I’m sitting next to a girl that knows every single song by the Boxley Brothers. I know this because she’s been whisper-singing all night. Most songs, I can’t quite hear her. But I’ve been allowing myself glimpses of her throughout the night. And I swear there’s not a lyric from this set that hasn’t danced across her lips. I’m not even sure she realizes she does this. But if I’m being honest, it’s undeniably cute. And I don’t even use the word cute.

The Boxley Brothers end their magnetic hit "Moonlit Road" and flow right into an extended and purely acoustic version of their folk-ballad "Songbird" with the youngest brother firing up his banjo. I've seen this exact transition live four times now. It's so good, they know better than to mess with it or worse, remove it from the show entirely. And because I know the gravity of this number, I understand the magic of what's about to happen up there on stage. Something inside me makes me feel like I should share it with Ellie.

Leaning back in my seat, I steal another glimpse of her where she can't see me. Her eyes are fixed on the music, and her chocolate brown hair swings just below her shoulders as she moves to the beat of the banjo. She's small-framed and can't be taller than five-foot-five.

But from what I can tell, she wears her personality like a badge. Wild and free. Masked with a harsh edge that, despite her trying, she can't seem to maintain. And while I can't understand someone being so open and emotionally fluid, I also can't help but desire her for it. In fact, ever since the fourth song tonight when she grabbed my forearm in pure excitement as if she couldn't comprehend not being here at this concert next to me, I've wanted to reach over and wrap my arm around her merely to feel closer. She's pure ecstasy. Lame as it sounds, I want a piece of her joy to take with me tonight. Absorb it in. Maybe have it become a part of me. Make it so that I can take that piece of her with me no matter where I am.

She did pick me, after all. Out of all those strangers in general admission, she chose to give her extra ticket to me. If I were a betting man, I'd say she's digging me. No mistake about it.

A wave of courage courses through me. During the top of this final song, I weigh my options. On the one hand, I can do nothing. We can continue sitting here, shoulder to shoulder as we have been for most of the show. Each of us silent and in awe of the music. Sharing a mutual respect for the tunes but not exploring that common thread between us. In other words, it is what it is.

Or.

I could let her in on this secret. It's a tiny one. So small it'll be missed by eighty-three point six percent of the people in this audience tonight. But hell, she may be one of those already in the know. But this song, appropriately named "Songbird," is the climax of the night. And Ellie strikes me as the kind of girl who loves this song. I would bet, by the rapturous expression on her face, that she's listened to it her fair share of times. Maybe to curb a heartbreak or to experience what an oppressive loss feels like if she hasn't lived through one herself. But by the look on her face, I can tell she loves the song. And if I'm honest? A part of me wants her to look at me like that before the night is over. Full of elation. A hint of euphoria.

I duck my head down and whisper to her over Cole’s melancholy guitar chords as he strums the opening notes fresh from the transition. “You see that?”

Ellie is so enthralled in the slow and heartbreaking riff that follows, that I’m not sure she hears me. But with an appearance that borders on concern, she whips her head toward me and searches my eyes. “See what?”

Lest I forget, she touched me earlier. At the top of the Boxley Brothers set, this girl reached over and pushed my face back toward the stage so I'd quit looking at her. As if my stare had been too much for her. A normal dude would've probably found it annoying. But for whatever reason, it drove me wild.

Mirroring her earlier move, I take a finger and place it beneath her chin, slowly turning her head toward the back corner of the stage. Her face is warm from the humidity trapped underneath the tent above us, her scent a mix of hops and spicy citrus. And for a second, I feel a divine certainty that I need to lean in and kiss her during this song. Something delicate and sweet. A kiss she won't forget. But under these circumstances— surrounded by a heartbreaking tune with her ginger friend at her side, I can't chance it. Too cliché. From what I've gathered about Ellie over the past hour and a half, she'd never let me live it down. And that, alone, makes me smile.

With her head in the right direction, I point past Cole. Beside the banjo stand and off to the side of the amps stacked on the stage. “Over there.”

She narrows her eyes in concentration. Squinting into the flood of bright lights, it seems like she can barely make it out at first. But then, like flipping a switch, she notices it. A medium-sized cage balanced on top of a pedestal opposite of the fiddler.

“Is that a bird?” She squints still, her brows furrowed in disbelief. Leaning forward, she draws herself a few inches closer to me.

Putting my hand on the back of her neck over her hair, I press my mouth to her ear. "It's a canary," I whisper. Pulling back from her, I watch her face. Then pressing my lips to her ear again, I whisper. "Wait for it."

When it hits her, she jolts backward in her seat, and I lose my closeness with her. Her reaction sends electricity racing through me. An absolute thrill.

Looking back at the stage, I watch Cole. Holding his face up to the sky, he begins to sing. His words are smooth and pack a sorrowful punch. It's the kind of song you'd sing someone just before never seeing them again. At the start of the third line, the bird flitters toward the front of the cage, looking from side to side. Ellie yelps and grabs my knee. Her reaction is thrilling, and I can't stop myself from grinning at her.

“It’s singing!” she says, her hand still on my knee. The emotion of the song is welled up inside me now, and Ellie’s elated vibe severely contrasts it. I can tell she’s restraining herself from literally bouncing up and down in her seat. “Is it really singing?”

“Every show,” I whisper.

When she looks over at me, she furrows her brow again, and I can tell she wants to question this. But she doesn't. And I agree. The story seems far-fetched. But if I had the balls, I'd lean over and tell her there are a lot of things in life that shouldn't be questioned.

We watch Cole and the bird as they sing us into a sweet, heart wrenching oblivion. At the top of the last verse, I feel Ellie push her warm hand into my palm. Grinning, I look over at her and swear I can see her eyes welled up with tears. And though this single moment is fleeting, it feels so incredibly right.

On the last resounding note of the night, Ellie pulls her hand from mine. The crowd booms for one more encore. But one-by-one, the Boxley Brothers bow and head off the stage. I watch as Cole delicately picks up the birdcage and takes it with him. With Holland in tow, the brothers descend the stage steps and disappear into the night.

The movement of the crowd around us pulls me from the enchantment of the night. Ellie and her friend pop up from their chairs, and I feel a sudden, unexpected sadness at her impending departure.

Turning to face her, I'm disappointed that she's already deep in conversation with the redhead. A few chairs away from me now, smiling. As if she hadn't just held my hand for the briefest of moments. As if she hadn't felt the reel of whatever connection we shared throughout the show.

Vying for her attention, I linger by the end of the row as a mob of people passes me heading for the exit. "Thanks again for the ticket," I say in her direction.

At my words, her head snaps up as if she’d forgotten I was here entirely. Her eyes go wide, and she casually smiles. “No, you did me a favor.”

“You ready?” her friend asks.

Ellie stretches, her tank top crawling up her tight stomach, and I feel a sudden need to stall.

“Actually,” I clear my throat. “Do you want a shirt?”

She and her friend both look at me.

“She’s already wearing one,” the redhead says.

“A Boxley Brothers shirt. I have a few from an earlier show. Too small for all this,” I say, motioning at myself, hoping for a laugh. But nothing.

Ellie’s friend opens her mouth to say something.

"You can have one for your friend, too," I interject, nodding toward the restless one.

“Brooke,” the girl says with a hint of irritation. “My name’s Brooke.”

Ellie turns to her. “Five minutes, okay? I’ll meet you at the car?”

Brooke rolls her eyes with a groan but doesn't protest. She squeezes past me and ascends the cement path toward the exit.

With a reluctant smile, Ellie leads me out of our row and into the drift of the crowd. "Sorry about her. She’s a little overprotective."

I consider telling her I’m just happy to spend these last five minutes with her. How I want to soak in every last ounce of her while I still can. But as if she can read my thoughts, Ellie turns back to me and furrows her brow. “How’d you know about the bird thing? That’s one of my favorite songs.”

“The cage? I noticed it last year in Raleigh.” I push my dark hair off my forehead. “So I did some research.”

She grins something devious. “Oh, yeah? And what’d you find with said research, Bill Nye?”

Ouch. Without even meaning to, her dig completely crushes my ego. But she’s right. I do sound like a nerd. Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I stop to let a woman who's been riding my ass like a donkey pass me. "It's a sad story. You sure you want to hear it?"

Her eyes dart over to me in a momentary disbelief. “Hi, my name is Ellie, not Kelly,” she says, the last part yet another adorable dig at me under her breath. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I live and breathe the Boxley Brothers. So, yes. Of course I want the story. And I am no stranger to sadness, so don’t leave anything out.”

Her precise response seems expertly-timed, and that velvet voice of hers. God. With just a touch of Southern vocal fry, and over my dead body am I never seeing her again. Females around here don't hold the same kind of fight in them that Ellie has. And damn if she's not making me want her for it.

Shoulder to shoulder, we continue to walk. The lights from the venue start to peel away from us as I launch into the tale. "Cole, the lead singer. His wife died in a car accident just before they hit their big break at some music festival in Charlotte." I look for some sign of emotion or trepidation in her face over the start of the story. But finding none, I continue. "As expected, Cole took it hard. I mean, this guy fell into drinking and drugs. It was so bad they almost didn't play the festival. But how Cole explains it is that the morning of, a yellow canary sat on his windowsill and pecked at the glass until he dragged himself out of bed. He was so hungover. Still pretty messed up from the night before, so he was pissed at the whole situation, right?"

Rapt with attention, Ellie nods.

"Well, when he went to scare it away, the bird just sat there staring at him. Kept pecking at the window. But the kicker is that when Cole finally stopped trying to run it off, the little thing started to sing," I say, hardly believing the story myself. "His wife's name was Birdie. So he took that as a sign to perform the festival. The Boxley Brothers were signed the following week. "Songbird" was written for Birdie. They normally close the show with it."

As we pass by the ticket stand out into the dark of the meadow, I catch Ellie wiping something from her face. When she looks up at me, she raises her eyebrows. "Wow. That's really poignant," she says, swiping at her cheek again. “Thank you for telling me.”

I shove my hands deep into my pockets and grin at her soft side. I'm a little embarrassed myself. I had a feeling she'd get more meaning out of the story like I did. With a shrug, I kick at the grass as we head toward the far side of the field, weaving in and out of idling cars as the mass of crowd disperses behind us. "I thought it was interesting. Cole told the story in an interview I saw online. He tells it way better than I do. You should look it up when you get home."

“I will,” she says, her voice lilting toward sweetness. “Is that the same bird that was at his window?”

“Same bird. Sings with him at every show. I almost didn’t believe it at first, but I read up on canaries. Did you know they can live upwards of ten years?”

“Read up on them?” She laughs and eyes me. “You mean, you researched them.”