He blinks. “Right...now?”
“Yes.” I check for cars and step to the edge of the sidewalk, but Nabil grabs my arm before I can cross the street.
“Youssef, you’re, like, kind of freaking me the fuck out. You’re acting...weird.”
“I just want to see the show.”
I just want to be lost in a crowd, lost in a song, lost in anything but my own body.
“What about the party?”
“Fuck the party.”
It comes out way louder and harsher than I meant. Nabil’s eyes go wide.
I let my shoulders drop and step back from the edge of the sidewalk. “Look, I just...I thought this was going to be you and me having a night out. I wasn’t expecting all of...that. So let’s go to a show. Let’s have a night out. It’s been way too fucking long since we did that.”
He’s silent for a moment, and then he brings a hand to his heart. “That is so fucking sweet, man.”
“Fuck off.”
I give him the finger, but we’re both grinning now.
“Okay, but can I go back and get that waitress’s number?”
I punch him in the arm. “Go get her, playah. I’ll meet you in line.”
I force myself to steady my breaths as I stand in the back of the small line waiting to get into the bar. I realize just how tense I’d gotten as my muscles finally start to relax.
This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way. It’s never built up so much that I’ve had to run out of a restaurant, but lately, every piece of news from Mohammad or board room meeting with some big shot or stats update about how many times my stuff has been streamed on Spotify leaves me with a clenched jaw and a hollow pit in my stomach.
I distract myself by taking a better look at the bar. There’s a sign hanging overhead with its name spelt out in typewriter font: Taverne Toulouse. Another jolt of recognition hits. I’ve never played here, but it’s a solid starter venue for DJs building up their career. It used to be an infamously dingy dive bar that mostly catered to drunk college kids, but from what I’ve heard, it’s gotten way more upscale in the past couple years.
Then again, theyarehosting Beach Party Night.
“Hey, Youssef!” Nabil calls out as he crosses the street. “Did you bring your towel? Cuz it’s gonna get wet!”
The eight or so people in line all whoop and clap in response. It takes a good ten minutes to get inside, and by then, the DJ is due to go on. The place is so packed I can’t see much besides people in bathing suits wearing the free shutter shades they’re handing out at the door. I passed, but Nabil is already thoroughly enjoying his. He yells something beside me as we inch our way through the crowd.
“What?” I shout.
“I SAID,” he screams into my ear, “WOO! BEACH PARTY!”
We pass by a shirtless guy with an actual inner tube around his waist, and he gives Nabil a fist bump.
I start to wonder what exactly I’ve subjected myself to here.
We manage to secure ourselves a spot not too far from the booth. I can see someone moving around up there, a hoodie pulled up over their head as they fuck around with the gear. I assume it’s Chanly, and I feel for the girl. This crowd is rowdy. The show is only going to go one of two ways: they’ll be super into it and spend the night dancing their asses off, or they’ll stand there screaming for her to play Justin Bieber.
I check the time on my phone and see she’s only got a couple minutes before her start time. A few other people notice her up there, and I’m impressed when they begin calling her name. The whole first few rows of the dance floor seem to be filled with people who are here specifically for her. The promise of a performance sparks and catches like wildfire, and it’s not long before the entire room is chanting the same thing.
The hairs on my arms rise as the energy in the bar coalesces into a single point of focus and anticipation. The chorus of “Chanly! Chanly! Chanly!” is so loud it’s deafening, the only thing I can hear or think as I let my voice join in too.
Just when the tension has reached a nearly panicked pitch, a strobe light streaks over the crowd, splitting time into a dozen fractured moments as the wail of a siren pierces the air.
It gets louder and louder, and I watch the girl behind the booth in the moments between the flashes of the strobe light. She twists a dial on one of the panels in front of her, and in the second after she cuts off the siren, just before she drops her first beat, she throws her head back and turns her face to the ceiling. Her hood slips off, and I get my first clear look at her.
I don’t hear the start of the song. I don’t hear the screams of the crowd as they begin jumping around to the rhythm. I don’t hear anything except a static whine in my ears as I stare and stare and stare.
Paige.
I’d notice her anywhere.
Most people would. No matter how much she hates it or how hard she tries to hide it, she’s always been the kind of beautiful that people just don’t know what the fuck to do with, but that’s not why my world feels like it’s splitting at the seams as I look at her now.
It’s because she’sPaige.
Paige Rivera.
She’s right there in front of me: the girl I haven’t seen or heard from for more than six years.
