Again, But Better(95)

Chad strides forward without comment. Pilot falls into step on my other side.

“You excited to hit this place again?” he asks quietly as the four of us come up to the black awning.

“Lamppost.”

He smiles.

I raise my eyebrows. “How doth one top a live oldies-classic-rock-punk-rock-from-the-early-2000s cover band, Pilot? It doesn’t get better than that.”



* * *



The band is in full swing as we mosh our way to the bar. It’s not long before our foursome is torn into pairs by the mass of people chomping at the bit for alcohol. Pilot and I both order a gin and tonic before heading out onto the floor.

We situate ourselves side by side, swaying and playfully singing along with the set. When they play “What’s My Age Again,” I jump around, baptizing everyone in the vicinity with my drink. We’re mazing our way to the back of the room to set down our empty glasses when “Basket Case” starts to play.

“Oh shit!” I exclaim, lightly whacking Pilot in the arm. I hold his eyes, bobbing my head with the beat, and he laughs at me.

“Let’s dance!” I talk-yell.

He holds his lips in a small smile. “I thought we were getting new drinks!”

“I am one of those melodramatic fools, neurotic to the bone, no doubt about it!” I yell-sing dramatically, shaking my shoulders in time with the bass.

“Remember how I don’t really dance?”

I shake my head. “Nope, you are not pulling that crap after the Versailles stunt.”

His smile stretches to full capacity as he rolls his eyes. I raise my eyebrows expectantly. We stare each other down for a beat. And then he abruptly joins in with the band, “It all keeps adding up—”

I grab his hand, leading him back onto the dance floor, hop-skipping to the music. This time we face each other, not the band. I let go of his hand and flail-dance, singing at the top of my lungs. It’s a technique I use to scare people into moving out of the way, thus carving out some space to actually dance. He watches me, unmoving and stone-faced for a good twenty seconds. I stubbornly hold eye contact: Dance with me. And then he does—bobbing his head around a little more intensely than usual. I mirror his cool-guy head bob.

As the song comes to a close, I grab his hands, pull him toward me, and drag us to the right. I let my arms straighten out, dropping back, changing our momentum, and then I pull myself toward him again. We crash into each other. He lets go of one of my hands and manages to spin me out like he did at Versailles. I laugh like a madwoman, whipping away from him, hair covering my face. I slam into the nearest human who’s crept his way into our dance space and spit a stream of apologies as I quickly whirl back to Pilot. My back slams up against his chest, and I’m cackling, and I can feel his chest vibrating behind me as the song fades out.

Our hands are still connected, and he twists me around in the sudden silence. My heart hammers as our foreheads fold together.

“I don’t know if we should keep going. You’re a hazard to everyone within a six-foot radius.”

I bring my arms up around his neck as the band starts a new song. “I’m not the one who whipped out the ballroom dance moves in a mosh pit.”

He raises his head, looking thoughtful for a moment. My brain takes note of the familiar song floating around us now, much calmer than the previous one. “Yellow Submarine.” The room falls into a mellow side-to-side sway as they sing along. We join them.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he replies.

“You almost kissed me during this song,” I tease softly.

Pilot’s eyebrows come down comically. “And you pulled away.”

My heart jumps into my throat. So I did. Affirmative. My mouth dries up with my heart all in there. We rotate silently for a stretch of lyrics before I tell him, “I got scared.”

Pilot’s thoughtful as the song draws to a close.

“How’s present Shane doing?” he asks. Another song from my middle-school years explodes through the room.

“She’s great. How’s Pilot?” I yell-talk over the now blasting music.

“Scared shitless, to be honest.” He smiles.

I raise my eyebrows. I want to come back to that, but right now I need to dance. I let myself drift outward, letting go of his hands to dance more freely. All the, small things, true care, truth brings. He sings along and starts trying to mirror my random assortment of moves, looking absolutely ridiculous.

Watching. Waiting. At some point, I topple over to my right and smack into a girl with a sparkly-gold tank top, flailing for purchase. But before I get any closer to the ground, Pilot catches hold of my arm and yanks me back over to him. I fly upright, colliding into him, and then his arms are tight around my waist, and we’re kissing and dancing, and my heart’s having one of its out-of-body experiences. I feel it floundering around above my head like in The Sims. The music surges: Nananananananananananananana.

I don’t want to break apart when we break apart.

“Shit.” His twinkling eyes search mine.

“Shit,” I agree.

The band starts a new song. “Want to grab a drink?” he asks.

“I actually have to hit the BR. Go grab yourself a drink, and I’ll meet you over there!” I assure him with a dopey smile.