“An eighties cover band,” he says. “They don’t do under-twenty-one shows very often, so I bought tickets as soon as I saw. Hope that’s your thing.”
“Definitely my thing!” I have to shout at him because we’ve stepped just inside the bar, where it’s balmy compared to the cold air outside. We stop long enough to show our IDs and get stamped as underage, and then Oliver is moving so confidently, I know he’s been here before.
People are crammed against one another, and Oliver doesn’t stop as we pass the bar and tables full of already tipsy middle-age show-goers. He keeps moving until we’ve walked right out another door, onto a patio, and the world seems to descend into magic.
A band is already onstage, singing “Hungry Like the Wolf,” and I can’t stop the smile that stretches my face. This. This is what I want, to feel this happy for the rest of my life. There are people everywhere, at long tables spread out across the patio and pressed against the railing of a second-story viewing area. Bright neon paints everyone’s faces in pink, and twinkle lights are wrapped around the stair railings.
“Let’s find a place to stand,” Oliver says into my ear as he hands a guy two tickets, and then I’m dancing as we move onto the patio, finding a spot by the stairs to stand. Lights flash out at us, pink and blue and green, and I close my eyes as Oliver stands behind me, his hands on my hips.
I lean my head back, rest it on his shoulder, and say into his ear, “How could you be so sure I was going to be down with an eighties cover band, since I have such inferior music tastes and all?”
He rolls his eyes, and then his hot breath in my ear makes me shiver. “You date me, you date cheesy Duran Duran covers.”
I laugh loud, since no one can hear it over the music. “Am I dating you, Oli?”
He nips my earlobe. “I don’t take girls I’m not dating to cheesy eighties concerts.”
I crane my neck to look up at him, at the curve of his jaw and the stubble across the cleft in his chin. We listen to the band for a long time, some songs I recognize from listening to them with Mama or Jackson, and some I don’t recognize but really like. After a while, we squeeze over to the bar and Oliver orders us waters before we move through the shuffle back to our spot.
But a group of leather-clad women are now leaning against the railing where we were standing, so we climb the stairs and find a spot on the balcony, against the golden twinkle lights, looking down at the band from up high. I love watching their fingers move over the guitar necks. I always wanted to learn how to play something, anything, but especially the guitar, and my heart aches for it again now, more than ever.
I sip my water and look up at Oliver. He’s not looking at me, his eyes glued to the stage, but I’ve learned that just because Oliver isn’t looking doesn’t mean he’s not paying attention. His thumb moves back and forth against my hand. He’s holding it tight, his fingers wrapped firmly around mine, and I know he can feel that I’m looking.
“What is everyone going to think when they find out you’ve got the interior of a marshmallow?” I shout to him.
He looks down at me with only his eyes. “Are you going to tell people?”
I pretend to think about it. “What would happen if I did?”
He purses his lips. “I suppose I’d have to kill you.”
I scoff. “You couldn’t stomach murder, York.”
He moves quick, sandwiching me between the railing and his body, and he’s so tall, he blocks out everything else around me, until everything is his pale skin and his freckles and his Human League T-shirt. His hands press the railing on either side of my waist, and maybe he’s trying to intimidate me, but all he’s doing is making me want to jump his bones. His eyes bore into me and then drop to my mouth, but then the song ends and the applause begins.
OLIVER
I HAVE THE Lumineers playing as we drive down the highway. Amy leans her head against the fogged-up window and sings along. We drive right out of Kansas City, until the lights from the city are dim enough in the distance that we can see the stars.
I take her into Independence, to a quiet stretch of road far from where we live, and park beside a field. I know this spot from dozens of trips out to Independence, an open field, encircled by trees, but open to the night sky right above where we sit. It’s the perfect spot for stargazing.
“Why, Oli, are we parking?” she asks, one hand on her chest.
“Yes, Grandma, I guess you could say that.”
“And will there be … necking?”
I grit my teeth. “God, I hope so.” I reach into the back seat for the blankets I brought with me while Amy gets out of the truck.
“Here.” I hand her one of the blankets, and she immediately wraps it around herself, and I’m immediately sad to not be able to see her in her red dress anymore. I leave the truck running, the Lumineers playing out the open windows, and we climb into the bed of the truck after I spread a blanket over the cold metal.
Maybe the whole stargazing thing is a bit of a cliché, but Amy is pressed against my side, her warmth seeping into my bones. I can feel every soft inch of her, so I don’t give a damn how cliché it is.
“You’re like a space heater,” she says, pressing her nose into the place where my neck and shoulder meet, and I shiver at the touch of her icy skin.
“No, you’re just so tiny you don’t produce any body heat.”
“True.” She wraps her arms around one of mine and holds it against her body, and I have no clue how she can be cold when my entire body is on fire.
“Want to lie down?” I ask, and she nods.
We look up at the stars, pointing out the few constellations we know as we listen to the music. She puts her head on my shoulder, and I look down at her, those dark eyes of hers so close that I feel like I can see every pigment in them in the moonlight. It isn’t much different from looking up at the stars.
“You make me want more,” I whisper, and her eyes widen. I shake my head, realizing how that sounded.
“More?” she asks.
I run a fingertip along her jaw. “You make me feel like maybe I have a future.”
She’s much less bashful than I am, reaching up to press her hand against my cheek. Her skin is cold, and I turn to press my mouth against her palm, breathing steam into it. “Of course you have a future, Oli.”
I shake my head. “I can’t even be honest with my mom about not going to school. You have so much to offer, and I’m just here. With nothing to give.”
A crease appears between her brows. “Oliver York, you have so much to give. What is it going to take to make you realize that?”
I want to tell her that hearing it come from her mouth is one step toward believing it could be true, but instead, I kiss her and hope she understands.
OLIVER
SOMETIME LATER, Amy decides she wants a hot dog, and half an hour and a trip to a drive-through later, we’re sitting in the cab of the truck, quiet as we eat.
Amy slips out of her boots and puts her feet up on the dashboard as she takes a bite out of her hot dog. Her dress rides up her thigh, and my palms start to sweat. Outside the front windshield, the Missouri River is swaying hard in the wind. We’re parked on the edge of the beach, the windows cracked. There are goose bumps crawling up Amy’s arms.