After the opener loosens everyone up, they transition into a less absurd but no less engaging number, this one an upbeat pop song called “Time Off Your Side.” Then they move seamlessly into a more thoughtful rock ballad, “800 Miles,” which I get so swept up in that it only occurs to me when it’s over that it was one thousand percent inspired by David’s girlfriend, who’s going to Northwestern in the fall. Once they’ve gotten enough of the crowd’s attention that a hush has fallen over the club, Elliot kicks it into high gear with the catchy, flippant “Love at First Spite.”
My phone buzzes in my hand. A text from Carly: That Four Suns band is on tonight. They’re legit, it reads.
I smile to myself, tucking the phone away. They are legit, but they’re more than that. They’re magnetic. Fresh. Surprising. They all talk into the mic in turns, sometimes talking over one another but somehow still managing to keep the feeling of it so intimate and relatable that any person in the crowd might think they were talking directly to them. It’s like they’ve got everyone’s attention suspended on a tightrope, but it doesn’t waver even once—not during the songs or in the beats between them.
Still, even with all eyes on the Four Suns, I can’t keep mine from straying to a quiet corner to the left of the stage. Oliver is standing there still as a statue, watching the audience’s reactions like a hawk, only moving to give his oldest brother a silent signal at the wrap of every song. But there are a few moments he loses himself in it, too. He starts to bop his head to the beat in this dorky, earnest way, or catch a grin from Elliot shot at him so fast that nobody else could have noticed it. And those are the moments something flits in my chest—something unfamiliar, something I can feel taking shape faster than I can make room for it. I’ve always known there are a lot of people I’ll miss when I leave for Madison. I just never thought Oliver would be one of them.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Steph is out again the next day, which means Oliver and I are so busy keeping up with the new tasks on our Check Lists that I don’t even get to talk to him until we’re both walking out of the building. I’m expecting him to update me about last night, but instead he seems very preoccupied by his phone screen.
“How was the show last night?” I ask, never one to be bested by Instagram.
“Good,” says Oliver. I stayed for all five of their songs, including the quirky, truly Netflix-movie-soundtrack-worthy “I’m Not What You Don’t Think I Am,” which had half the club dancing by the end, so I know he’s underplaying it. I raise my eyebrows and he relents. “They were great. The crowd loved them. The band they were opening for wants them to do a few gigs with them in the city.”
“Would you look at that. Maybe you don’t need this internship after all,” I say innocently.
“Nice try,” says Oliver. “Also, speaking of performances, I got that video of the transfer student?”
“Oh shoot. I completely forgot about that.” I glance over at his phone reflexively, and he pulls it out of my view. I’d rag on him for trying to hide the five-minute yoga app I’ve definitely seen on Heather’s phone before, but I’m too concerned about Chloe. “How was she?”
“She sounded good,” he says. “I sent it over to Mrs. Cooke. Do you have an email for her or something?”
“I’ll get you one.” I walk a little faster, a skip in my step. “She’ll look just darling in a pair of bell bottoms.”
“I never said we were doing Mamma Mia,” says Oliver, begrudgingly speeding up to match my pace.
“Who said anything about Mamma Mia?” I ask, flashing my teeth. “Anyway, thanks for doing that. She was nervous about it.”
Oliver shrugs but looks like he wants to say something else. Probably about me pulling strings, or abusing my position as a senior, all the usual hits. But instead he asks, “So, uh—who’s Teddy?”
I blink. I’m so used to thinking of Teddy as an extension of myself that I forgot Oliver doesn’t already know him. But I gave him Oliver’s email to send Chloe’s audition over once they wrapped up, so I guess now he does.
“He’s my best friend,” I say, even though it feels like an understatement.
Oliver clears his throat. “Oh,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. He seems nice.”
“Yeah, he’s got that going for him,” I say, searching Oliver’s face.
He notices me staring and snaps himself out of whatever weird trail of thought he must have just gone down. “But you might wanna check in with this ‘best friend’ of yours, because he’s definitely been asking me for embarrassing stories about ‘School Millie’ he can rub in your face later.”
“Luckily I’ve never done an embarrassing thing in my life.”
“Luckily,” says Oliver drily. “Wait, I thought you lived that way.”
I pause on the sidewalk. “Yeah, but I think I’m gonna go to a coffee shop for a bit,” I say, pointing in the opposite direction. I told Teddy I’d meet him at the Milkshake Club for a sundae tonight, but knowing him he won’t be done GeoTeening for at least another hour.
“Oh—I just…”
I know the full repertoire of Oliver’s faces. There’s the patented Stage Manager Scowl. There’s the look he gets when he’s so focused I’m pretty sure even a stage curtain catching fire wouldn’t break his stride. There’s the small, reluctant smile I can wheedle out of him with my theatrics, and the bigger, genuine one that sometimes pops out like the sun on a cloudy day.
But I haven’t seen this one before. I’d say it looks like confusion, but there’s this weird top note of desperation in it, like his eyes are quietly screaming.
“Actually, there was something I wanted to talk to you about,” he says quickly.
“With the internship?”
Oliver glances down the street. “Yeah, sure.” He starts walking across the street toward my block. I follow him, too flummoxed to not, but then he doesn’t actually say anything—just looks back to check if I’m still walking.
“Well?” I prompt him.
“Oh. Uh…” Oliver is not a stammer-y person, so I’ve gone from mildly annoyed to highly intrigued. “I just wanted to … make sure there’d be no hard feelings.”
Back to mildly annoyed. “When I get the internship, you mean?”
Oliver lets out a laugh. “When either of us do.”
“Sure,” I say, glancing back at the coffee shop. I wanted to have some time to write in the notebook I bought. I know I have to call my dad tonight, and I’ve been feeling on edge about it all day—I still haven’t brought up the whole admissions snafu with him yet. “No hard feelings.”
“Good,” says Oliver, without breaking his stride.
“Is that all you wanted to talk about?”
Then Oliver does something distinctly un-Oliver-like. He reaches out and grabs my hand.
“No, there was—something else.”
I stare down at our hands, but more out of surprise at myself than at him. He may have been the one to grab mine, but I was the one who intertwined our fingers without even thinking. Now we’re just standing at a dead stop on the street looking at each other.