up there.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“The last time I saw Patrick before this summer, we were jumping off bleachers and rolling down the hill to make ourselves dizzy. Everything’s so different now. In a good way, I mean. It’s cool.”
“Definitely,” she says. “He’s been practicing all week for you. But as usual, I didn’t tell you that.” She smiles.
“What do you—”
“How you all doin’ tonight, Red Falls?” Patrick’s opening chords interrupt, alighting the Luna’s crowd in a blaze of cheers and whistles. I wave away the question and sit forward in my chair, ready to clap and cheer and join in on the big Red Falls welcome as Patrick dives into the first song.
And oh my God .
Patrick can sing .
I don’t mean la-la-la sing. I mean, sing sing. Goose-bumps, holding-our-breath, lumps-in-our-throats, tears-in-our-eyes, all-we-need-is- love kind of sing.
He belts it straight out, his voice like milk and honey and everything rich and warm and good. I want to drink it. To take off my clothes and slip into his music like a hot bubble bath. One song leads into the next, graceful, flawless, Patrick holding back just enough to build up the anticipation in us, thick and heavy and stretching into every corner and shadow. Luna’s is packed, all of us singing along as we learn the words, hands and fists and coffee cups pumping in the air, chanting and whooping and clapping with every note. Jezebel the stalker-slash-fan-club-president is back again as promised, right next to the stage, whistling and cheering in a sequined halter top with no bra, watching him as her girlfriends snap pictures with their cell phones, and I don’t even hate her anymore, because now, I get it.
Patrick’s voice finds its way through the crowd, over the cheers and the hum of his guitar, right into me, right down through my feet. He’s beaming and crazy and so natural up there. He was made for this, the way some people are made for motherhood or medicine or art. In his face, there is nothing but music and life and the radiant light of camera flashes as the whole crowd claps for him. When he winks at me during the last song, watching me through it all, it’s like he’s let me in on a precious secret, mine and his, and I’ll never forget it. I’ll never give it up, not even if another eight or eighty or eight hundred years pass before I see him again.
“Okay, when you told me you could sing, you didn’t tell me you could sing .” I shake my head, eyes feeling big inside of it as we walk toward Maple Terrace after the show. “Not like that .”
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad you were there.”
“Patrick, I mean it. You’re amazing.”
“I know you do. And thank you. I mean that, too.” He smiles, stopping beneath the moon at the end of our street and turning to face me. “I’m glad you’re back. I’m…”
He lets his thought fade as his eyes sweep over mine, down to my mouth. His hands cup my face, and the ground—in the sneaky way that grounds have—drops from beneath my feet. I can’t hear anything but the sound of my own breath, needy and hot and a little suffocated. I feel my body pulling to him, everything uttered between us building to this, magnets on the fridge, and I don’t consider the possible complications, because his eyes are right now on my face, closing, eyelashes casting half-moon shadows on his skin, and—
Bzzzz.
“Oh!” My phone vibrates in my pocket. “It’s me. Sorry! It’s my phone.”
Let it go, Delilah.
“I should get it.”
Are you serious?
“Just because, I don’t know, it might be important. Or something.”
Oh my God! You’re just like your mother! Stop! Stop now!
“One second.” I ignore the succession of voices in my head and flip open my phone without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Lilah.”
“Heyyy…” It’s a breath more than a word, everything in me rushing out on a feather of a sigh.
“What’s up?” Finn asks. It’s
“Why? What do you mean?”
“The last time I saw Patrick before this summer, we were jumping off bleachers and rolling down the hill to make ourselves dizzy. Everything’s so different now. In a good way, I mean. It’s cool.”
“Definitely,” she says. “He’s been practicing all week for you. But as usual, I didn’t tell you that.” She smiles.
“What do you—”
“How you all doin’ tonight, Red Falls?” Patrick’s opening chords interrupt, alighting the Luna’s crowd in a blaze of cheers and whistles. I wave away the question and sit forward in my chair, ready to clap and cheer and join in on the big Red Falls welcome as Patrick dives into the first song.
And oh my God .
Patrick can sing .
I don’t mean la-la-la sing. I mean, sing sing. Goose-bumps, holding-our-breath, lumps-in-our-throats, tears-in-our-eyes, all-we-need-is- love kind of sing.
He belts it straight out, his voice like milk and honey and everything rich and warm and good. I want to drink it. To take off my clothes and slip into his music like a hot bubble bath. One song leads into the next, graceful, flawless, Patrick holding back just enough to build up the anticipation in us, thick and heavy and stretching into every corner and shadow. Luna’s is packed, all of us singing along as we learn the words, hands and fists and coffee cups pumping in the air, chanting and whooping and clapping with every note. Jezebel the stalker-slash-fan-club-president is back again as promised, right next to the stage, whistling and cheering in a sequined halter top with no bra, watching him as her girlfriends snap pictures with their cell phones, and I don’t even hate her anymore, because now, I get it.
Patrick’s voice finds its way through the crowd, over the cheers and the hum of his guitar, right into me, right down through my feet. He’s beaming and crazy and so natural up there. He was made for this, the way some people are made for motherhood or medicine or art. In his face, there is nothing but music and life and the radiant light of camera flashes as the whole crowd claps for him. When he winks at me during the last song, watching me through it all, it’s like he’s let me in on a precious secret, mine and his, and I’ll never forget it. I’ll never give it up, not even if another eight or eighty or eight hundred years pass before I see him again.
“Okay, when you told me you could sing, you didn’t tell me you could sing .” I shake my head, eyes feeling big inside of it as we walk toward Maple Terrace after the show. “Not like that .”
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad you were there.”
“Patrick, I mean it. You’re amazing.”
“I know you do. And thank you. I mean that, too.” He smiles, stopping beneath the moon at the end of our street and turning to face me. “I’m glad you’re back. I’m…”
He lets his thought fade as his eyes sweep over mine, down to my mouth. His hands cup my face, and the ground—in the sneaky way that grounds have—drops from beneath my feet. I can’t hear anything but the sound of my own breath, needy and hot and a little suffocated. I feel my body pulling to him, everything uttered between us building to this, magnets on the fridge, and I don’t consider the possible complications, because his eyes are right now on my face, closing, eyelashes casting half-moon shadows on his skin, and—
Bzzzz.
“Oh!” My phone vibrates in my pocket. “It’s me. Sorry! It’s my phone.”
Let it go, Delilah.
“I should get it.”
Are you serious?
“Just because, I don’t know, it might be important. Or something.”
Oh my God! You’re just like your mother! Stop! Stop now!
“One second.” I ignore the succession of voices in my head and flip open my phone without checking the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Lilah.”
“Heyyy…” It’s a breath more than a word, everything in me rushing out on a feather of a sigh.
“What’s up?” Finn asks. It’s
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