Visualize it. Every inch. Let it bleed into all of your—

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Sixteen

Wherever we are, it’s not where I would’ve expected us to be.

The last few times I’ve jumped to meet Michael, we’ve been somewhere familiar—somewhere isolated. Like the only people who matter are him and me.

Wherever we are now is dingy, and the air is thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and smoke. Perspiration trickles down my neck and my forehead too. It’s a very specific feeling, the stickiness and the invasion of one’s personal space. It’s a sense and feeling that I can pinpoint to one location.

The Citadel.

But none of it seems to affect Michael. He’s smiling, like he always does, but this time, it’s a wider grin, like what you’d see on a family member who has just learned that someone they love is still alive.

“I did it,” I whisper to myself.

He arches a brow but doesn’t ask any questions. “Still as strange as always, Andre Cobb from Boston. We really need to stop meeting like this.” He scolds me but still wraps his arms around me tightly. The smell of alcohol is strong on him, along with the smell of cologne and smoke and sweat, but all of it comes together to make the Michael I know and love.

And I didn’t realize how much I missed it. How much I love those smells.

I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, like his molecules might slip through my fingers in that very moment. When we pull back, I’m the first one to speak.

“You’re playing here tonight, yeah?”

He nods. “That’s why you came, right?”

“If I say no, will I lose my brownie points?”

“Nothing can lose you points with me. Come on, sit, sit.”

I follow him, weaving through the room, which smells like the thick of bodies, and sit at a circular table about ten feet from the stage. There’s a pair of twins riffing off each other, like two athletes playing vocal Ping-Pong. It’s majestic, impressive, and a skill I’ll never have.

Michael taps his finger slowly against the table in beat with the two. He’s focused on them, his lips moving rapidly, like he’s whispering some incantation under his breath. Or a curse. A twinge of jealousy spikes through my body.

I’ve just traveled through time and space for him, and he’s solely focused on his music. Seeing him focused like that is attractive. There’s something different about Michael’s passion for music than other people’s. Maybe because I know what he’s been through to get here. Maybe because I know what he’s sacrificed. I’m not sure. But this feels like he deserves this moment, where nothing else but the music matters.