“Because I love to draw. And I want to see something I put on paper live in the world,” I answer back, probably the only question he’ll ask that I’m absolutely sure about.
“Favorite Christmas?” he asks, dancing around my weakness, but not threatening it.
“The last one with my dad,” I say, smiling fondly, and Cody’s face matches mine.
“Me, too,” he says. “Okay, when did you meet Trevor?”
I can tell he’s struggling with this one, forcing it, and I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. “We met at school—one of the honor-student receptions,” I say, shrugging it off and hoping he’ll move on, but for some reason my answer seems to give him pause.
“Which one?” he asks.
I can tell you everything about the day I met Cody. It was a Saturday. He was wearing a T-shirt, a gray one. His eyes crinkled, and he made things inside me come alive, things that I buried with my father. And his touch felt like something I needed to survive, like the air I breathe. But right now—thinking of Trevor—I try to remember our past, and it’s like a fog.
“I think it was the last fall one, about a year ago. The one the Dean had at his house?” I say, not sure that I was right, but feeling fairly certain.
I can see everything about Cody change, his posture is rigid, and his hands are tight on the wheel. His teeth are clenched, and just like that—the easiness between us is gone.
“I’m sorry. Did I…do something?” I say, starting to wonder if I can do this, be here, with him.
We’re pulling onto a side street that heads to the arena so we can park in one of the neighborhoods. In those fleeting seconds that the streetlights shine on his face through the window as they pass, I’m watching Cody intensely, trying to gage what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. There’s a spot in front of one of the historic homes a few blocks away, and Cody pulls over, sliding the gearshift into park. He pulls the keys from his truck and just stares at them in his lap, laughing to himself quietly.
“I don’t get it. What’s funny?” I say, starting to freak out a little and getting nervous.
He looks up at me, pushing his lips into a big smile, the dimples deep, but his mouth closed tightly. He’s acting, just like I was—faking that everything is okay.
“I was supposed to be there, too,” he says, his eyes right on mine, telling me the secret I already know, that I think I knew all along. “I didn’t go…because I didn’t want to be around Trevor.”
He gets out of the truck as soon as he’s done speaking, and I take those few seconds alone to gasp for breath and choke on my emotions. I could have met Cody months ago—before Trevor, before I met the Appletons, before I said yes! My path could have been so different. But it’s not. Cody chose to stay away. And we missed our moment.
It was supposed to be Cody.
I don’t know how we manage to walk to the arena, both of us walking side-by-side, our fingers so close to connecting, but never touching…not once. We get inside and find our seats, taking turns going to the restroom. Cody gets us drinks, and I busy myself twisting the straw on my Diet Coke, secretly glad that Cody’s not drinking anything hard either.
The lights flick twice, and people start to file from their seats down the aisles to crowd the stage, and I want to go. Cody’s questions have me wondering lots of things about myself, about who I really am—and I feel like I’m the girl who gets in the middle of the crowd, who throws her hands in the air, and tries to touch the lead singer’s hand at a concert. I look at Cody and nod to the stage. He shrugs, sets his drink in a cup holder, and puts his hand along my back to push me forward.
His touch is like an ice cube sliding down my back, the sensation a foreign surprise, but I’m desperate for it, to melt it, to make it warm. I keep my gaze forward, committed to the stage and the crowd that’s building before me. I want to be in the middle. I’m determined.
As we slide between the bodies, I feel Cody get closer; both of his hands grip my shoulders to direct me and keep me near him. I’m finally satisfied a few rows in front of the stage, near a walkway that I’m sure the band will walk out on. My heart is pounding, and the rush I’m feeling just standing here among the sea of bodies is addictive.
I know I’m not really taking a risk. I know compared to what Cody does—compared to driving off of a ramp at 80 miles per hour and throwing my body through twists and turns in the air—I’m not really risking anything. But I’m a far cry from the girl who sits in a balcony at a play, the girl who keeps her mouth shut at a football game, not wanting to scream or offend the guy sitting in front of her. And letting go of that inhibition, getting close to a stage, to a band that I love, feels like living.