by Allie Martin
let’s see this thing through...
The words aren’t genius, they follow no pattern, they were written to sell music. But the lyrics seep into me, and I want to re-write them. Re-write them better. Truer.
With Evan.
“I bet I can make you fall in love,” I say as the music stops for a dramatic effect halfway through the song, and Evan’s eyes pop.
“What?”
It takes me a second to re-group from the sound of my voice and the silence of the room around me. I clear my throat, aware I can’t take it back now.
“I bet I can make you fall in love with me.”
“In one night?” She breathes it out disbelieving, so I have to double down on my promise.
“Yup. One night. We have nothing to lose. You said yourself I’m a poet, so from what I hear, poets are really good at love.”
“Why?”
Her untrusting expression settles her features for almost an entire song. I think of the words I wrote outside the door to the club. Run your fingers over the rough surface of my heart.
My fingers. Her heart. Not the other way around like I originally intended.
“Because this whole thing is weird, and I think we owe it to ourselves to see it through. Because we are here together for a reason, and I don’t know what that reason is. Because my buddy made a bet with me, and I say we change the bet so it’s good for both of us. Because it could be fun, and we both win.” I slide my fingers down her arm and link our fingers together.
“How do you figure?” She tilts her chin to her chest so I lift our hands between us. My skin tingles with her touch, and the depth of my attraction to her pulses through me.
"Because I know you feel it when we touch," I say, squeezing her hand. “Because I need to get over Annie, and because you’ve never been in love. Because you seem to be harboring some serious pain in your heart, and I’d like to show you that the word doesn’t have to be empty.”
“I’m not going to have sex with you, if that’s what your bet was about,” Evan says abruptly with a straight face, and I laugh so loud she jumps.
“I’ll be a perfect gentleman. The bet never existed. Rick never defined what he meant by hooking up, and you kissed me, so I already consider it done. Plus, sex has nothing to do with love.”
The way her cheeks go red proves she is as experienced with guys as she says—not at all. “Yes, it does.”
I slide my fingertips along her jaw. “Nah, that’s what guys who want sex say to get sex. Sex is about attraction, not love. You can feel a sexual attraction with people you don’t love, and you can love people you are not attracted to. That’s how I see it, anyway. It might surprise you to know I’ve only ever had sex with one person. So my theory is just that. A theory.”
"But I am attracted to you..." Her voice is hushed, drowned out by the music, but my body hears her. Her cheeks burn red hot.
I hold out my hand to her. "Complete gentleman," I say, as she stares at my open palm. "Plus, we aren't experimenting in attraction, we are redefining the word love. That means we can define it any way we want to."
Evan’s jaw moves like she speaking, but there’s no sound, or air for that matter. After a long painful while, she puts her hand in mine, and I feel like I’ve already accomplished half the battle.
“So, what do you say, Evan Jordans? Will you fall in love with me tonight?”
She frowns to cover her smile, but like the morning sun, it’s brightness is just below the surface and, no matter what, it has to rise.
“Do I have to say it? Like, do I have to use the word?”
She makes a face that says she really does hate the word ‘love’ so I grab the pen from around my neck.
“Only if you feel it.” I take her wrist in my hand, and I slide her sleeve up like I did before.
This is insane, but after everything I’ve been through, I need to do something insane. Something completely different. Entirely asinine.
I need to fall in love with a stranger.
The lingering taste of Evan’s lips and how she shoved Annie aside to kiss me is exactly the kind of insane I need.
Friday, April 19 • 9:36 PM
Evan
The pen travels across my skin, all the while saying to myself, this is crazy, Evan. You’re insane. You can’t fall in love with someone in one night. Someone who made a stupid bet about you. Even if he is a hot poet, with deep liquidy eyes that lead somewhere you’re desperately curious to go... even if he does make you feel normal.
When Jordan leans back and inspects his words, I see it’s a continuation of the words he wrote before.
Evan Jordans, Jordan Evans. Opposite but the same, a reflection of hearts. Tonight I give you the key, my love. Tonight my heart is yours...
Jordan rocks my wrist in his palm, re-reading his words, before he hands me his pen. I hold his arm, thick and strong in my hand, but my body washes with fear like a burning comet. I’m not a poet. I don’t know words. I know stars. That doesn’t help me here. I certainly can’t give him my heart. I chew on the end of the pen for a few minutes before touching it to his skin. He studies the drawing for a moment before tilting his eyes to mine.
“What is it?” He points to the little burst on his wrist.
“Halley’s comet.”
His nose wrinkles. “Meaning?”
“Meaning it’s a night that happens once in a lifetime. It would be a shame to miss it.”
I clip the pen back into its cap around his neck.
“A woman of so few words is rare.” He runs his fingers over my drawing.
“So is a man so willing to give his heart without the promise of sex.”
Jordan takes my hand and places a kiss on my knuckles. “I don't have sex with my heart,” he says, grinning at the embarrassment that makes me stumble. He pulls my body into his so we are together from chest to toe. “Dance with me?”
“It’s not really a slow dance song.”
“Who cares?” He tilts my head so I’m looking into his eyes.
I can’t stop my fluttering, sputtering chest, and while part of me wonders if this is part of the game, another part doesn’t care. This feeling goes against every logical thought in my brain, but somehow I manage to crumple up my logic and kick it to the corner of my mind.
9:42 PM
“You are crazy.” Nat plunks a straw into her drink at the start of the band’s second and final intermission.
I finished taking my pills, and my stomach sloshes with each movement, so I lean against the bar.
“You’re in love with him?” she asks.
I take another drink of water. (I started filling it from the bathroom tap to avoid the four dollar charge). “I’m not in love with him. He thinks I will be by the end of the night.”
“You can’t be in love in one night, Evan. Sure if you were only hooking up or something, but love? That’s not something you should fake.”
But that’s a lie, because you can fake love. I know because my mom did it. That memory of me standing on the porch step while she loaded her life into her car. Dad came in at seven thirty with a tall glass of water and my little pill box that I had painted so it wouldn’t seem so old-lady-ish. His face was different that day—hollow, sallow, creased with lines, but he made sure to fill the cracks with bright colored glue so I wouldn’t notice.
I noticed.
When I woke up again, I didn’t hear anything. No sound, only silence snaking through our large home like fog along the floorboards. It snuck up on me, curling around my ankles, ready to drag me down and drag me through the hell that would be the next year of my life.
The way in which I was blindsided by my parents’ divorce proves Nat’s lie in one of two ways: one, my parents faked their love for each other for those last few months when their smiles were bigger, their gestures were grander, and feelings were spilling over between them, filling in every part of our broken lives.
Or two: you can fall out of love in one night, and so
mewhere between the time my eyes closed on that dark, stuffy, humid evening and when the silent fog slid over my skin the next morning, my parents stopped loving each other. If the second is true, it would only be logical that if you can fall out of love in one night, you can fall into it, too.
“You were the one who said I needed to seize the moment or whatever crap spiel you gave me.”
Nat glares at me, but it’s only half serious. “Ew, EJ. I would never say that. You wanted to be normal, and this was an opportunity to do that. But this bet is not normal. It’s kind of weird.”
She chews on her straw, the little sapphire ring gleaming in the dim overhead light. As weird as being engaged before senior year?
“It’s not weird. I said I wasn’t having sex with him, and he said he wasn’t going to try. So, I don’t know what the big deal is.”
“Guys always try for sex.” She shoves her left hand into her back pocket.
“What does that mean? That he’s lying to me to get into my pants?”
“Probably, EJ. All guys do.”
She wasn't there. She didn't see the sincerity on his face, hear the honesty in his voice. I did. And I believe him. As my best friend, it'd be nice if she trusted my judgment.
“Is that why Aaron asked you to marry him? To get into your pants?”
Nat’s smooth brown skin flattens into a glare that clearly says I’ve gone too far. I’ve never actually come out and said it, but now that I have, this was probably the wrong place and time for it. As her best friend, it's obvious I don't trust her judgment.
“That’s different.” Her voice is hard and defiant, but her shoulders slump forward a little.
“How? You just said all guys lie to get into your pants. Aaron's a guy isn't he?” I’m in it now, and irritated. Aaron told her he loved her after a week. Like, for real love. She was fourteen, and he was sixteen. “Aaron knows you want to wait until marriage. And six months after you had ‘the talk’ he gives you a promise ring?”
I assume Nat’s going to go full-out, ten-out-of-ten ballistic on me, but her eyes go distant for only a moment before she focuses on me again and sighs. She chomps on her straw a couple more times, but she won’t make eye contact, which is very unlike her. “Whatever, Evan. Aaron loves me.”
“I never said he didn’t.” I touch the cut in my chest. It’s burning a little, which means it’s starting to heal, building scabs to bridge the gap from edge to edge and seal the device inside. For five years, anyway, until the battery needs changing. Hopefully by then I’ll have a new heart.
The tension builds and bubbles between Nat and I. That one thing we never talk about lingers. The only thing we’ve ever disagreed on. Aaron. It’s as if there are glass walls surrounding us, bringing us closer together but neither wants to speak first.
The glass is shattered by a soft pressure on my lower back and breath along the skin of my neck. “Hey Evan, come with me?” Jordan whispers taking my hand and spinning me to face him. “I have something to show you.”
“Where’s Rick?” I’m not sure why that’s my first question, but for some reason I become nervous. Sweaty palms and heavy breath nervous. Jordan nods toward the crowd of teenagers that now pack the Aftershock.
“Trust me. He’s fine. Come on.” He tugs me forward a bit.
Nat eyes me suspiciously before Jordan grabs her hand, too. “You too, Nat. It’s for both of you.”
9:45 PM
The first sign of creepiness is the thick black fabric divider hanging in a doorway that leads to creepy thing number two—a long hallway painted black and piled high on either side with trunks and cases of musical equipment. Jordan's fingers are laced through mine and I cling to Nat (who's looking at me like 'if we die, I'm gonna to kill you').
"Where are we going?" I ask as the light gets dimmer and dimmer. This is backstage. Why are we going backstage?
He couldn’t have...
Nat catches my eye again, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am. My heart kicks into high gear (well, as high a gear as it has) and I struggle to force out the dizziness.
Jordan flashes me a charming grin. "I told you. It's a surprise." He winks, and I completely get why girls fall for this crap. I'm no different than Nat or any other girl, I simply hadn't found the guy who was my weakness. The guy whose cheesy winks and one-liners would actually work on me (the fluttery part of me, not the gag reflex).
Jordan stops at a door and knocks in a strange pattern before opening it and guiding me inside. There's a long empty couch against one wall and a coffee table splitting the space in two. Before I even register anything in the room, my lungs suck in a gasp of air.
“Jordan?” I turn to him. Confused. He can’t be friends with the band. He can’t. The grin that splits his face tells me he can. And he is. Natalie screeches next to me and crushes my hand. The pain clears my head, and I take it in. Beer bottles, water bottles, and trays of food litter every surface in the room. A tapping noise like wood on wood drums through my ears, making me feel like I’m going crazy. This can’t be real. How could Jordan have gotten us backstage? I feel like I’m dreaming and really hope I don’t faint. I notice the drummer and the female vocalist/violin player sitting together on a second couch. The bass guitar/cello player stands next to the door and a smile breaks across his face. I'm in the same room as Lemming-friggin-Garden, and I can’t think straight.
"Jordie, baby," Hector, the bassist says excitedly, and they do that guy kinda-high-five-handshake-hug-chest-bump thing. "How's it goin’, man? I got your text. I didn't know you were coming to this one. I thought you were too good for us now," he teases, and my jaw keeps hanging further open.
"Your text?" Nat squeaks out, able to verbalize my inner thought. Obviously he knew how to get us back here, but texting...
The bass player finally takes in me and Nat, or more likely our bulging eyes and gaping mouths. I mean, I knew Lemming Garden was from Philly, but this is nuts. I’m too shocked to be excited.
"These them?" His obvious friend asks, and Jordan gestures to me.
“This is Evan and Natalie. They’re huge fans.” Jordan winks at me, but the whizzing thoughts in my head haven’t slowed down for me to gauge how I’m reacting. “This is Hector. He’s bass and vocals.”
“I know who he is,” I say as Natalie jumps forward to shake Hector’s outstretched hand.
“Here, come sit. We’re playing around before the last set.” Hector puts his hand on the small of Nat’s back to guide her to the couch, and she looks over her shoulder at me. Oh my God, she mouths, and I attempt to respond, but I’m seriously not sure what my face is actually doing. My hand presses against my chest, a new habit I’ve apparently picked up.
Jordan tugs on my hand and sits in an oversized chair that’s too big for one, but not big enough for two. I sit half on him, half off, leaning on the stuffed fabric arm. He’s really taking this love bet to its full potential, but he’s warm and comfortable and his absent-minded tugging and bending of each of my fingers calms the fuzzy oxygen-deprived parts of me. I slump back against his chest and lean my head against his shoulder. It's probably best for me anyway, as screaming, fangirling, or otherwise making an ass of myself would not be a good way to react right now (because, you know, getting excited is bad for my health and all).
“You didn’t tell me you knew the band.” I turn sideways to better see Jordan.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Who would walk around to random guys at concerts and ask if they knew the band?”
Jordan laughs, and Hector’s tattooed hand comes from nowhere and playfully slaps him in the face, making me duck. My shoulders hunch awkwardly and pain rips through my chest. I suck in a loud, harsh breath, but even through clenched teeth, the pain finds its way out.
“Evan?” Jordan says, shoving Hector away and taking my face in his hand. “You okay? What happened?”
Nat is halfway standing with eyes that say Give me the word and I’ll get you out of here.
I let out a few shaky breaths, and the pain eases into a dull ache (and I’m glad I didn't faint again). “I’m fine, I twisted funny.”
Jordan’s expression that’s flat and untrusting. He’s doing that thing he did when he first bumped into me outside—where he sees farther into me than I want him to.
“Seriously, Jordan. I’m fine.” I repeat but don’t have to wait for him to respond because the door opens, and the rest of the band comes in, carrying beer and more food. Nat and I are introduced to people who we already know, people whose photograph is tacked in my locker at school, and here I am in the same room as them. It’s surreal yet feels almost normal at the same time. The ease with which Jordan talks to them helps shift the experience. He’s known them for a while, or it seems that way.
Hector sits on the arm of our chair, picks up his bass, and taps on the strings while he asks me where I’m from and all those personal questions that I really can’t answer but stumble through some poorly thought out lies. He nods as I talk, the buzzing of other voices mixing with the thumping of the bass, and I can’t take my eyes off him. His fingers pick a rhythm, an undercurrent of deep tones on the crimson guitar. Bass is like the heartbeat of a song. Most people would say the drummer is, but I don’t think so. The bass is the steady evenness underneath that guides the songs from beat to beat. The bass is more than heard, it’s felt.
“Have you ever played?” Hector notices me staring, and my eyes shift from his fingers to his face. I shake my head. He lifts his guitar and sets it in my lap. “Here, try it out.”
I pluck at the thick string like a cat nervously batting a toy, and Jordan shifts under me. He grips the neck of the bass, pressing down a chord. His other hand plays the strings, sending the deep pulse through me.
“You play instruments, too?” I ask as he positions my fingers on the strings.
“Nah, I know a bit from Hector, but mostly I suck.”
“He’s right about that. He knows like one song.” Hector points to strings that I should pluck. It sounds like a scale. The rumble scale. The other sounds in the room of people talking, laughing, moving, all mix deeper into the vibration of the bass.
