I sigh and give him an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. My editor thought it would be better if a real writer was accredited.”
“And that’s who Neil is?” His voice is oh so coarse, like he’s about to find Neil and punch his lights out.
“I work with him,” I explain, trying not to seem affected by it all. “He edited it. And I guess my name on the byline would have lowered credibility or something. I don’t know. But if that’s the case, it’s better that it happened this way. I don’t want to take away from what you guys are doing.”
He makes a noise of agreement, nodding his head quickly, though his expression doesn’t relax and his body is still tense. “I think it would have been better if it were truthful. I didn’t do the interview with some cunt named Neil.” His voice lowers. “I did it with you. You should have gotten all the credit.”
My heart is fluttering. I don’t know if it’s because he’s getting mad that I wasn’t rightfully attributed or it’s that his eyes won’t quite look away from mine. I can feel his anger, his frustration. For me.
“I know,” I say slowly. “But there’s not much I can do.”
“I could talk to your editor. He sounds like a real fuckhead. I could put some sense into him.”
Put some sense into him or knock some sense into him? His jaw is clenched, looking volatile. Against my better judgement, I reach out and touch his arm, just briefly, my fingertips resting on his wrist. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I’m the ad girl. That’s my job. And it will stay my job.”
He takes a step closer, his face suddenly in mine, and he squints at me for a moment. “But I can tell,” he says, “that you’re not okay with that. Are you?”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…fought for in my whole life.
I blink at him and he pulls back. “It is what it is,” he says, finally looking away. “And what it is, is what you make it.”
My mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “You sound like my mom.”
“Then your mother is very wise,” he says, seeming calmer now. His eyes brighten. “Want a taco?”
I beam at him. “Yes, please.”
We walk up and join the gang who are still in line for the street food. Lachlan and Linden greet each other with a quick hug and a pat on the back, while Steph takes me aside for a second.
“What were you talking about?” she whispers excitedly.
“Just the article,” I tell her, watching Lachlan. “Why?”
She tugs at my arm and grins at me. “Because, he was totally in your face. I thought he was going to kiss you.”
I give her a look. “Again, how old are we?”
“Right,” she says, leaning back and crossing her arms with her “don’t even” face. “How come Carrie and Samantha could giggle over men on Sex and the City, and we can’t? We’re the same age. Same problems.”
“And I’m still Samantha,” I say with a sigh, remembering years ago when Steph, Nicola, and I would binge watch the show for days on end. Fictional or not, the girls were who we aspired to be. Pretty, fun, carefree, and living the life in a big city. The single life always seemed a lot more fun when someone else was living it.
After Lachlan buys me my taco and I gracefully refrain from any pink taco or fish taco jokes, we head toward the main stage where the VIP area is.
It’s like a whole other world in those white tents. Not only are there cushy seats and a range of bartenders serving up whatever drinks you could want (not free though, which is kind of a rip-off), but you’re constantly looking around in hopes of spotting a celebrity.
Of course, most of the people in here with us are splurging or people who have been gifted the passes, so any hopes of seeing someone like Sam Smith or Elton John are dashed. We grab more drinks—Lachlan opting for a bottle of water—and head down to the bleachers beneath the tents that overlook the field and the main stage. From this vantage point, we have an excellent view of the current band, some hipster shit that has everyone waving their hands and glow sticks.
I’m at the end, sitting next to Lachlan, no accident on my part. I kick him playfully with my foot, and when he turns his head to look at me, I’m momentarily stunned by how close his face is to mine. His beautiful, gorgeous face. It makes my blood run with mercury.
I smile before I can speak, trying not to focus on his lips. “So you said you’re a music fan,” I say, my mouth moving carefully. “What kind of music do you like?”
His brows lift, and it’s then that I notice part of the reason he looks so intense all the time. His pupils always seem to be enlarged, dark and huge. It gives his eyes another layer of intensity.
“Oh, all sorts,” he says in his rough voice. At this proximity I can feel it in my bones. “I like people with a lot of soul. The performers. The ones with stories to tell, even if they aren’t their own.” He pauses and looks out at the crowds, passing his hand over his beard. “Tom Waits, for one. Nick Cave. Jack White, even. A lot of the classics, too, the good old soul singers with the voices that hit you right here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. “What about you?”
“I’m kind of a nerd,” I say.
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I’m not so big on rock or pop or anything like that. I just love classical. Composers. Anything with strings and a piano, really.”
“That’s not nerdy,” he says, shaking his head.
“No? Well, I for sure can’t tell you what’s on the radio,” I admit. “But I know what kind of music makes me feel.”
He tilts his body closer to mine, his elbows resting on his knees, bottle of water in his hands. His thigh taps mine. “Do you know who Ryuichi Sakamoto is?”
“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “My mother is Japanese. Of course I know who he is. And even if she wasn’t, and she didn’t play the soundtrack to The Last Emperor over and over again while growing up, I would still know who he is.”
He nods appreciatively. “I saw him in Edinburgh a few years ago. Small theatre. Amazing show.”
“Quit bragging,” I tease.
He flashes me a smile and we go back to watching the set.
Time flies by and the festival grows to epic proportions. During Sam Smith I’m feeling buzzed from another glass of wine and I find myself swaying back and forth against Lachlan’s shoulders to the music. He’s so damn solid and he doesn’t shy away.
It’s dark out when Sir Elton John comes on, opening with “Benny and the Jets.” The crowd goes nuts. I go nuts. It’s impossible not to sing along to every single song, and it’s like every person around us is singing along too, hugging each other, drunk and happy and united by Elton.
It’s probably the wine bolstering my courage, but when “Your Song” comes on, I lean into Lachlan and put my head on his shoulder. He tenses for a moment and I hear him suck in his breath. I pray he doesn’t move, doesn’t shrug me off.
Then he exhales and relaxes. I can feel his beard brush against my hair as he turns his head to look down at me. I close my eyes, thinking I can fall asleep right here. With this song, with my head on his shoulder.
It feels beyond right. It feels like an answer to a question I never knew I asked.
He shifts ever so slightly and puts his arm around my waist, holding me to him.
My heart leaps, my whole body fizzing like champagne. Never has such a simple gesture turned me inside out like this. I can’t help but smile with pure unfiltered joy, still mouthing the words to the song. I don’t want anything to change. I want the song to go on forever, the concert to never end. I want to stay in this spot until the end of time, his large, strong arm around me, holding me to him like I’m being sheltered against the world.
And, for some reason, time does seem to still. In the dark, with the colorful lights from the stage flashing, with this tune, with this man, time stretches on. Whatever worries and cares I had before, they’re gone in this moment.