Songbird_A Small-Town Romantic Comedy Read online

  The ticket in my back pocket, the one meant for John, feels like an anchor now. I hate that it's there. I hate that I brought it with me. What is it? Some ridiculous prop to get him to talk to me? What was I thinking? I replay our interactions and feel nothing but shame and embarrassment.

  Sitting on the grass up ahead to my left is a man I've never seen before. He looks like he's alone, leaning forward, his arms resting on bent knees. As I walk over, he looks up with calm eyes and a neutral expression. He adjusts his black-rimmed glasses when he notices me. Shaggy brown hair frames his slim face. Under other circumstances, I might have thought he was halfway attractive, but now all I care about is finding a human to relieve me of my burden.

  I drop the ticket meant for John beside this guy and watch it flutter to the grass. “There’s an empty seat down there. All yours if you want it,” I say before walking toward the gate without waiting for a response.

  Chapter Two

  Ellie

  “Didn’t you go for another beer?” Brooke asks, watching me drain my cup.

  I plop down in the folding chair next to her. Before I can respond, Holland plays the last resounding chord of her opening set, the audience blooming into a sea of half-hearted applause. The change of volume rids Brooke of her curiosity, and I escape having to explain my second encounter with John.

  Hoards of people shuffle past one another heading toward the bathrooms and food vendors just before the Boxley Brothers take the stage. With Brooke texting on her phone, I roll the left sleeve of my jacket up and check for marks where John had grabbed me. Nothing, thank God. I want to chain-smoke the rest of my cigarettes to calm my nerves, but that would deplete me until next week. Covering my face with my hands, I try to drown out the clamor around us. The image of John's fingers clenched around my arm makes me fidgety and is ingrained in my mind. No matter how much I'd been thinking of him the past few weeks, one thing is clear— he hasn't changed a bit. What an asshole.

  "Excuse me, are you lost?" I hear Brooke ask candidly.

  Glancing over at her on my left, I notice the offended look plastered on her face.

  “You the one who gave me the ticket back there?” Following Brooke’s gaze to the rooted voice on the other side of me, I find the guy I’d thrown the extra ticket at a few songs ago. Standing beside the empty seat, he’s holding two beers and is staring right at me.

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  "Nice," he says, handing me one of the beers. "Appreciate it." He's wearing a gray V-neck T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. When he settles himself in the chair beside me, I feel the warmth of his body against my right side, and a sudden pang of guilt washes over me. If he knew why I’d given him the ticket in the first place, he probably wouldn’t even want it.

  Leaning forward, Brooke eyes him with pursed lips. “Well. Guess I’ll have to get my own alcohol then.” She climbs over the back of her seat and disappears into the crowd.

  Sitting here sipping my third beer, I realize I probably shouldn’t drink anymore tonight. I consider giving the guy his beer back but reason that the building up of my buzz is helping to calm my panic. Side-eyeing him, I notice his tanned, muscular forearm is inches from me on his lap. His bookish face and nerdy glasses contrast his mysteriously simple vibe. I want to lean over and tell him he’d be a lot hotter if he’d ditch his rumpled, serious look. But I’m not in the frame of mind to consider anyone attractive tonight as it is, so I keep quiet and wipe the thought from my mind.

  The Boxley Brothers finally take the stage for their first song, and I notice the guy beside me is drumming his fingers on his thigh in anticipation. There’s something about his innocence laid out in front of the music like this that makes me grow giddy with excitement and understanding, and I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have his fingertips drumming the same song on my leg.

  Seriously, Ellie? Get a grip.

  I roll my eyes at myself. Suddenly craving contact, I lean into his shoulder. "Have you seen them before?" I whisper over the opening guitar chords. The way the band makes their instruments sing in elegance and finesse splits my heart in the best of ways, my angst from the chaotic evening finally melting in my lap.

  "Yeah, sure. Couple times in Raleigh," he says, his eyes still fixed on the stage. "Then last year here." As he takes a long sip of his beer, he looks over at me, and the depth of his dark eyes hit me like a train. "They've got that sounds-first thing down with an indie blues overtone. Hard to describe it."

  My throat goes dry at his words, and I feel an immediate affinity streak through my warm limbs. His description is nearly verbatim what I’d told John when he first asked me about my favorite band years ago. Indie. Bluesy. Music first, lyrics follow.

  "People underestimate how talented these guys are," he says, his mahogany eyes still glued to mine. His lips curl to the side with a grin. "They're one of the best."

  Smirking, I nod and cross my arms over my chest, suddenly growing self-conscious under his entrancing stare. I feel my cheeks heat up with his attention, and even though I begin to think I'd trade this entire concert for a chance to captivate this man, I can't let him miss the opening song on account of me wanting his attention. The heady buzz from my beer drowning me in a desperate state of freedom, I say nothing. But in the wake of my silence, I reach my hand up to his chin, and with a single finger, I slowly turn his head back toward the stage. Through his half-smile, I want to tell him he doesn't deserve to miss any of the show because of me. With his gaze now removed from me, I feel lighter, momentarily free from the fire burning within me.

  Banjo and mandolin notes roll off the stage, hitting the crowd in waves as I sway along to the beat. Drunk on the soothing sounds of the Boxley Brothers, I can't help but feel this music swim to my core. And this is how it usually happens for me. "It's like they're in time with the pulse of the entire universe," I whisper.

  He must hear me because the guy turns his head back toward me. When I look over at him again, he searches my eyes, this time scanning me with a piece of heartfelt concern. "Never heard anyone explain it like that before." The corner of his mouth lifts. "But you're right." He extends a strong hand toward me. "I'm Mason."

  Mason?

  I exhale. Mason.

  His name ricochets around the comfortable space of my mind. I could get used to a name like Mason. But when I shake his hand, as if on cue, the lead vocalist, Cole Boxley, begins to belt out the lyrics to the top song from his setlist, "Stones Unturned." And it's pure poetry.

  "I'm Ellie," I say over the song.

  As if the universe smacks me in the face of this nearly perfect moment here in the darkness of the crowd, Mason nods. "Nice to meet you, Kelly."

  Shit! Kelly? This bursts my happy little concert bubble. Do I freaking look like a Kelly?

  For a split second, I consider letting Mason think my name is Kelly. Par for the course, I can take it in stride, right? I'll never see him again after tonight. He doesn't have to know my name is anything else. But then I think about the show and how long I'll hold on to this memory for years to come. How it feels too false to share this love of the same band with the guy and not have him know who I honestly am, even if it's only a one-letter difference. Be the storm, Ellie.

  “Ellie!” I say louder. “My name’s Ellie.” My correction isn’t meant to shame him, but it accidentally launches him into a full-on, adorably crooked smile. He brings a quick hand up over his eyes, and the depth of his dimples that now show are tell of his embarrassment. His reaction causes me to genuinely laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

  Suddenly, the hilarity of this moment is ransacked by Brooke as she squeezes past us, causing me to break eye contact with Mason. Her herbaceous perfume stirs the stale air when she takes her seat beside me. I try to stifle the tail-end of my laughter by the time she sits, but she notices and latches on to my elbow causing me to wince.

  “Oh my God, Ellie. Are you flirting?" She leans past me for a better look at Mason. "If you a
re, he's gorgeous. Where'd you find him?"

  Turning toward her to block my words from Mason, I furrow my brow and try to keep a straight face. "He's not gorgeous," I whisper, fighting the obvious smile that lingers. I pull my arm away from her and yank my jacket tighter around me. "And I'm not flirting— I'm being the storm."

  “The what?”

  "John's ticket. I gave it to some stranger on the lawn. It was him," I say, shrugging in the direction of Mason.

  Brooke’s jaw drops. “Where did that come from?" With a turn of her expression, she waggles her eyebrows at me. "Nicely played, El. A beautiful choice, if I do say so myself." She's still peering around me to get a better look at the guy, and if he notices any of this, he doesn't let on.

  “He’s not beautiful,” I hiss trying to hold it together. “Now, please direct your attention toward the band.”

  Brooke is the best and the brightest in all sorts of ways. She's funny. She's smart. And she's drop-dead gorgeous. But her one little fault is that she goes to most concerts for the social aspect of them, not to enjoy the music.

  I focus back on the stage, the blue and purple lights forming rich pools of color and bathing the band in a waterfall of light. As the night grows darker, the set carries on with this stranger, a very focused and absorbed Mason, at my side. The energy of the songs wash over us, and we're lulled by the liquid velvet harmonies drawing us into a trance.

  After Holland joins the Boxley Brothers for two purely acoustic numbers, they launch straight into their final string of songs, the encore of the night. My heart aches knowing it's about to end. I want the bliss of this night to carry me forever. Being here with my best friend on one side of me and this newfound stranger to my right. The emotion of the music, the taste of the beer, the weight of the air. It all sinks itself into a tight little ball in my chest, pulling at my seams, threatening to split me right in two.

  Chapter Three

  Mason

  I’m sitting next to a girl that knows every single song by the Boxley Brothers. I know this because she’s been whisper-singing all night. Most songs, I can’t quite hear her. But I’ve been allowing myself glimpses of her throughout the night. And I swear there’s not a lyric from this set that hasn’t danced across her lips. I’m not even sure she realizes she does this. But if I’m being honest, it’s undeniably cute. And I don’t even use the word cute.

  The Boxley Brothers end their magnetic hit "Moonlit Road" and flow right into an extended and purely acoustic version of their folk-ballad "Songbird" with the youngest brother firing up his banjo. I've seen this exact transition live four times now. It's so good, they know better than to mess with it or worse, remove it from the show entirely. And because I know the gravity of this number, I understand the magic of what's about to happen up there on stage. Something inside me makes me feel like I should share it with Ellie.

  Leaning back in my seat, I steal another glimpse of her where she can't see me. Her eyes are fixed on the music, and her chocolate brown hair swings just below her shoulders as she moves to the beat of the banjo. She's small-framed and can't be taller than five-foot-five.

  But from what I can tell, she wears her personality like a badge. Wild and free. Masked with a harsh edge that, despite her trying, she can't seem to maintain. And while I can't understand someone being so open and emotionally fluid, I also can't help but desire her for it. In fact, ever since the fourth song tonight when she grabbed my forearm in pure excitement as if she couldn't comprehend not being here at this concert next to me, I've wanted to reach over and wrap my arm around her merely to feel closer. She's pure ecstasy. Lame as it sounds, I want a piece of her joy to take with me tonight. Absorb it in. Maybe have it become a part of me. Make it so that I can take that piece of her with me no matter where I am.

  She did pick me, after all. Out of all those strangers in general admission, she chose to give her extra ticket to me. If I were a betting man, I'd say she's digging me. No mistake about it.

  A wave of courage courses through me. During the top of this final song, I weigh my options. On the one hand, I can do nothing. We can continue sitting here, shoulder to shoulder as we have been for most of the show. Each of us silent and in awe of the music. Sharing a mutual respect for the tunes but not exploring that common thread between us. In other words, it is what it is.

  Or.

  I could let her in on this secret. It's a tiny one. So small it'll be missed by eighty-three point six percent of the people in this audience tonight. But hell, she may be one of those already in the know. But this song, appropriately named "Songbird," is the climax of the night. And Ellie strikes me as the kind of girl who loves this song. I would bet, by the rapturous expression on her face, that she's listened to it her fair share of times. Maybe to curb a heartbreak or to experience what an oppressive loss feels like if she hasn't lived through one herself. But by the look on her face, I can tell she loves the song. And if I'm honest? A part of me wants her to look at me like that before the night is over. Full of elation. A hint of euphoria.

  I duck my head down and whisper to her over Cole’s melancholy guitar chords as he strums the opening notes fresh from the transition. “You see that?”

  Ellie is so enthralled in the slow and heartbreaking riff that follows, that I’m not sure she hears me. But with an appearance that borders on concern, she whips her head toward me and searches my eyes. “See what?”

  Lest I forget, she touched me earlier. At the top of the Boxley Brothers set, this girl reached over and pushed my face back toward the stage so I'd quit looking at her. As if my stare had been too much for her. A normal dude would've probably found it annoying. But for whatever reason, it drove me wild.

  Mirroring her earlier move, I take a finger and place it beneath her chin, slowly turning her head toward the back corner of the stage. Her face is warm from the humidity trapped underneath the tent above us, her scent a mix of hops and spicy citrus. And for a second, I feel a divine certainty that I need to lean in and kiss her during this song. Something delicate and sweet. A kiss she won't forget. But under these circumstances— surrounded by a heartbreaking tune with her ginger friend at her side, I can't chance it. Too cliché. From what I've gathered about Ellie over the past hour and a half, she'd never let me live it down. And that, alone, makes me smile.

  With her head in the right direction, I point past Cole. Beside the banjo stand and off to the side of the amps stacked on the stage. “Over there.”

  She narrows her eyes in concentration. Squinting into the flood of bright lights, it seems like she can barely make it out at first. But then, like flipping a switch, she notices it. A medium-sized cage balanced on top of a pedestal opposite of the fiddler.

  “Is that a bird?” She squints still, her brows furrowed in disbelief. Leaning forward, she draws herself a few inches closer to me.

  Putting my hand on the back of her neck over her hair, I press my mouth to her ear. "It's a canary," I whisper. Pulling back from her, I watch her face. Then pressing my lips to her ear again, I whisper. "Wait for it."

  When it hits her, she jolts backward in her seat, and I lose my closeness with her. Her reaction sends electricity racing through me. An absolute thrill.

  Looking back at the stage, I watch Cole. Holding his face up to the sky, he begins to sing. His words are smooth and pack a sorrowful punch. It's the kind of song you'd sing someone just before never seeing them again. At the start of the third line, the bird flitters toward the front of the cage, looking from side to side. Ellie yelps and grabs my knee. Her reaction is thrilling, and I can't stop myself from grinning at her.

  “It’s singing!” she says, her hand still on my knee. The emotion of the song is welled up inside me now, and Ellie’s elated vibe severely contrasts it. I can tell she’s restraining herself from literally bouncing up and down in her seat. “Is it really singing?”

  “Every show,” I whisper.

  When she looks over at me, she furrows her brow again, and I can te
ll she wants to question this. But she doesn't. And I agree. The story seems far-fetched. But if I had the balls, I'd lean over and tell her there are a lot of things in life that shouldn't be questioned.

  We watch Cole and the bird as they sing us into a sweet, heart wrenching oblivion. At the top of the last verse, I feel Ellie push her warm hand into my palm. Grinning, I look over at her and swear I can see her eyes welled up with tears. And though this single moment is fleeting, it feels so incredibly right.

  On the last resounding note of the night, Ellie pulls her hand from mine. The crowd booms for one more encore. But one-by-one, the Boxley Brothers bow and head off the stage. I watch as Cole delicately picks up the birdcage and takes it with him. With Holland in tow, the brothers descend the stage steps and disappear into the night.

  The movement of the crowd around us pulls me from the enchantment of the night. Ellie and her friend pop up from their chairs, and I feel a sudden, unexpected sadness at her impending departure.

  Turning to face her, I'm disappointed that she's already deep in conversation with the redhead. A few chairs away from me now, smiling. As if she hadn't just held my hand for the briefest of moments. As if she hadn't felt the reel of whatever connection we shared throughout the show.

  Vying for her attention, I linger by the end of the row as a mob of people passes me heading for the exit. "Thanks again for the ticket," I say in her direction.

  At my words, her head snaps up as if she’d forgotten I was here entirely. Her eyes go wide, and she casually smiles. “No, you did me a favor.”

  “You ready?” her friend asks.

  Ellie stretches, her tank top crawling up her tight stomach, and I feel a sudden need to stall.

  “Actually,” I clear my throat. “Do you want a shirt?”

  She and her friend both look at me.