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“Here,” Kit shoves a tumbler of something carbonated and sparkling into my chest but, unaware, I jolt and it sloshes down my front.
“Shit,” I hiss and her cheeks flush crimson. Why is everyone so on edge today? I look around for a paper napkin but I don’t see any, so I squeeze the hem of her sleeve reassuringly as I shout over the mounting volume of the band’s guitars, “I’m gonna run to the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”
As I weave back through the groups and tables to the entrance of the room, the curtains are drawn and all of the lights dim as the music explodes from the stage. I’m almost at the doors which have since been pulled shut when the song finally registers in my body. Heavy chords from the guitar slam down, emphasised by the drummer who is battering the tom with the force of Thor’s fucking hammer, and a shiver runs down my spine as I prepare for the lyrics that I know I’m about to hear.
This isn’t what we put on our suggested playlist.
But I know this song all too well.
I turn around and see that everyone has crowded into the pseudo mosh-pit area in front of the stage, teachers guarding the perimeters, but I don’t focus on them. My eyes are locked in with Madden, who only occasionally looks away from me so that he can glance down at his fingers as they flex over the strings. The vocalist next to him wraps his hand around the mic and, even though my body knows what is coming, my mouth drops agape when I hear the lyrics.
I’m angry and he can tell, but Madden’s expression remains unflinching. I storm from the back of the room with the intentions of worming my way to the front of the crowd but, given the compactness of the swarm, there’s no way that I can get my hands on him. God knows what I’ll be capable of when Ido.
Could he possibly know? Did Tate tell him?Until The Endwas my favourite song on the Phobia album that I gave to Tate when I was fourteen, the one that I know he still keeps in his Ford, and as the band rocks through the song, the lyrics start to hit a little harder than they used to.
What is he saying? This song is about post-desolation hope, so I’m pretty clear on the symbolism, but if this is Madden’s attempt at a joke then he’s about to meet a very unhappy ending, starting with my fist and ending with his face. Sensing eyes on me, I stand on my tip-toes and look over to the far right of the crowd. I catch Kit signalling me with awhat the frick is going onexpression regarding the band’s playlist mutiny, her arms raised in confusion. I mirror her with a head shake that saysme and you both, sister.
I flick my gaze back to Madden and his face has subsequently twisted, as if he’s trying to hide a smile. His steel eyes watch me mockingly from beneath his veil of spiky black hair and, newlyrecharged with vengeance, I draw my thumb across my throat to let him know that he’s a dead guitarist walking.
When he strikes the last note I shove my way through the tide of bodies, newly loosened as they air-punch and holler, and I don’t stop until I’m eight feet below his cocky little grin. Everyone is too distracted to notice us – bar the guy whose foot I just impaled with my ice-pick stiletto – as I scream up at him, “What thehellwas that?!”
He grips the mic stand from in front of his band mate and tilts it towards his smug up-turned lips. He murmurs into it, “River, your ride out front is blocking the road, if you would be so kind as to move it.”
I’m half-tempted to lob my shoe at him. “I don’thavea ride out front,” I grit out.
He cocks an eyebrow at me and then drops down so that he’s squatting in front of my face. The band behind him begins plucking up the intro to a new song, keeping the crowd satiated, but Madden leans forward and whispers to me, “You sure about that?”
He rises up and mouths at mego, before turning around and walking to the other side of the stage so that he doesn’t have to deal with me anymore. I narrow my eyes on him for a few seconds and then spin around, pushing my way back through the throng, ready to find out what this asshole has up his sleeve.
I push through the wooden doors and I’m momentarily disorientated. It’s so much darker than it was fifteen minutes ago. The deep twilight hues are bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and it takes me a few seconds to remember which way I came from. I turn left towards the entrance and I start walking at as quick a pace as I can manage. I shove my glasses back up my nose as I make it to the front of the foyer, stabbing through the plush red carpet, and then descending the wide porch steps with Cinderella haste.
And then I freeze.
He steps around from the side of the truck, uncrossing his arms from the front of his white button-down shirt, and I stare at him in shock, my mouth popped into an openo.
Tate looks up at me.
I shakily make my way down the last two steps, my fingers holding up the black satin so that it doesn’t slip under my stilettos, and I try to gulp in enough oxygen to keep up with the frantic jack-hammering of my heartbeat.
When my feet reach the gravel I look up at him with a pinched brow, chewing my lips out of sheer nervousness. He takes a cautious step forward and, when I don’t retreat, he takes another. He stops when he’s about six feet away from me and my heart is in my throat for him to close that distance. I’m the sorry one now. I’m the one in the wrong.
“What are you…” I begin, but my voice is quiet and small. I do a little cough and try again. “What are you doing here?”
He watches me carefully, his chest rising and falling under his suit shirt. I can’t believe what I’m seeing right now. Tate Coleson, no nonsense jeans-and-a-t-shirt Tate Coleson, is dressed for prom. His shirt is crisp and pressed, and I’m fairly sure that the reason why the top buttons remain unfastened is because they simply can’t stretch any further across the expanse of his chest. His black pants show off an anatomical level of bulging thigh muscles, and my heart swells when I see that he’s wearing his dark brown leather belt through the loops.Just so Tate.
He takes another step forward and this time I do too. I don’t feel as though he’s here to reprimand me, punish me, or gloat. I can still feel every ounce of the sincerity and promise that he has always bestowed on me, radiating between us into the warm May air. My erratically pumping pulse and the buzzingsummer mosquitoes are the only sounds to fill the stillness of the dawning-night.
“Two reasons,” he says, and the deep timbre of his voice jolts straight down my spine. On instinct I take another step forward – a big one – and he does the same. We’re barely two steps apart now. I’m practically shivering with longing, fear, anticipation. “Something happened with your mom today.” He moves one hand to scratch the back of his neck and my eyes roam over the swell of his bicep. My yearning is unhinged and Tate’s arm flexes under my gaze, as responsive to it as if I had physically touched him. “She came round with my dad and she wanted to talk – to apologise. It was surreal,” he states, and then he takes another step closer. “But I’m taking it.”
I’m ready to fall into his arms but I keep the tangible inches of air pressed between us. The evening has grown so balmy that I can taste it on my tongue.
“What’s the second reason?” I ask, my hush-puppy eyes sparkling up at him, alight with tears that I refuse to shed as I clench my jaw to stop the wobble.
He remains silent for five, ten, twenty seconds, as if he’s gauging what’s going on inside my brain, and then he takes the final step forward. Our bodies remain un-touching, but if I was to lift up my pinkie finger I would be able to graze the black fabric enveloping his thigh.
“Because you turned eighteen yesterday, baby,” he says softly, “so I had to come and get my girl.”
I jump into his hold just as he wraps his hands around my hips, lifting me in a swoop so that he can meet my lips with his. A light sound, somewhere between agony and relief, releases from my chest at the feel of him holding me again, and Tate replies with a deep protective growl. I grip my arms around his neck, tangling my fingers into his hair, as he holds me tight and kisses me sweet. I melt against the solid crests of his chest as he turnsus around so that he can walk us back to his car. When my calves meet the door he sets me down and pulls away so that he can look at me. His warm hands find their way into the open back of my dress, sliding firmly up the sides of my rib-cage until his thumbs brush against my nipples, and I make a little gasp.
