“I think you’ll love these guys. They’ve been at it for years.”
“Kinda like that band in Chicago—I’m blanking on the name. Remember them? We saw them the summer after junior year. God, I can’t believe I can’t remember their name.”
“American English.”
Elle tapped Troy’s shoulder playfully. “Yes, that’s it. They were so good.”
“These guys are just as good. Although they don’t have the mop tops.”
Elle scrunched her nose. “I loved the mop tops—it made them authentic.”
“These guys have more of a Sergeant Pepper look.” He gestured to his chin. “Long hair, beards, goatees.”
“Got it.”
When they reached an unclaimed area of grass about twenty yards from the stage, Troy stopped. “Does this work?”
Elle nodded and removed the blanket from her tote. Together, they spread the blanket over the warm grass. Elle was dressed in the most 1960s-chic outfit she could assemble. Cropped pants with a sweater set the color of pink lemonade. Large sunglasses à la Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s rested on the bridge of her nose. Her hair was pulled up into a modern beehive as she embraced the time period and music she adored.
“You know, you’re looking pretty hip this evening. I forgot you like to dress the part for these things.” Troy’s smile appeared genuine, as if he was reminiscing over Elle’s small quirk. She loved that she could evoke pleasant memories for Troy, not just painful ones.
They finished their pizza as the band took the stage. Elle sipped her wine as she sat cross-legged on the blanket. Troy was seated with his legs out in front of him, leaning back on his elbows. They drank and chatted through the show. When the unique chords were struck for “I’ll Follow the Sun,” they were quiet. Troy narrowed his eyes at her; he opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. Elle looked down at the blanket, recognizing that look in his eyes. He was holding something back. Troy didn’t know why she had selected this song as the basis for the books and the show, since he was unaware of his role in the creation of the plot. Or that he had been her muse for ten years. But still, tension lingered between them, and Elle wondered what Troy was thinking.
When the song ended, the band took a short intermission, and the two sat in silence on the blanket. Mothers escorted their children to the bathroom; some couples were packing up their belongings to avoid the traffic after the show. But Elle and Troy said nothing to one another. They simply stared ahead in silence.
“So,” Troy began, clearing his throat. “Why that song?”
“What do you mean?”
“The title of the show . . . and your first book.”
Elle removed her sunglasses and raised an eyebrow. A nervous chuckle escaped Troy’s lips. “You got me. I looked it up on Amazon.”
“Do you really want to know?” Elle’s brow was knitted. She hated that every evening spent with Troy seemed to go back to their heartbreak. Would they ever be able to move forward?
“Yeah, tell me.” Troy was trying to appear nonchalant about the entire thing, but Elle knew better. He wanted to know.
“It’s what I imagined you would say to me . . . after Vegas.”
“Oh.”
Troy knew the lyrics, of that Elle was certain, but she was nervous and felt the need to elaborate. “It’s about this guy, right? And he’s angry, he’s really pissed at this girl who wouldn’t commit to him. So he leaves and he’s not coming back. And he wants her to know it.”
“I know the song, Elle.” Troy’s voice was deep, strained.
“Sorry. Of course you do. It’s just . . . of all the songs we both love, that one is how I imagined you felt about me.”
“Like I wanted nothing to do with you?”
“Yes.”
Troy pressed his fingertips to his forehead. “We should go. Are you ready?”
“But it’s only intermission.”
“I think we should go somewhere private.” Troy paused. “To talk.”
And there it was. She knew what was coming next. They’d go back to his place, where he’d officially break things off between them. He’d cite the lyrics, and thank her for reminding him of the pain he’d felt for years. He’d tell her he never wanted to see her again—that being near her was just too much. He was too angry, and always would be.
The drive back to his house was maddening for Elle. She wanted to scream, to beg, to cry, to do anything to slice the tension in two. But she was too afraid. And deep down, she knew Troy had something to say to her. She needed to give him the opportunity to be heard.
When they entered his apartment, Troy offered her another glass of wine. She walked around his home, wondering if this would be the first and last time she was welcome there. It was the epitome of a bachelor pad. The walls were bare, save for an eight-by-ten school portrait of Payton. Elle walked to the photograph and studied it. She was a beautiful girl with a smile that was the mirror image of her father’s. Her eyes were just as deep in color, and her hair was the color of cinnamon, tucked into an adorable shoulder-length bob.
“Payton goes to private school?” Elle remarked, observing the girl was dressed in a uniform for her photo.
“Yeah.” He handed her a fresh glass of merlot. “Have a seat, okay?”
“Sure.”
Troy walked to his iPod, which sat on a side table next to the couch. Within seconds, the Beatles were singing into the small apartment. He then joined her on the couch.
Elle glanced down at Troy’s hands, wrapped around a glass of scotch. His fingertips were trembling against the glass. She braced herself for the end of whatever this was.
Troy took a deep breath and placed the glass on the table. “I have to tell you something.”
Elle, preparing to become emotional, set her glass next to his on the coffee table. “All right.”
“I should have said this sooner, I should . . . but tonight, when you told me about the song, I just . . . I knew it. I knew it was time.”
“I understand . . .” Elle began. Troy looked at her with confusion, tilting his head slightly. “I should go.”
He reached for her, grabbing her arm. “No, please. Let me say this.”
“Look, I get it, okay? It’s too painful, you can’t be around me because it reminds you of what I put you through. I was hoping we could . . . God, I don’t know what I was hoping for.” Tears formed in her eyes, and she felt like that girl on the other side of the door all over again. The feet were about to shuffle away and she would be left alone with her pain and regret.
“I’ve seen every episode.”
Shock traveled from her brain to her toes. “What?”
“Your books, your show—I lied to you when I said I didn’t know anything about them. I read every book. Twice. Years ago when they were first published.” His eyes were glassy but determined as his hand traveled from her forearm to her wrist. “And I’ve seen every episode of your show. It’s us, Rigby. It’s about us.”
Elle was stunned. Her brain fought to find the right response, but nothing seemed quite right. She was elated, yet confused. He cared enough to read her novels, enough to watch the show. Troy still cared. He didn’t hate her. He didn’t bring her there to cut off ties. He was confessing . . . to caring about her.
Without allowing another thought to creep through her already muddled brain, she lunged at Troy, her mouth crashing into his. His arms wrapped around her back, pulling her to his chest. Her fingers ran greedily through his silky hair. He opened his mouth, deepening the kiss. Elle moaned as his hands moved from her back to her chest, pulling at her sweater, stripping it from her body. His mouth moved to her exposed shoulders, the heat of his tongue waking her cool skin. A shudder ran down her spine and instinctively, she dropped her hands to clutch at the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head, exposing his tan skin. Her eyes gazed down at his firm chest and abdomen.