Page 36 of I Saw You First

Devon is beside himself, bursting with joy every time Ruh-Roh starts a new song. “I love this one!” he shouts again and again. I can’t help smiling at his pure, genuine emotion, not caring what anyone around him might think. Wil stays close, but he’s relaxed a little, at least, a small smile playing on his lips as he surveys the crowd. He even sings along to Ruh-Roh’s hip-hopped-up cover of “Informer.”

When the baseline and opening notes for Ruh-Roh’s catchy hit single “Scooby Snax” drop, Devon screams yessss! and joins the mass of synchronized, bouncing fans. I laugh and bounce, too, yelling along with the crowd.

Ruh-Roh! Give me snax! Ruh-Roh! I need snax! Ruh-Roh! Scooby Snax! Who brings the juice? Ruh-Roh!

I laugh at the stupid lyrics and bounce and spin and before I know it, I’m separated from my friends, up in the mosh pit. Wait. Is this sort of hip-hop madness even called a mosh pit? Someone slams into me, and then I’m pushed into someone else’s back. This sure feels like a mosh pit. It’s so hot, my lungs are tight, and I can’t take in air. Another Scooby Snaxxer (if I make it out of here alive, I’m going to trademark that) jumps up, way up, and then takes me down, way down, with him. I hit the floor hard, and someone steps on my hand. Motherfucker, that hurts. I curl myself into a ball, squeeze my eyes shut, and tuck my head against my knees. I’m going to die. Death by trample at a Ruh-Roh show. My last night on earth, my last concert is this?

“Hey.” The familiar voice is close to my ear. “Rhodes, I’ve got you.”

Wil’s strong hands curl around my upper arms, and he hauls me up. My god, even while I’m on the brink of death, his touch sends a delicious swizzle through my body.

“Breathe,” he says. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

“Oh my god,” I gasp out. I can’t catch my breath.

He pushes a couple of Snaxxers out of the way and practically drags me out of the mosh pit, toward the staircase and into a small alcove. I bend over, my hands on my knees, and take big gulps of air.

“You okay?” He rubs my back. Swizzle, swizzle swizzle.

I stand up, too fast, and nearly topple as the room spins. His arms are around me before I can even try to right myself. Warm and safe and strong and so Wil.

“I’ve got you. I’m here,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m always here.”

I’m always here.

I take slow, deep breaths—Originaire for Men, sweat, Wil. Campfire and crisp, woodsy mountain air. Not that I’ve ever been to the mountains, but I’m a writer. I have a good imagination. And as he tucks me in closer, my imagination goes somewhere else, somewhere definitely not the mountains. I told Hal I’d write about the Ruh-Roh show—mainly because he didn’t know anyone else who wanted to go—but I definitely won’t be sharing about this. Oh, no. I like this too much. Too much.

I pull away and immediately miss Wil’s arms. His eyes lock on mine, his eyebrows narrowed. He’s worried.

It’s so loud in here that I need to prop up on my tiptoes to speak close to his ear. “I’m okay.”

He nods.

“Let’s go back.”

He nods again.

But then “Scooby Snax” ends with a loud “Ruff!” from Ruh-Roh, and he yells, “Minnnnnnn-eeeeeeee-apolis! Tonight, we’re gonna play one from my idol, my inspiration, your very own, the one and only The Artist!” The noise of the crowd makes it nearly impossible to hear him, so he puts a finger to his lips. “Shush, now. This one goes out to all the lovers here tonight. Grab hold, and hold on tight, because life is short. And if you ain’t here with your lover, stay right where you are, grab hold of the music, and let the music take care of you.”

That’s a beautiful sentiment, letting the music take care of you. I wouldn’t have expected something so poignant from someone called Ruh-Roh.

More than anything, I suddenly want to grab hold of Wil and hold on tight. I swallow hard. I’ll have to grab hold of these last few moments of swizzle and keep them close to my heart. That’s all I’m going to get.

The crowd quiets and the opening chords of “Purple Rain” fill the venue—a song I’ve loved ever since Scout sneaked me into the theater to see the movie of the same name, a movie I definitely should not have watched at the tender, innocent age of 11. He at least had the sense to cover my eyes during that one scene, although he probably should have found a way to cover my ears, too.

I make a move to return to our friends, but Wil pulls me close and wraps his arms around my waist.

Oh.

Okay.

Yes.

I can’t remember the last time I slow danced—maybe once with Tucker when I drunkenly dragged him out to the dance floor at Grandma’s Sports Garden and we stumbled our way through “I Love the Way You Love Me” by John Michael Montgomery. A country song! I know!

“That was humiliating, Abbey,” he told me on the drive home. “I don’t like you when you’re drunk.”

What an awful, Tucker-like thing to say. I stuck out my tongue at him. He told me I was immature, and dumped me three weeks later.