Page 36 of Hey Girl
“And I’m the crazy one,” Chris gestures at himself. “And Matt’s the leader and Josh is the asshole.”
“Pay close attention at next week’s show,” Jack nods. “You’ll see what we mean,” he chuckles and tucks back into his meal while I have a nervous breakdown.
“Sh - show?” I ask, feeling my nerves ramp up. And great, it sounds like I just said shit show.
“Yeah, it’s the anniversary of the St. Michelle, the oldest building in the city. We shot our first video there.” I don’t know Jack missed my little stutter there or if he just doesn’t give a shit. Either way, it rocks. But my nerves are still throwing a rave and my speech is about to get worse. I feel the blood drain from my face.
“Rebecca,” Mayzie leans forward. “Are you okay?” She asks gently.
“S-S-Saturday?” I repeat. “As in f-four days from now?”
“Oop!’ Chris makes a noise as he pushes his chair back, looking as if he simply needs the bathroom. He hurries behind my chair and pulls it back gently. Is he humming?
“You guys good?” Jack asks over his glass as Chris gingerly takes hold of my elbows and helps me stand.
“Yep, all good! She’s just trying to self-destruct, and we can’t let that happen. Here we go, Mouse, we’re just going to take a nice little walk, just the two of us.”
I nod, as I feel my breath start to shorten while Chris takes my hand and leads me out the screen door and down the steps into the back yard. He sets our pace to one that’s slow and rhythmic as he starts in on breathing instruction. “Okay Mouse, breathe in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four.”
I feel better already, but I take advantage of another few rounds of breathing with our footsteps.
We continue walking, and Chris must sense when my breathing returns to normal, because he veers us towards a bench that sits at the edge of the yard. While the lights still glow from the porch, the view the bench faces is rather dark. I can only tell that it’s a big grassy clearing and can just make out a shrubbery hedge on the far side. I stare out into the darkness, wondering what this little place looks like during the day.
“So, my sweet sexy girl, what was all that about? You were doing great back there, but something set you off.”
I nod a little absently but make myself look up at him. I shake my head trying to think of a way to explain. They just started talking about a concert. It’s not like we got transported there, in the midst of thousands of screaming people where the stands come to life and eat me alive. It’s not like me to get set off by just a word. Then again, it’s not like me to come down from a panic fit so quickly either. Chris was all over it. The least I can do is give him a reason.
Come on Rebecca, help him help you.
I take a breath and try again. “For some reason, I pictured myself there, and it got me panicky,” I confess. “That doesn’t usually happen. Maybe because it’s important to you. It’s part of your world, but it’s a part I can’t fit into.”
Chris nods, looking thoughtful. He’s kind of nice like this. Don’t get me wrong. I love the crazy, whacky drummer I’ve been dating. I love all his energy, and I had no idea I needed laughter in my life so much until he came along. But this calm andpeaceful side is refreshing. It shows a humble attentiveness and a maturity that I’ve always known lay sleeping somewhere deep underneath.
I wait for him to speak and am just starting to get nervous when he looks off in the distance and points. “Check it out.”
“What?” I turn my face in the direction he’s pointing to see all the shrubs dotted in tiny but bright lights. “The fireflies?”
“Those aren’t fireflies,” he calmly argues.
“Fine, lightning bugs, whatever.” He pulls me into his lap, and we look at all the little lights together.
“Nope, those are fans,” he says smugly.
“Okay, are we playing some kind of make-believe game? I’m not following.”
“That,” he points towards all the fireflies again “is a bunch of fans gathered at a Turn it Up concert. We’re playing one of our classics, and they’re showing respect by holding their lighters, or I guess cell phones in the air.”
I glance out at the dainty little lights. There are hundreds of them, and when I let my imagination take over, it truly does look like we’re in a stadium full of lighter-holding fans.
“I get it,” I try to tell him gently. “But we’re not at your concert. We’re in a quiet little park full of cute, non-threatening little fireflies. It’s not the same thing.”
“Bullshit,” he argues with a smirk and it makes me want to slap it off his face. “We are at one of my shows, I’m about to rock the socks off those people out there, and you’re just here, cool as a cucumber, ready to see me play for you.”
“They’re fireflies.”
“I don’t believe you,” he practically sings.
“Chris! Those are not fans! I don’t know what you're doing but those are not your fans! Those are a thousand little bugs whose asses light up and don’t have a clue who you are because their brains are the size of - oh,” I cut myself off mid-rant whenI see what his sneaky ass is trying to pull. I turn to find his wickedly cheesy smile with that damn quirky eyebrow that I want to smack off his face sometimes but I don’t because it’s part of his infernal sex appeal.