Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
When she climbed up on my shoulders outside the arena, it was like a pin being pulled from a grenade. I could feel the heat of her through her shorts; the strength of her thighs gripping my neck sent a sharp bolt of desire through my body, one I’d rather not experience in front of a few thousand people. I wanted to be alone with her, to run my fingers up the inside of her thighs, feel that heat pressed against my hand. I wanted to drop to my knees and show her with my mouth just how much I had regretted going home alone the other night. Job? Who needs a job?
But of course, we weren’t alone. It only took one glance at Stevie—her eyes locked on Fizzy and shining with absolute awe—for reality to come screeching back.
Thankfully, it’s the erupting screams that break me from my swimming thoughts, as the lights are snuffed out and the arena explodes into a blast of unbelievable sound. It’s nearly overwhelming. I know that sound doesn’t have color, but when I close my eyes, stars pop yellow and red on my lids. It is deafening, a tangible thunder that moves through my chest, rattling the ground beneath me. Stevie and Juno are jumping up and down, joining in a growing chant of the group’s name.
Fizzy pulls me close, her hand clutching my forearm. I see her lips move but can’t possibly hear her in the cacophony as she nods to the girls. When I shake my head, she stretches and I lean in, feeling her lips move against my ear: “I am so happy you’re here to see this.”
“I’d like to put a pedometer on them and see how many calories they burn by the end of this thing.”
“Just wait till it starts.”
She’s so close I wonder how I’ll be able to think about anything else, but when the first note rings through the dark, it easily yanks my attention away. I have never voluntarily listened to a Wonderland song, but it is impossible to be in the middle of all this and not be affected by the collective anticipation around us. This is the joy that Fizzy talked about. The shared adrenaline, everyone here for the same thing. Even the dads near us have decided to stand, some with arms folded across their chests as they observe, others shifting from foot to foot to get a better view, curious to see what all the fuss is about.
Fireworks erupt from the stage and the group emerges to a thunderous reaction. When the first song starts, Fizzy, Juno, and Stevie know every word. I’m surprised to realize I know most of them, too. The girls lose themselves to the music and the euphoria of the show. Fizzy dances where she stands, entirely unselfconscious. Somehow Stevie knows every beat of the show before it happens. She knows the set list, when the members will venture out into the audience, and at exactly what point they’ll pass right in front of us. I’m so caught up in it that when she attempts to hold up her small sign, I’m ready to take over and hold it up higher.
During the final intermission, sweaty and surprisingly exhausted, I walk from the balcony and through the suite to use the loo. When I step out again, Fizzy is making herself a drink. We can still see the girls, but the glass walls close us in, dulling the noise from the show.
I join Fizzy at the bar, refill my water bottle, and close my eyes as I take a long, cold drink.
When I open them again, she’s watching. “So.” She leans casually against the countertop. “What’s the verdict?”
“To be honest, I expected noise and traffic and two tired, cranky ten-year-old girls—which I’m sure we’ll still get—but I was also sure I would hate every minute. I was wrong. You may now gloat.”
“You were dancing,” she says with a grin.
“I was swaying.”
She lets this one slide. “I’m pretty picky about who I’ll bring to a concert, but you were a good sport, Hot DILF. I may invite you again if I find myself needing a concert buddy. But know there are usually fewer ten-year-olds, more booze, and the occasional bad tattoo at the end.”
“I look forward to it,” I say, and glance back at the girls, unexpectedly struck by Fizzy’s praise. The group launches into another song and Stevie looks over, searching for me. This one’s her favorite, the song that plays on my way to work every Monday morning because it was the last one Stevie played Sunday night. She excitedly points to the stage before turning back to watch.
“She totally adores you,” Fizzy says.
I don’t know why that word in particular stings the backs of my eyes. Most kids love their parents. I don’t like my dad, but I do love him in my own way. It’s a love tangled up with grief and hurt and a messy pile of other complicated emotions, but it’s there. To adore is to cherish, to treasure, and for Stevie to visibly feel that for me after all the ways I’ve fallen short fills me with so much pride it’s almost hard to breathe.