I cursed as I stepped into the street from my building. It was cold as fuck. My Uber was waiting by the curb, the driver looking around anxiously. I matched the license plate on my phone to the white Prius and walked over. It was raining, the ground slick with patches of ice. It wasn’t usually this cold here; they said it was the coldest winter in twenty years. It was possibly my fault, Ann said. I was the Ice Queen.

I stepped around the slick spots and pulled cold air into my lungs. I was annoyed with myself for doing this, but not enough to send me home. Once I’d set my mind to something I stuck with it. A determined loyalist even when it hurt my pride.

“The Crocodile,” I told the driver, sliding into the backseat. He already knew because, hello, he wasn’t a fucking cab driver, he was Uber and they knew shit. I just needed to say it out loud. You’re doing something outside of the norm, Yara. Chasing a boy. No. Meeting a boy who asked very nicely.

“Oh, yeah?” the driver said. “Nice place.” He laughed, and I nodded.

There was a shooting there just a few weeks ago. It got a little rough sometimes, but mostly it was a fun place. Going to a grungy venue to listen to live music wasn’t unusual for me. Going because some guy asked me to was.

“Be safe,” he told me as we pulled up.

I nodded solemnly. He didn’t really care…it was just something to say.

I was wrapped in a worn leather jacket and I shivered as I left the warmth of the Prius. I walked toward the door, dodging a girl already vomiting on the sidewalk. It was only ten o’clock. Her friends waited against the building, frowning.

“You’ll feel better after you yak,” one of them called out.

“Atta girl,” another said.

I wanted to tell them to put some food in her stomach and to never use the word yak again. She went too hard, too fast, but I walked on. It was none of my business. They’d learn eventually.

Why are you here? I asked myself again. I didn’t even like the song he sang, especially when Michael Bolton covered it. It was because I liked David. He had that spark I looked for in people. And because he asked me to come. He took risks, flirted with volatile women, sang to them. He wasn’t just some guy—there was something more. Humans liked to investigate things, and that was what I was doing.

Ann had been the one to tell me to go. And when I’d asked her to come with me she’d laughed and said, “No, nope. It would take more than the Crocodile to get me out of this apartment.”

So I did my grungy shit alone, abandoned by my one and only friend who had shit taste in music anyway. Her idea of a good time was a Housewives of New Jersey marathon in her flannel pajamas.

I showed the bouncer my ID and stepped inside. Everyone knew that a good bar, a well-loved bar, smelled like despair. But, The Crocodile was a different kind of bar. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Cheap Trick, and R.E.M. had all played there in their heyday. To me, The Crocodile smelled like a really good time, pure talent on the rise. I moved out of the main walkway and toward the bar where I ordered a shitty whiskey and soda. There was already a band on stage, the loud chords of an electric guitar ripped through the speakers. I sipped and sipped, and bobbed my head to the terrible music.

When a drunk girl speared my foot with her stiletto, I limped to a spot near the wall. Drunken women in heels were dangerous weapons of foot destruction. This was life, stinking of smoke, hangovers, occasional drugs, and reckless sex. I didn’t want it to always be this way, but this was the way it was right now.

“Do you know which band is up next?” I asked the girl next to me. Her mascara was smudged and there was a sheen of sweat covering her face as she bounced up and down.

“David Lisey’s band,” she said. “They’re awesome.”

“What are they called?” I shouted over the music.

She leaned close to me and yelled, “Lazarus Come Forth,” then pointed to a poster on the wall. I hadn’t noticed it before: David and two other guys all wearing black.

I nodded knowingly. “Of course, yeah,” I said, though she didn’t hear me.

I was flustered by the fact that she knew who he was. I’d mentally taken ownership of him. He was the guy who duct-taped a splinter out of my finger and sang me a song. He also had really long eyelashes. He was my guy and I didn’t like that she knew who he was. On the flip side, their band name made me roll my eyes. A bizarre Biblical reference about coming back from the dead. Who were these guys? They had the suburbs written all over them. Back from the dead my ass. I imagined they liked the sound of it; musicians were in love with being doomed. I renamed them The Suburbs and went to the bar for another drink. When I got back, someone had stolen my spot on the wall and I had to move closer to the stage. More’s the pity. I stayed there holding my cup, rattling the ice compulsively. A few moments later David walked on stage, followed by two other guys. He was wearing all black; nothing fancy—just a black long sleeve and tight, black jeans. Just like the posters. The Suburbs, I thought. His legs were long and I realized he was quite a bit taller than I remembered. Maybe 6’2” or 6’3”. I pictured his pink T-shirt and leather jacket, the clothes he wore in real life. He glanced around the audience like he was looking for someone. Me, I thought.

I stared at his jacket so I wouldn’t have to look at his face. I moved closer, just enough so that he could see me.

The girl with the smudged mascara jumped up and down waving her free hand in the air. She’d crawled up close like me. She was taking pictures of David, though she was moving too much to have any of them be clear. I shrugged and turned my attention back to the stage where David was messing around with his guitar.

A ONE…TWO…THREE…

They started with something fast. I strained to catch some of the lyrics, but the bass was turned up too loud. David’s smoky voice was drowned out. I was disappointed and also a little tipsy. Lightweight, I told myself, disgusted. I wanted to move closer to the stage, but I didn’t want him to think I was into him, even though I was.

He was a little stiff, if I were to be honest. He’d flirted with ease, a professional, but on the stage, he was a carbon copy of himself. Unsure. I tilted my head as I watched him, half fascinated and half disappointed. I loved the arts, all of them. But there was a common denominator in all messy, good art: an uninhibited wildness. I’d seen the disease on some. It overtook their inhibitions. David Lisey was not uninhibited, but I didn’t think he knew that. He didn’t quite believe what he was singing. They played a slow song. It was about a girl who had and didn’t have at the same time. Husky voice, shirtsleeves pushed up to his elbows, David sang with both his hands clutching the mic stand and looked directly at me. It was the first time that night that I felt he was being honest.

When their set ended David hopped down from the stage and walked over to where I was standing. I tried not to notice the way he walked—the center of gravity in his shoulders. They were squared back, graceful. The rest of him moved, but it was all governed by what the shoulders decided.

“You came,” he said.

“Clearly.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I shook my head. I’d already had four. One more and I’d be taking him home. On second thought…

“I should be heading out,” I said. “I have to open again tomorrow.” It was a lie.

“Stay,” he said. It wasn’t so much a request as it was a command.

I looked at his lips, his nose, his mouth—so nicely put together—and I shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Sure. Just for a few minutes.”

What could it hurt?

“I don’t want you to leave,” David said, even though I’d already agreed to stay. “I’m drawn to you. I want to be near you.”

I was in the middle of an existential crisis and he was making me his person. How could he afford to be that honest? I was cheap. I fell for it because most of us just really want to be wanted.

“Okay,” I said. “But, not a minute after.”

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t scare me. We’re not the same. I recognize that. But you don’t scare me.”