Page 69 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
Liv and I both go still. A tiny scoff-laugh escapes from my lips, glossy and agape.
It’s my first time at one of these things, but by the way Liv’s mouth also dangles wide, it’s safe to assume the wannabe Instagram model running onstage to straddle Evan at his drum set isn’t part of the band’s usual programming.
She pushes her exposed cleavage against Evan’s bare chest, and Evan, to his credit, continues to play expertly. The crowd’s at a fever pitch at this show within the show.
The final cymbal is still reverberating through the club as she throws her head back, expectantly. Without missing a beat, Evan’s tongue sets out on a path from her bra up to her awaiting mouth.
I’m flushed and a little breathless from my earlier thoughts and the overtly sexual energy shift in the room that’s left me even more eager. All I can muster is a head tilt and an inquisitory, “Huh,” as I continue staring at the stage.
Liv and I watch them go at it for a while before my hand finds my back pocket to order a lifeline out of this place where I’d only ever been a visitor. I try not to look too excited as I brave my next words.
“Will you kill me if I go?”
“That depends.” Liv points a red manicured nail toward my phone. “Are you going home?”
When I quirk my brow suggestively, she swats me before pulling me into a sticky hug. “Finally! Go. Have fun.”
“I love you, you know that?” And though I’ve said it to her countless times, it sounds like a revelation. I’m always going to love her.
Liv brings both her palms to her lips to blow all her love right back to me.
The guys start their next song as I make my way toward the exit shouting, “Thank Travis for the drinks. And Evan for the show.”
And when I look back for the last time, everything is just as it should be—only one body behind the drum set, Liv already making her way backstage, and me, requesting what’s sure to be the most expensive Lyft I’ve ever taken. All the way back to Connecticut.
Because it was never going to be Evan.
Me:Hey. What’s your address?
21
I had an almost ninety-minute drivefrom Manhattan to East Norwalk to change my mind. To tell him I hadn’t been serious, that I’d ordered another drink and forgotten I’d sent the text at all.
But that’s not what I do.
The Toyota Corolla (Plate #: YBX326) pulls into a familiar parking lot—but it’s way past closing time and pitch-black inside. My driver catches my eye in the mirror, awaiting instructions I don’t have to give. I’m just as confused why we ended up here as he is. And for the first time in my life I wonder if this guy’s worriedImight be the murderer.
I smile my reassurance with a quick apology, promising to reroute our destination toward home…
But then, I decide to be braver:
Me:You gave me the address to the garage?
Ro:Oh shit you really came!
A light flips on inside, illuminating a window over the lobby. My insides flutter and I roll my eyes at myself a little for it.
I beat Ro to the door, but after only a second or two, there’s movement behind the glass. He hasn’t turned on the lights, so he’s still mostly shrouded in black, but I know the exact instant he sees me. I feel it before I see it—his smile, setting the world on fire.
We study each other through the door for too long. Each of us giving the other one last chance to back out, but our eyes are locked, unwavering, and our bodies are still. The shake of his head is almost imperceptible as he reaches a decision of his own, turning the dead bolt to open the door wide.
With nothing separating us now, I lose whatever calm I’d been channeling. I’d felt so sure before, and I am, but I’m also suddenly very aware that I don’t know what to do with my hands.
Ro steps beside me to wave off the driver I hadn’t noticed still waiting in the lot. My body trills with electricity. Awakening at how he’s taken the lead with that simple act. There’s no going back now—and that had been Ro’s decision as much as it had been mine to come. When his hand falls, he rests it at my back, ushering me inside. His touch feels exactly the way I remember. Almost unremarkable in its easy belonging. Yet I’m certain that I could pick his prints out of a lineup for how his fingers brand me.
When he applies the tiniest whisper of pressure at my spine, I sink into his touch willingly.
“You coming?” he asks, his lips at my ear.
