“I’m sorry I missed your emails,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I only just got a chance to check them, since I can’t really be on the computer at work and I have to wait until my boss leaves. I saw what time it was and hauled ass. I swear, Sasha was watching over me to make sure I didn’t get pulled over or die.” He says it with a laugh, but I narrow my eyes.
“You shouldn’t drive recklessly. It’s not worth it.”
“I couldn’t miss this show,” he says, shaking his head. “Indie punk rock is totally not my thing, but I couldn’t leave you hanging.”
I shiver. He must realize it, too, because he quickly adds, “And I couldn’t screw up Sasha’s last wish. So I’m here.” His lips stretch into a smile that feels a little bit forced. “Do you have that shirt?”
Only now do I take the time to realize what he’s wearing. Oil-stained jeans even more worn out than his usual pair and a light blue button-up shirt with dark blue pinstripes and a bright red name patch sewn on. Elijah Delgado is embroidered under a Monterrey’s Auto Body Shop logo.
“Yeah,” I say, digging into my bag and retrieving the shirt. “I have your ticket, too.”
“Awesome,” he says, our eyes meeting as he begins to unbutton his work shirt. Heat rises in my stomach and my toes get all fluttery. I should probably look away. But he slips his shirt off and then playfully tosses it right over my face. I catch it, the scent of boyish body wash and motor oil filling the air before I pull the shirt down and fold it into my arms. Elijah’s bare chest awakens parts of me that should be embarrassed, but I can’t stop staring as he slides his arms into Sasha’s shirt and pulls it over his head, finally tugging down the bottom until his perfect abs are covered. Damn.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod dumbly, shove his work shirt into my bag and then hand him his ticket. As we make our way to the back of the line, there are so many things I want to say, from personal feelings that should definitely be kept to myself to fun stories about Sasha that I’d normally tell him on one of these adventures. But I can’t bring myself to talk, to break this easy silence between us as we have our tickets scanned and venture inside.
They don’t even ask to see Elijah’s ID. His stubble and the crease between his eyes must make him look old enough to drink. We step through a metal detector and into the club.
House music pumps through the speakers and a cool rush of air blasts us as we enter the darkness. Elijah reaches back for my hand and I let him take it, even knowing how much it’ll screw up my heart.
“Where’s the best place to watch?” Elijah asks once we’re inside. We’re standing near the back of the crowd. In front of us is the stage, over to the right is the bar and to the left is a little raised area with tables where the drunks usually congregate.
“Sasha and I usually push our way to the front,” I say, yelling over the music. “But we’re also always the first in line so it’s a little easier. We should probably just hang back there. There’s no way we’ll get through a crowd that big.”
“Challenge accepted,” Elijah says. He grabs my hand again and begins walking toward the mass of Zombie Radio fans right up front.
“Oh my God, you can’t do this,” I shout, grabbing his elbow to lean in closer to his ear. “We’ll piss everyone off!”
“Nah, we’ll be fine.” His breath is minty in my ear, but I don’t have time to let his nearness affect me because he tugs me along, into the crowd, saying things like “Excuse me, sir” along the way. We inch and slide and move past people until at last I can see the metal railing that separates the audience from the stage.
Elijah’s hand slides up my arm. He moves me in front of him, stepping back behind me. “Here you go,” he whispers into my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
I grip the railing with both hands like I’ve done so many times with Sasha, and although she isn’t here, I can practically feel her right next to me. The opening band is a small-town indie rock group from Corpus. I don’t know any of their songs, but I enjoy their performance. It might be because every time the crowd bobs and sways to the music, Elijah gets pressed against me, his hand on my shoulder, his chest against my back.
At the close of the fifth song, the singer wraps his hand around the mic and thanks Houston for coming out to the show. Then he launches into a passionate rant about the country’s political climate but I don’t really hear any of it. I’m keenly aware of Elijah’s hand on my lower back, keeping contact with me as many people around us shift and move. The band begins to take apart its set.
A short woman with bright blue hair and two beers in her hands moves past me, stopping when she sees Elijah. “You’re hot,” she says in a low voice, winking.
I take out my phone, pretending to check for messages. Elijah’s lips press against my ear as the house music pumps back up to fill the space between acts. “Please tell me Zombie Radio isn’t as bad as this first band.”
I turn around to face him, ignoring the goose bumps on my neck. “Sasha didn’t make you listen to them?”
Though the crowd has lessened, we’re still jam-packed near the railing. Die-hard ZR fans want the best view and won’t budge for a fifteen-minute set change. This forces Elijah to stand insanely close to me, and I hate myself for how much I like it. This entire adventure is supposed to be about Sasha and Elijah, not my fucking hormones.
He has to tilt his head down to look at me, his eyes like sparkling snow globes under the bright disco ball above us. “She sent me some YouTube videos, but I could never listen to them. No speakers on the work computer, and at the library you have to bring your own headphones, which I don’t have.”
“You might be the only person in the country without constant internet access,” I say, trying to sound like I’m teasing him, but it comes out accusatory. Guess I’m still bitter that he didn’t reply to me. “Or a cell phone for that matter.”
Something odd flashes in his eyes, then he blinks and it’s gone. “There were two computers at the group home, but I didn’t see the appeal unless I was researching Sasha. Putting pictures of yourself online is kinda creepy, don’t you think? I hated when Sasha made me send her one of myself. I made her swear not to post it on social media.”
Someone bumps into us on their mad dash to the front, knocking Elijah into me. I wince as my back presses against the cold metal railing. Elijah stumbles, his hands grabbing the railing on either side of me.
“Sorr
y!” a guy calls out, his hands wrapped around his very drunk girlfriend’s shoulders.
“It’s cool,” Elijah says back. Then he turns to face me, and he doesn’t straighten up, doesn’t take his hands off the railing. He’s so close it would only take a tilt of my chin to kiss him. People crowd around us, returning from the bar or the bathroom or whatever they did after the opening band finished. We’re pressed in, covered on all sides except for the railing behind me.