Page 53 of The Downside of Love
“Gah!” Ryan squeals. “Mine too.”
“And she’s not lying just to please you,” I add. “There was a road trip we took to Fort Collins where she played it for at least half of the car ride, trying to memorize every word and note.”
“I have no shame admitting that.” Turning toward me, Ryan smiles and says, “Rory, let me guess . . . ‘Hey Jude?’”
I shake my head. “That’s my second favorite. “Let it Be”has to be my favorite. I can remember listening to it on replay after some of Bryan’s more difficult meltdowns.” I briefly shut my eyes, recounting the memories of lying in my bed, headphones over my ears, eyes closed, listening to the lyrics, profound and meaningful to me.
When I turn to Stryder to find out his favorite Beatles song, I find his gaze intent on mine, a softness to his features, an appreciative understanding. It’s so intense, I have to look away. “What about you, Stryder?”
Without skipping a beat, I can feel his eyes on me when he answers, “’I Want to Hold Your Hand.’”
A side glance in his direction causes my stomach to flip mercilessly. Seeing those blue eyes cutting through me, there’s a sense of seriousness in his answer, almost as if he’s trying to tell me . . . thathewants to holdmyhand.
I shake it off, though. I’m seeing things. Stryder is my friend, that’s all. He’s a very close friend, one of my best friends actually, if I think about it. He’s one of the first people I think about telling something to, and one of the first people I want to hang out with, so when he told me about tonight, I jumped right on it. And it wasn’t simply because of the music, but because I see glimpses of the old Stryder. I want to soak him up as much as possible, keep him present as much as possible. But also in that moment, I think back to my mom’s words, which have often been on repeat most days. She’s checked in with me each day, and every time I mention Stryder, she seems to quiet. But not in anger. It’s almost in awe or appreciation.
He cares for you, sweetie . . . he doesn’t have a lot of people in his life . . . you are one of few he actually cares about . . . he has a beautiful heart, a heart that you hold a piece of.
“I love that song too,” Ryan says, interrupting the minor stare down between Stryder and me. “What did you guys bring?” Ryan surveys the cooler we brought, as if she’s trying to see through it.
I smooth out the blanket on the grass next to them, Stryder taking one side and straightening it. “Just some sandwiches, chips, and drinks.”
“And s’mores fixings,” Stryder adds, surprising me.
“S’mores fixings?”
Smirking, he nods and takes a seat on the blanket, casually leaning back on his hands.
“How do you plan on making s’mores without a fire?” Ryan asks.
“I have my ways.”
* * *
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen,” Ryan says, watching Stryder melt marshmallows on a fork with a long-reach lighter. “But genius.”
Stryder carefully takes the roasted marshmallow and puts it on a graham cracker with chocolate, smashes it with another graham cracker, and then hands it to me. Ryan is chowing down on hers. Brad passed, something about not liking s’mores, and now it’s my turn. Watching me intently, he sets up another marshmallow for himself.
“Go ahead. I promise it’s good.”
Knowing I can trust him, I take a big bite. Of course, crumbs fall past my mouth, melted marshmallow sticks to my upper lip, and chocolate oozes to the side. I never claimed to have class.
Smiling brightly, those eyes crinkled in the corners, he says, “Good, right?”
Through a mouthful of s’more, I say, “So good.”
The Philharmonic started playing songs half an hour ago, lighting up the area with tunes from the past. There are couples dancing up front, people swaying back and forth in their lawn chairs, and a rowdy bunch over near the beer tent, singing and enjoying their time in the park.
On stage, artists trade off singing with the orchestra, bringing the songs to life with unique vocals, some that match The Beatles so well, it’s uncanny.
The weather is perfect, not too cold, but I can feel a nip in the air as the sun sets behind us to the west, behind the front range of the Rocky Mountains.
This was what I needed, to get out of my apartment, hang out with friends, and enjoy the fresh mountain air while listening to great music.
I take another bite of my s’more, enjoying the campfire treat brought to life at the concert with a fork and a long-reach lighter. Such a cute surprise.
“Want to get a beer?” Brad asks Ryan, who is licking her fingers, popping them from her lips.
“Would love one.” She turns to us. “Want to get a beer?”
