Finding Freedom

A week later and I’ve spent my birthday with Syn, who insisted on making me a cake and singing happy birthday. They had all trailed off, entranced by my voice, when I sang along.

Syn walks me back in the dark, after the rest of the band bids us good bye with large smiles. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, examining the strong profile of his face, the smile playing upon his lips as he stares up at the sky. Out here, with the stadium lights turned off, the stars arch overhead in a gorgeous display, bringing a smile to my own face. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he answers, but when I glance over he’s looking at me, something almost confused in his face.

“Is everything okay?” The trailers are coming closer, warm splotches of light in the distance as we cross the area between stadium and where the roadies gather. The band, my father explained, live together in a huge bus. I imagine that can’t be comfortable. Our feet kick up clouds of dust and I shiver, a little cold in the night air.

Syn has taken so long to answer that I’m becoming concerned; I’m usually confident in most social situations, but something about him makes me nervous, my heart jumping. “Everything’s fine, Lee,” he says finally, gently taking my arm when I stumble over a loose rock and almost fall. His fingers are long enough to wrap almost entirely around my bicep, warm against the cool night air. My skin feels more sensitive than it ever has before, like his touch has brought it to life. I flush and hope he can’t see it in the darkness. “I just…you were lying a week ago, weren’t you? When we all hung out.”

I immediately try to think what he could think I lied about: my age? My scholarship to Julliard? Enjoying their music? Everything I said was truth. “No?” I say, the answer coming out as more of a question than anything. “Syn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can call me Brian,” he tells me, which makes something in my chest warm.

“Brian,” I repeat. “I wasn’t lying to you.”

“Why are you here?” he asks me, which would make me stumble again except for his firm hand on my bicep, keeping me in step. I resist the urge to lie for him, to cover up like I would for anyone else. I’m so used to saving face; for some reason, I don’t want to with him.

“My mom…she hates me,” I admit, looking off into the distance, into the dark plains. “She dropped me off with my dad so she could be rid of me.”

His hand slides up my arm, til his arm is around my shoulders, pulling me close. “I’m sorry.” I make a sort of agreeing hum, trying to play it off. We’ve stopped walking, a short distance from the trailer site.

He turns me so we’re standing face to face, my head tilted back to look up at him. Without really thinking I close my eyes, tilting my chin up, and our mouths meet with a soft noise. He tastes like the Cherry Coke we were drinking at dinner. His hand comes around to cup the back of my head, gentle, as my hand goes to his waist and holds on as butterflies fill my stomach.

When he draws back we’re both smiling. “That was my first kiss,” I murmur, touching my tingling lips.

“Was it a good one?” he asks, brushing my cheek with his fingers.

I beam at him, honest and real. “The best.” We’re both still smiling when he leans down to kiss me again.