Page 4 of Just My Type of wrong guy

Is there any chance we can rebuild what I broke?

I use all my acting skills to ignore his pleading eyes and watch him from a safe distance as he asks me again:Rebuildwhat I broke? Maybe, if you give me one chance, I can make things work.

A.J. promises, leaving the piano to me and pulling me close by the waist again. The crowd couldn’t scream louder when he rests his forehead on mine and finishes:

Make us work!

The spotlight on us fades, marking the end of the night for me, and I smile satisfied.

“You’re really good,” he states, as if the last two weeks stuck in a studio learning the song hadn’t already proved that.

“I know,” I reply quickly in a playful tone, probably drowned out by the general uproar, and I pull our foreheads apart when all the stage lights go out once more.

I walk toward the exit, following the boys’ marks, and only have time to greet Guilherme with a fist bump. But I’m not leaving; I stay to the left of the stage, ready to understand why these fans scream for these guys.

The lights turn on, fireworks explode, and before the first song is even halfway through, I get it. I barely know the songMade to Never Break[1], and I can’t stop dancing because they won’t let me. It’s like a shot of dopamine; their voices burn us, not to mention that they all play and sing for real, without relying on the backup band or backing vocals.

In other words: they’re really good, and hot, just like members of a boyband should be.

A.J. takes the stage for himself, even though he only has short solos in this song; Thomas Fontaine, the biggest quiet guy in history, plays his bass without much fuss, but the looks this man throws at the crowd are hypnotizing me, and I’m not even facing him! Richard Parker, the man you are! If more men saw how he treats that drum kit, they’d learn what women like. With his powerful vocals, Guilherme Almeida is the man of the night. Not like I didn’t know that. After all, we were bandmates forthree years. It’s even weird to think about it now and how it all ended. So, I shake my head and let myself dance to the rhythm of the songs, just like a good Vagabonder would.

Between pop rock, ballads, and more upbeat songs, I realize they’re in the best place for an artist to be. On a stage, receiving love and delivering great music.

An hour later, they take a break, and Richard jumps off the drums to introduce the backup musicians and the band to the crowd.

I search for my phone in my pocket with an almost childlike hope that my dad has sent a message, but then remember that I didn’t bring it to the stage. I shift my weight, watching the boys who’ve already been introduced drink water while Richard calls A.J., and the screams, always loud, hit new levels.

“I love this one!” one of the production girls shouts enthusiastically as she stops next to me.

“The next song?” I ask, wishing for earplugs because of the noise, and she nods. “What’s this one?”

She blinks twice, removes her headset, and I almost ask to borrow it.

“One Last Kiss?” The girl looks at me like I should know. Then she flashes a sly smile. “It’s everyone’s favorite,” she shouts in my ear when the song starts, and the crowd goes into a complete frenzy.

I’m straining to catch the lyrics, but it’s hopeless. I doubt the boys can even hear themselves without their monitors. The redhead next to me starts screaming as loudly as possible, her eyes never leaving A.J., and I realize the uproar is to get his attention, which he clearly doesn’t hear. But I do, so I can understand the lyrics, and the collective hysteria makes evenless sense to me. The song is about a guy who lost his woman and wants to kiss her again.

That’s it.

I furrow my brow at their desperation and the efforts of the redhead in heat next to me. Until I notice A.J. coming in my direction.

“He’s going to kiss you,” she smiles, excited for me, as if I’ve won the lottery.

“I need to kiss a fan during this song. Can it be you?” he asks into the microphone before I even process what she said.

My jaw drops, and I stop him with both hands on his rock-hard chest.

“Your fans are down there,” I reply, also into the mic, torn between shock and disdain. “And I think you should kiss that one over there.” I point to the first girl I see in the crowd who looks of legal age.

A.J. closes his eyes, shaking his head as the girl climbs onto the barricade.

“You’re a lucky girl,” he tells her, still facing me, tilting his head sideways and saying that to the brunette with a headband on top of the barricade. “And you... I’ll be watching you,” A.J. shouts out of the microphone in terrible Portuguese, and I burst out laughing.

“Why did he do that?”

My stage-side colleague looks at me as if I’ve committed a crime.

“He always kisses someone,” she replies, pointing at the big screen on stage.

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