Now I’m really curious, but Griffin refuses to say more.
The limo continues through the city and eventually a huge structure comes into view. Architecturally, it looks like a gigantic version of one of my breakfast bowl lids. Thousands of people are milling around it, but they seem orderly, with a few uniformed personnel directing them.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Tokyo Dome,” Griffin says.
“Isn’t that a baseball stadium?”
“Among other things.”
As the limo approaches, the driver and Griffin have another exchange in Japanese. The car stops a few blocks from the Tokyo Dome, and the driver hurries out to open the door for us.
“Are we going to see a game?” I ask. Some of the YouTubers I follow said going to a Japanese baseball game is a treat because the fans are hilariously fanatical and oddly polite at the same time.
“You’ll see,” Griffin says again, taking my hand.
A hot zing races from the bare skin of his palm all the way to my heart, making it boom loudly in my ears. Delicious shivers skid along my spine, and I realize his reaction last night definitely wasn’t about the kiss or me. It was something else.
He tugs gently, and I climb out of the limo. We walk through the crowd toward the stadium, our fingers linked. It feels like we’re a couple on a date one lovely summer night.
Then as I absorb what’s going on around us, I realize we aren’t here for a baseball game.
Holy…
A familiar melody starts blasting, and half the crowd seems to be in T-shirts with a single word: Axelrod.
“No way…” My whole body starts shaking with surging excitement and shock. “We’re going to the Axelrod concert?”
Griffin nods with the faintest hint of a smile. “Yup. You said you never missed a tour. No reason to start now.”
“Oh my God!” This time I squeal and throw myself at him to hug him hard. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You are the absolute best!”
He lets out a stunned laugh, then hugs me back, giving me a squeeze that turns my insides gooey with joy. “Like I said, don’t thank me yet.”
“How come? You can’t possibly top this,” I say, looking up at him while my heart is doing every flip known to man. Actually, I think it just invented a few.
He shrugs, then plucks two T-shirts that read Axelrod Tokyo from the merchandise booth and buys them. “Here. Happy birthday.” He hands me one of the shirts like that’s the present, not the trip, not this concert.
Laughing, I take it. “Thank you.”
We find the gate on our tickets and go inside the dome, already full of concertgoers milling around. My ears pop as we enter. “Whoa, what was that?” I rub my ears and swallow to clear the weird stuffy feeling.
“The interior is pressurized to support”—he points at the rounded ceiling, looming over us high above—“that.”
I notice there are no support beams. “Oh.”
“Be careful when we leave because it can feel like you’re being pushed out.”
It takes me a moment to work it out. “Because of the air pressure?”
“Right. The pressure difference between here and outside. I read that the air expulsion can be as strong as forty-four-point-seven miles per hour.”
“Really?”
“But that’s if only a handful of people are leaving. It shouldn’t be that bad when everyone’s exiting after the concert.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I don’t want to fall like a klutz and embarrass myself.