Page 3 of Wish You Would

My best friend and roommate, Simon, looked around, eyebrows raising. The place was packed. “I think if we’d waited any longer, we wouldn’t have anywhere to sit.”

If someone had told me this time last year that I’d be spending my Saturday nights at sold-out shows for a ‘90’s tribute band, I’d have asked them what they were smoking. Yet, this was my third—fourth?—Patti Mayonnaise show in the last few months. And it wasn’t even a rabid love for ‘90’s music, which I’d certainly come to appreciate, or a taste for the fruity drinks the bar served on show nights, which I also enjoyed.

It was something—someone—else entirely.

“Okay.” I turned toward my friend. “But does it make me seem…” I trailed off, words eluding me.

“Desperate? Eager?” Simon supplied. “Head over heels in gay love?” He nodded, hazel eyes flashing with amusement. “Oh, absolutely.”

I slapped his shoulder, laughing even as heat flooded to my face. “No, but seriously.”

“Seriously?” He leaned an elbow on the table and sipped his drink. “I think that no one even cares that you’re here. Except for the Karen in the corner who’s pissed you grabbed the last table.” He lifted his glass in her direction, giving her a wink. She scowled harder.

I covered a laugh with my own drink, a bright green, fizzy thing that tasted like a fruit basket and a glass of champagne had a baby. As I sipped, I took in the bar’s stunning mural, a zap of pride lighting my heart. My sister designed and painted it last year, and it didn’t matter how many times I’d seen it, I was always impressed by her ode to classic literature, with a steampunk twist.

“Still cool,” I said, turning back to Simon.

“So.” He leaned back in his chair, resting an ankle on his knee. “Is tonight the night?”

My next breath caught in my throat, gaze flying to the stage, where Patti Mayonnaise was about to go on. Catching sight of the drummer, my heart did a stupid skippy thing.

Her hair was down tonight, falling over her bare shoulders in dark, messy layers. The stage lights caught a glint in her eyes as she laughed at something the bassist said, and, ugh. She was so pretty.

I grabbed my drink in both hands and stared hard at the bubbly green liquid. “I’unno,” I mumbled.

“What was that?” Simon leaned closer, his face blurring in my periphery. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I said I don’t know.” I threw back my head and groaned. “What am I supposed to even say?”

“How about, Hi, I’m Parker? Or, Nice set? Or, I’ve been coming to your shows for months and all I can think about is how I want to smash your mouth with my mouth?”

“God, I hate you,” I said as Simon dissolved into laughter. Sitting back in my seat, I took a long drink of my cocktail. Maybe he was right. Maybe all I had to do was walk up to Halle, introduce myself, and—

“How is it?”

I jumped, my drink splashing over the rim of the glass, and looked up at Gigi, bartender slash friend slash sister-of-the-dude-dating-my-sister, standing over me. “Shoot.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” She handed me a couple napkins, an apologetic smile on her face.

“No, I’m sorry,” I said as I mopped up the mess. “I was just…lost in my thoughts.”

“Dirty thoughts,” Simon said, poorly covering his words in a fake cough.

I glared his way and motioned for Gigi to take the empty seat across from me. “Wanna sit?”

“Nah, I can’t.” She shook a tangerine lock away from her forehead. “Just thought I’d come say hi. See how you’re liking tonight’s special.” She motioned to the cocktail I’d just spilled. “Thought I’d try something new.”

“Oh, yeah.” I reclaimed my glass and held it up in a faux-toast. “It’s really good! And the name? Perfect.”

Gigi beamed, planting her hands on her hips. “Thanks. I was pretty proud of it.”

Simon looked between us, bafflement settling onto his pretty face. I frowned. “I’ll be pear for you?” I said. “Friends?”

He shrugged and grabbed his own drink. “Never watched it.”

Gigi and I gasped in unison, me clutching my drink to my chest as if it were pearls. “How,” I said, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time, “am I friends with you?”

“Listen,” he said, nonplussed. “I was too busy making out with the football captain behind the Dairy Queen after school to watch reruns of some old show.”

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