Just the thought of it makes me feel as if I’m suffocating, and I’ve spent my entire life just trying to breathe.
“All right. Looks like you’re getting your wish. I’m getting out of your hair,” Calista says, sliding her phone back into her bag.
I give her a quick finger wave and stack the last can of non-genetically modified corn on the shelf before me.
“Text if you need anything,” she says on her way out. And then she stops. “And Isaiah?”
Glancing up, our eyes meet. “Yeah?”
“Stop being a miserable asshole and go to the fucking concert.”
Three
Maritza
* * *
“Next.” The woman at The Mintz’s will-call window waves me forward Friday night. “Name?”
“Maritza Claiborne,” I say, reaching for my ID before sliding it across the counter.
The woman, whose arms are covered in vibrant tattoos of naked women and whose pixie cut is dyed the prettiest shade of lavender checks my driver’s license before rifling through a stack of tickets to her left.
A moment later, she’s frowning … like it’s not there.
I bought the ticket online yesterday—it has to be there.
“I have the confirmation in my email if you need to see it,” I say, searching for my phone in the bottomless pit of my vintage Goyard tote—a hand-me-down gift from my mother before she and my father moved to New York City last year because apparently they’d lost their minds and grown tired of the sunshine. My breath quickens. If I can’t see Panoramic Sunrise I’m going to cry—and I’m not a crier.
“Found it.” She holds up a lanyard, examining the name on the plastic badge. “It was in the VIP pile.”
My chin juts forward and I press my lips together. I didn’t buy a VIP ticket. Those were five hundred bucks and included a special section in the front, a private bar, an all-access behind the scenes meet and greet, as well as a chance to have a beer with the band after the bar closes.
I bought a seventy-five-dollar general admission ticket.
I know I did …
“Here you go.” She slides the pass across the counter along with my ID and smiles before glancing over my shoulder. “Next!”
Grabbing my lanyard, I place it around my neck before anyone has a chance to declare this a grave mistake and yank it away from me. Making my way to the ticket taker, I’m fully expecting to have my bubble popped any second, only he scans my pass and waves me toward a less crowded area designated for VIPs, and as soon as I’m in, I find a spot at an empty high-top table for two a mere six feet from the front of the stage.
My pulse quickens and I can’t help but wear the dorkiest grin when I see the band’s guitars and mic on stage. Panoramic Sunrise is my drug. It soothes and comforts and relaxes and reinvigorates me all at the same time. Everything about their low-key, indie, folk-rock tunes resonates with the deepest part of my soul in a way I could never fully explain or even understand. Plus the lead singer looks like an even hotter version of Adam Levine, so there’s that.
“Can I grab you a drink?” A pretty cocktail waitress with a high ponytail and orange-red lipstick approaches my table.
“Amaretto and Coke would be amazing. Thank you.”
They always open with their number one hit, Flipside, which is my favorite song in the history of songs. It’s sad in parts, funny in others, but mostly it’s angsty and ironic.
“This seat taken?” A man asks, standing behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to follow his voice, only by the time my gaze focuses on his chiseled face, he’s already taking the spot beside me.
“You again,” I say, sitting up straight.
Isaiah Torres’ fingers are wrapped around the neck of a Corona.
“You’re welcome for the VIP pass,” he says, taking a swig and letting his stare penetrate.
My head cocks as I try to wrap my mind around this. Minutes ago, I’d convinced myself the VIP thing was some kind of happy mix-up.
“How’d you know I was going to be here tonight?” I ask.
“Lucky guess,” he says. “And I know people who know people who could find out.”
The cocktail waitress returns with my drink, and I hand her my card to start a tab before returning my attention back to Isaiah.
“All right then. Thank you for this,” I tell him, clutching at the lanyard around my neck. Sliding off my chair, I eye a spot near the front of the stage as the opening act begins to take their places.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m going to enjoy the concert. That’s where I’m going.”
I leave him at the table-for-two. Fun and relaxation is my only objective for the night. If he thinks I’ll overlook the fact that he was nothing but a rude asshole yesterday just because he does one nice thing, then he’s clearly smoking something.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me.
I don’t understand him, but it’s okay because I really don’t need to.
The house lights come on three hours later and some six-foot-seven muscle head in a black t-shirt stands behind a velvet rope, telling us VIP pass holders to follow him.
Herded down a hallway with about fifty other people, I somehow wind up in the front of the line, waiting outside a dressing room with a heart that won’t stop thrumming and a breath that won’t steady.
I’ve seen them in concert at least a dozen times since high school, but never once have I seen them up close and personal. I’m not even sure what I’ll say or if I’ll end up foaming at the mouth, unable to form a coherent sentence, but the second the door opens and an older, gray-haired man steps out and meets my gaze, I clear my throat and straighten my spine.
“You first?” He points at me, speaking in an East Coast accent.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, silently reminding myself to be cool.
“Get your phone ready if you want pictures.” The man swings the door open. “You’ve got one minute in there. Make it count.”
Case Malbec. Landon Spencer. Kieko Ayoshi. Alec Bastion.
I know all of their names. Their birthdays. Their Wikipedia life stories. I’ve seen every documentary, every music video, every interview.
And now they’re here, in the flesh, seated before me.
A few other people are in here as well, makeup artists, groupies, roadies …
But all I see is them.
Case, the lead singer, sits shirtless, a white towel wrapped around his shoulders. He smiles when he sees me, and while I’m sure he smiles at all his fans, his stare pierces through me, like he’s curious and studying me.
“I’m Case,” he says, reaching for me. He slips his arm over my shoulder like we’re just a couple of old friends who go way back. The rest of the band assumes their practiced, photo-ready positions around us. “And you are?”
“Maritza,” I manage to say, proud of my voice for not squeaking, cracking, or cutting out.
Case takes my phone from my hand. “Isaiah, can you take our pic?”
Glancing up, I watch as Isaiah Torres takes my phone from Case Malbec’s hand and points it at the two of us. I force a smile, my mind running a million miles a minute as I try to piece this together.