hours—and when I return, he sits on a tree trunk, elbows braced on knees, and looks down at the last picture.
‘You didn’t buy all three, did you?’
‘I did.’ His voice is quiet.
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re beautiful,’ he says candidly. He looks at me, and I’m cast back to that night with Archer on my porch. ‘I’m sorry if that’s weird—‘
‘No, it’s…’ My throat tightens. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I don’t just mean physically,’ he goes on. ‘You’re just beautiful. All of you. Everything about you. And I know you were surprised to see that beauty in yourself, because I watched you look at this picture, so I bought it in the hopes it’ll remind you, every day. Every time you look at it. Tape it to your ceiling—I don’t give a shit. But you should see what everyone else sees.’
My head empties. ‘What about the other two?’
He chuckles. ‘They’re hilarious. On this one you’re just legs, and this one perfectly captures the moment you realise you’re going to fall on your ass. I think I might frame them.’
I want to punch his arm again, but his words pang through me like a toll, rooting me to the spot. I swallow my giddiness and say, ‘We should head over so we can get close to the stage.’
He seems almost reluctant to pry his gaze from the picture in his hands.
???
I must say, bottles of wine are so much better than cups, because they cancel out the need to filter back to the bar for another drink, and they get me to a merry stage where I’m not too drunk. That being said, much to my own dismay and probably the wicked delight of my pea-sized bladder, I need a piss every twenty minutes.
Thankfully I don’t really know any songs by Glass Animals, so I’m not missing out or anything, but I’m worried I’ll lose Chase in the crowd.
We’ve managed to squeeze our way nearly to the front, and although we’ve established a rendezvous—parallel to the Union Jack flag on the right of the stage—some people refuse to let me pass because they want all the fun for themselves.
Each time, Chase pops his head above the sea of people and waves and calls, ‘Frankie Fart Fringe!’
When I reach his side, I receive glares from nearby girls, as if they’ve been trying their hand with him. But I’m not angry at them; I’m smug. Let them think he’s my boyfriend, that I’ve pulled someone as gorgeous as him.
I’m not sure Chase even notices their discreet, heated glances.
Glass Animals play their last song, but the rift of the guitar fades into a different tune—one I’m more familiar with.
The crowd erupts as the darkness on the stage is chased away by blinding lights, and Snow Patrol stand there.
I scream and jump up onto my tiptoes.
They weren’t even on the line-up! Right now, I’m so glad I didn’t leave. That I refused to let Archer ruin my weekend. What would I have achieved if Chase had taken me home? I doubt Archer would answer my calls. He’d completely blank me. And I’d just be curled in my bed, probably crying and wondering what the fuck I’d done wrong and how to make things better.
God, imagine if I’d worn a turtle-neck and jeans and then I couldn’t change because he’d taken my clothes?
Ugh.
The guy in front is at least six-feet of lank and legs. As if he needs that hat and those lace-up boots that stretch all the way to his knees. It’s like he’s deliberately been dumped in front of me to stop me from seeing anything—
I squeal as Chase bends and throws me onto his shoulders. This time he only grunts as I clutch his hair, but when he reaches full height, I let go to shout in his ear above the music, ‘Thought I told you to stop picking up random girls and putting them on your shoulders!’
