There was something about the way she said it—ribbing me as if we were in middle school—that made a wave of relief wash over me. Things between us were going to be okay. It must have showed on my face, because Tasha suddenly looked serious and put her arm around me and said, “I mean it, Ari. You know I do.”

—

It felt like we had to wait forever for the crowd to clear away from the merch table. Lisa returned with tacos and a Mexican soda. On the band shell stage, another band was performing—a skinny man and a short woman who sounded like a Tegan and Sara knockoff. Tasha and Mel hit it off after Tasha’s confession, and I half-heartedly participated in their conversation about Mel’s first girlfriend (her name was Lucia), while I was increasingly distracted by Steph behind the merch table. I saw her smiling at a girl who wanted a CD signed; I saw her glancing at Lisa, and then quickly at me. I would’ve missed it if I hadn’t been watching.

When the moment finally came, it was anticlimactic. Steph had to greet Lisa first, with a kiss, and they stood together for a while before she came over to hug me delicately, keeping her distance. “Thanks for coming,” she said. I wanted to pull her closer but I knew I couldn’t. I could never do that in public, and despite a flash of despair, I also felt a thrill about the secret between us.

“This is Tasha,” I said.

“You guys were great,” Tasha said.

“Thanks,” Steph said.

Roxy was kissing Mel, and Talia yelled at them to get a room. Roxy flipped her off. Lisa appeared at Steph’s side and snaked her arm around Steph’s waist.

“Let’s go watch the other bands,” Lisa said. She looked tired, as if she hadn’t slept much the night before, but now that Steph was with her she seemed to relax.

I forced myself to turn away from them, and I caught Tasha eyeing me. “Are you sure you don’t want to get a taco or something?” I asked.

“Maybe a soda,” Tasha said.

“Let’s go,” I said. I didn’t want to be there anymore.

—

There was an after-party at a club in the Haight after the festival ended, but Tasha and I couldn’t go because we weren’t twenty-one. Instead we went to dinner at Burma Superstar, a restaurant Tasha picked after reading about it on some foodie blog.

The parking was atrocious, and I had to channel my inner Masshole to wedge the car into a spot on a street five blocks away.

“We should’ve called an Uber,” Tasha said.

“I don’t have that,” I said.

“I do.”

“Well, next time you can call us a car.”