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He looks into my eyes for a moment but quickly diverts his gaze. “Let’s go back to our spot. There’s still a lot of the concert left.”
This time, he walks ahead of me, not even waiting for me to answer.
The concert rolls on, song after song, some of which I recognize and can sing along to, some of which I don’t. The fans are almost rabid now as the concert comes to a close, not wanting it to end. It feels like such an ephemeral moment, having an elusive figure on the stage, so close and yet so far.
Next to me, Evan sways lightly from side to side as one last song plays. The atmosphere is surreal, as tens of thousands of people sing along all around me, their voices united and magnified. I know this song, “Late Night Talking,” very well, and listen to it all the time. But as Harry Styles sings about not being a fan of change, yet still wanting to follow his lover to any place … it’s never had much significance to me until this very moment, it seems.
I look toward Evan and see him watching the stage intently, almost as if he’s trying to avoid looking at me. The song goes on, as do the thousands of voices around us, until the lines are seared into my brain.
But before I have a chance to realize it, the concert is over, and we find ourselves back on the sidewalk, waiting for an Uber. All around us, rivers of people are pouring out of the venue and heading down the street.
“Wow, that was amazing, wasn’t it? I had such high hopes, and it truly was one of the … Evan, is everything alright? You’re so quiet.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Let’s get you home.” He tries to smile, but it’s much colder than usual.
“Come on, tell me. What’s wrong? Is it all these girls that keep hitting on you?” I try to make a joke, but he’s not having it.
He sighs deeply and runs a hand across his face. “Emmy … why are you doing this?”
“Why am I doing what?”
“Why are you sending me all these mixed signals?”
“Me? Mixed signals? Are you sure you haven’t got the wrong person?” I laugh.
“Please, don’t do that. I’m being serious. And yes, you’re sending me mixed signals. Look, you invited me to this concert, saying it’s nothing but us being friends as always—”
“And I meant that! We’ve been to a million concerts together!” I tell him.
“Yes, I know. But then, even though this is supposed to be nothing but a friendly thing, you acted incredibly jealous when a woman barely looked at me. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I wasn’t … No, hold on. I didn’t act jealous. I think you’re getting this all mixed up,” I try to defend myself.
“Really? When that girl asked me for my Instagram, you almost flew off the handle. Afterward, when I told you that there was nothing wrong with that because I’m single, you sulked for half an hour. After which, you gave dirty looks to the bartender who served us lemonade.” He accurately sums up my behavior tonight.
But I’m much too embarrassed to admit that he’s right, because these feelings are way too new and much too complicated.
So instead, I try to defend my ridiculous behavior.
“Wow, I have to say … you have a wild imagination. I was only offended by those girls because … because they were young and … yeah. Too young for you, Evan, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“That’s not really for you to decide. Even if you are my best friend,” he says simply and quietly.
“Well, then, she was definitely not your type! And don’t you dare tell me otherwise, Evan Davis! I know you better than anyone else, and I know she wasn’t your type!”
I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but can hardly believe what I’m saying.
I’m acting ridiculous, but I don’t even really understand why.
This whole conversation feels like an out-of-body experience.
“Still, that doesn’t mean you have to become defensive, or tell me who I should date,” he replies, looking more tired than ever.
“But we were supposed to spend tonight together! I didn’t invite you here so that you could flirt with other girls,” I tell him, unable to mask the hurt in my voice.
Because the truth is, I can’t stand seeing you flirt with other women…
“And I didn’t. But that’s the problem. You say that you don’t want us to be together and that you don’t want to honor the marriage pact. At the same time, you also don’t want me to even look at other women—you become jealous and territorial. So, what am I supposed to do, Emmy? Because you’ve already decided that you don’t want me, but suddenly you don’t want me to be with other women. Right?”
