Page 101 of Over the Edge

“Might be hard, but I’ll try my best. Color?”

“Purple. Special request, can I get an F plus E in one, like a doodle in a notebook? I gotta remind the world who this ugly mug belongs to.” A crooked grin cracks across his face.

“Is Emily here?” I ask.

“Nah, it's flu shot season so she’s helping with that, but I’ll be damned if she doesn’t come to the real thing with me.”

The door behind me opens and clatters closed with more arrivals and before I can stop myself, I turn to look.

“He’ll be here,” Fletcher says as his eyes soften. I look away and focus on perfectly coating my brush.

I take my time with little hearts making them almost look like freckles. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“But if I did? I mean, know what you’re talking about.” I give in slightly but don’t dare break my forced concentration. I try to dampen the hope building in my chest.

“I’d tell you he’s never missed a rehearsal or the actual festival. Not when he was touring or when he was in school. He made it work, made them write into his contract and everything. He has his rough edges but he’s reliable as hell.” A woman painting the face of an apple-cheeked child huffs her disapproval and Fletcher corrects. “Excuse me, reliable as heck. Forgot we had some tender ears around here. That’s why they tuck me back in the da—darned garage.”

I cover my mouth to hide a smile. “Even when he was touring? There’s no way that people didn’t recognize him.”

“Well, he doesn’t sing. He just plays because of Alina. Then there’s the wig.”

“Wig?” I choke out the question through a laugh.

“Yeah, wig. It kinda looks like a fucking”—the lady throws him another look and he cringes—“dead rat. And he takes off his glasses.”

“NowthatI need to see.”

“Hell, it’ll change you. That's for sure,” he says, giving me a wide-eyed, haunted expression.

“Let me finish you up before you say something that has parents pulling out soap to wash your mouth with.” I hold back a laugh as I pull back my hand so I don’t leave jagged scribbles on his face.

A few flicks of my brush later and I send him on his way. He grabs a donut then bounds over to help someone move speakers.

“Hello, everyone!” Pat’s voice booms through the gym in a way that probably gives some of the younger people flashbacks to when she was their teacher. “I wanted to thank all of our volunteers and business owners for making today possible. Every year, you are the folks who make the magic happen for everyone who comes to town on the 14th of October to experience the Love Letter Festival. We know you’ve been waiting for it, so the music is about to start.”

Alina and then a younger blonde woman walk on to the stage. The woman settles at the piano and Alina in front of the microphone. Then, there he is carrying a cello case and wearing an impassive expression. An expression I want to crack open to know how he is. I wonder how long he’s been here, what side door he used to come in.

Even with Fletcher’s reassurance I had doubts, but he’s here. The conversations of the community members dominate the space as the trio finishes setting up.

A bow stroke carries through the gymnasium. Everyone stills with anticipation. In practiced unison, the pianist and Garrett start a familiar swinging tune, and Alina starts to sing “Dream a Little Dream of Me.” Couples start to form in front of thestage, dancing however they see fit, gentle swaying to seemingly choreographed routines. I pay them little mind. I only care about the man with his arms in an embrace around his instrument. He looks up and catches me staring—I don’t look away because I can’t. Not when he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room.

In the universe.

“Hey, Ev,” someone calls, and my attention is forced back to where I’m sitting. Oliver is standing to my left. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and he’s rocking back on his heels.

“Oh, hey. Do you need something?” I ask, actively having to pay attention to Oliver and not Garrett. Not Garrett, who I still don’t know how to feel about right now.

“Dance with me?” he says. The question itself is complete, but my mind tacks onlike we used to. “I mean, if you want.”

“What about Quinn?” I ask, looking to where my friend is meticulously cleaning her station.

“You know how she feels about being perceived with the potential of publicly failing or anything like it,” he says with a light smile. Quinn notoriously only dances when the lights are low and the music is deafening.

“If it’s okay, then sure.” I give a nod and he gives me his hand. As I drape my fingers in his, my first thought is to compare Oliver’s soft ones to Garrett’s calloused ones.

We join the rest of the dancers, slipping into a gap a few feet from the stage. There’s no strict pattern to our movements, just intuition. I lead as my body is swallowed by the aching strains of music, and Oliver follows.

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