“This music,” Axel said, “is fucking terrible.”
“Thank God someone said it,” Grant said. “I thought maybe I was an asshole.”
It was June, and we were in a crowd at Waterfront Park, listening to a folk band. We had nothing against folk music—hence the fact that the three of us were here, taking in a folk festival in the springtime sun. But there was no denying that this particular band was—well, it was terrible. It was supposed to be indie and avant-garde, but instead it was just untalented and unpleasant. I’d tried to be open-minded, but the warbling vocals and unskilled guitar work were starting to give me a headache.
And the crowd was a little too big. Folk festivals didn’t bring in Woodstock-sized audiences, but there were enough people here to make me feel a fresh, painful bout of anxiety that I didn’t want to admit to out loud. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in a real crowd of people pressed together, bodies maneuvering around each other. I’d spent most of my recent life at work, in a prison cell of Pierre’s making, or solitary in my bedroom at Aunt Ellen’s, and I’d forgotten how crowds made me feel.
I turned to see Axel’s blue eyes fixed on me. I gave him a smile, trying to be convincing. Also trying not to swoon, because he was wearing his hair down today. Those blond locks fell in tousled perfection past his earlobes, with another lock across his forehead. He didn’t wear his hair down often, and the sight of it made me ache.
Friends. We’re friends.
We’d had several great months, Axel and me. Winter had gone through its dark, cold depths and risen into spring. I was still working at The Corner, where I’d been promoted to assistant manager, and I loved it there. I had stuck with therapy and was feeling better all the time.
And most of all, I had Axel back.
I got to text him and play Scrabble with him and have brunch with him. I got to tell him the stupid, random thoughts that crossed my mind and listen to his. I got to play video games with him and swap the books we’d read. I got to taste his cooking and tease him about his rock star status.
I soaked up all of this like a plant that hasn’t been watered in years. I had never been close friends with a man—I’d only ever met men who might be potential dates, and when I was with Pierre, he didn’t let me associate with other men at all.
Being friends with a rock star, it turned out, was pretty awesome. His life was interesting, he had ten thousand fascinating stories, his music taste was off the charts, and his brain worked nothing like other people’s. I never had to listen to his dreary opinions on politics or his repetitive, woe-is-me complaints about life. Axel was the kind of guy who would call me at noon on a Thursday to say he’d heard of a man who sold ten different varieties of apple at a stand outside of the city, followed by the words “Let’s go.” And we’d go.
The apples were amazing, by the way.
There was, of course, no kissing. He didn’t make excuses to touch me or get into my space. He didn’t make suggestive comments. We’d made an agreement on that cold day after his run, and we stuck to it. It was exactly what I needed—to feel safe with a man, to trust, to have room to heal and figure myself out without judgment. To be close to a man without giving up my space, my independence, or my body. To have a relationship that was free of what-ifs and head games.
Axel had given that to me, and I was grateful to him for it.
But, damn, he was gorgeous.
I got to regularly stare at his lean body, his perfect jawline, his blue eyes, his tattoos. We might only be friends, but I knew very well that everywhere we went—including here, right now, at this folk festival—women stared at Axel. Usually hungrily. He wasn’t dating anyone—I would know—and I was pretty sure he wasn’t hooking up, either. I had no idea why. It was baffling, and I was regularly torn between wanting him to be happy and feeling agony at the thought of him kissing some woman, having sex with her. Falling in love with her.
That possibility gave me so much panic that I couldn’t think about it for very long.
“I’m hungry,” Axel said now. “Let’s get out of here and eat.”
Grant lit up. He was a foodie who had been to every restaurant in Portland. “I know the best taco place,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling James.” Grant’s husband had declared that a folk festival was absolutelynothappening, but he’d definitely join us for a meal.
We made our way away from the stage and out of the crowd. “Better?” Axel asked.
I glanced at him. “What?”
“The crowd. You hated it.”
How did he know? My anxiety was starting to ease, though I could still feel my pulse in my throat. “I’m used to being a hermit, I guess.”
He ignored my lame excuse. “Have you always hated crowds?”
I sighed, giving up. “Yes. They make me queasy.”
He nodded, looking straight ahead as he walked alongside me, matching his pace to mine. “That might make things awkward.”
I frowned, not following. “What things?”
“I need to talk to you about something later. After dinner.”
“What does that mean? What kind of a thing?”
“Just a thing. A proposition.”