ALONG WITH DECORATING the town with little green men, the annual Alien Festival brings hundreds of experts and believers to town for a convention of panels, discussions, and presentations of the latest theories about the who, what, how, why, and when of extraterrestrial travelers on Earth.
Taking time off of work, I spend four days in windowless ballrooms, listening and writing notes, hoping for some sort of proof. When I registered, I listed myself as Lucy Wesley Halliday, from Pine Bluff, New York—optimistic someone might make the connection between the name and my hometown. For a brief window of time, the story of my dad’s abduction was national news. If anyone out there might have information or clues, they’re also the type to attend a convention about UFOs and aliens.
I sit through panel after panel, making small talk in between sessions. I introduce myself over and over again. I hear way more than anyone ever should about probing.
No one says anything that convinces me my father was kidnapped by aliens.
I’ll never get these hours of my life back.
During one particularly New Age seminar, we follow a meditation to travel through time and space on a higher astral plane, seeking out our past or future selves.
I fall asleep within minutes and don’t remember meeting any other versions of myself.
Sadly, I leave at the end of the second day no wiser.
On the upside, I got in a decent nap before tonight’s festivities.
I’m meeting Boone and Shari in an hour at the main stage where local bands will perform before the parade of aliens after dark.
I haven’t seen Boone since the beginning of the week. Sadly, we didn’t make out in the cooler. He did give me a quick peck when he left, setting my cheeks aflame and Wanda all atwitter.
Alien Autopsies plays on the raised stage in the middle of the park in front of City Hall. The enthusiastic crowd bounces and dances along to the upbeat rock-pop music. Surrounded by little green men in every incarnation from two dimensional to three dimensional, the concert is the perfect mix of Coachella and Roswell.
The band is dressed in a combination of spacemen and aliens. How the drummer can breathe or see with the alien mask fascinates me, let alone hold his sticks with the long fingered green hands, is a miracle. That’s talent right there. In his mirrored helmet, the bass player captures my attention. Without a face to ruin the fantasy, I focus on his long, nimble fingers, broad shoulders, and the way he tilts his hips forward when he really gets into jamming. Not sure what it says about me that I prefer my rocker fantasy to be faceless, but I’m not questioning it right now.
I’m so far out of my element being here alone. My norm is to stay at home on a Saturday night, reading or watching crazies on YouTube talk about UFOs. Just another single girl in Roswell.
It’s hard to say which is the more desperate evening: home alone or subject to being picked up at an alien festival.
Jury’s still out.
Several men have approached me, offering sloshing cups of beer or similar, half-assed pick-up lines. Maybe they were given the same playbook.
“Is your name Sunshine?” asks the guy in the green, oversized alien eye sunglasses. “It should be because you made my day brighter.”
“Can I call you Sunny?” a man in a head-to-toe green body suit asks. “’Cause you’re the hottest body here.”
Those were the two that made me snort. The others I want to bleach my brain to forget.
Yes, Uranus is funny.
No, it shouldn’t be used as a pick-up line.
Ever.
I texted Boone when I parked, but haven’t located either him or Shari yet.
The floor show distracts me from my social anxiety. Crowds, especially ones where people are in costumes, freak me out.
I’m trying to step outside of my comfort zone.
Normally, I’d wear a T-shirt and jeans when going out, but tonight I’m in a dress with thin straps and an off the shoulder sleeve. Still wearing my favorite new cowboy boots, though. They have extra pointy toes in case I need to use them as a weapon of self-defense.
On stage, the guys jam out, riffing off of each other before the guitar player takes a solo. The bassist prowls to the edge of the stage, where a group of teenagers squeal and stretch their arms toward him.
He bobs his head and gives one lucky girl a high five. She makes the universal gesture for never washing this hand again by holding it close to her chest and screaming while her friends form a jumping circle around her. The boldest girl takes the blessed appendage and rubs it on her own face.
An involuntary shudder passes through me at the thought. Who knows where that hand has been or what it’s touched? Or when the last time it was washed with soap and water.
Before working at the restaurant, I lived in a happy delusion that people wash their hands, that we all share a common decency when it comes to touching our nether bits and being out in public. Sure, you do your own thing in the comfort of your own home, but out in society? Come on. We’ve all seen enough zombie apocalypse movies to know that one super strain of flu is all it’s going to take before we’re screwed.
The crowd screams and claps as the gentleman of Alien Autopsies bow and begin making their way off stage. Next to me, a couple in shiny silver disco space costumes yell for an encore. He has an impressively loud whistle using two fingers in his mouth.
I hope he’s washed them recently.
Given how crazy amped this group has been the entire show, I think we can all assume an encore is a foregone conclusion. Apparently, I’m the only one who feels this way when a roadie comes out and removes the mic stand and my fellow music lovers begin booing.
Where is their faith? Have none of them been to a concert before?
The drummer returns and settles in behind his drum kit. Gone is the green alien mask. My view of his face is obscured by people and instruments, but the revelation of his normal self has my heart beating quicker as I wait for the bassist to return.
I need to see if the face is as hot as the hands.
When he steps back stage, the mirrored helmet is absent. My hopes for a clear view crash and burn when I see the huge, round sunglasses covering most of his face. What’s not hidden behind neon green plastic and dark lenses is too generic to be recognizable. Sweat dampens his dark hair, which is shoved off of his face in a slick pompadour Adam Lambert would love.
Only when they finish the encore and the bass player smiles at something the lead singer says, do I recognize him. And I choke on my own spit.
“There you are,” Shari shouts, suddenly appearing in front of me. Thankfully she’s not dressed as a green alien. “I thought I recognized the back of your head.”
Trying to clear my throat, I cough. “Hey.” I barely eek out a whisper.
Her brows lift with worry. “Should I slap you on the back?”
I wave off her lifted hand. “No, I’m okay. Swallowed wrong.”
“I’m so happy you made it. Isn’t this a fun show?” Grinning at me, she reminds me of Boone’s extreme handsomeness. Not even twins, the two have an other-worldly beauty to them. Exotic, yet familiar. Her long, dark hair is in messy French braids crowned by a headband sporting two alien faces on springs. When she moves, the little green ovals bounce around like insects circling her head. She’s also wearing a T-shirt with David Duchovny’s face covering the front.
“The whole UFO festival is . . .” I search for the word. Weird doesn’t seem appropriate for Shari’s obvious enthusiasm. “Crazy.”
That works.
“I love it.”
“Nice shirt. I didn’t know I should dress to the theme.” I pull one of the straps of my dress higher on my shoulder.
“Every alien story needs the pretty human heroine. Pretend that’s your costume.” She flashes a reassuring smile. “I think you look gorgeous.”
Shaking off his admirers, Boone slowly prowls through the crowd in our direction.
I thought I could maybe handle Boone as a hot oil worker, a man who drives a dirty truck, a creature of habit, and a lover of pancakes.
Then he became the best kiss of my life.
I knew I was in trouble.
There’s not a chance I can survive Boone the musician and local rock god. Not with knowing how his mouth feels against mine. Or the way he looks ninety-eight percent naked.
I’m doomed.
“I didn’t know he was in a band.” I sound a little breathless like one of the young fangirls.
“He’s not the kind to brag. I’m telling you, he’s shy,” Shari says, almost convincingly.
“Right. And average looking, too.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t get it about his looks. It’s not like he’s perfect. There’s that bald spot in his right eyebrow and his ears are a little big. Although they’re better now that he grew into his head.”
“Flaws give us character. You’re both examples of superior genes.” I mean it as a compliment but she gives me a funny look.
Making his way to us quicker than I thought possible given his swarms of fans, Boone steps beside me. Warmth spreads through my body from his proximity. It’s been a week since the storm at the lake. Seven long days since I’ve been properly kissed. Insecurity and worry are dimming the glow. Maybe it was a onetime thing and he’s changed his mind.
He leans close to be heard above the crowd. His lips brush my shoulder. “You look beautiful. I’m glad you’re here.”
Instantly I’m thankful for wearing this dress.
“What did you think of the band?” he asks.
“You were great.” It’s the truth.
“You think so?”
I nod enthusiastically. “I may never wash my shoulder again.”
This earns me an eye roll from an embarrassed Boone.
A woman in silver robes takes the stage carrying a box with an antenna.
When she begins to sing, she waves her hands around the box and the strangest sounds come out.
My mouth drops open. “What is that? She’s not even touching it and it’s making music.”
Okay, music might be a stretch of the imagination.
Boone answers, again speaking close to my ear to be heard, “It’s a theremin. She plays themes from old sci-fi movies. I think this is from The Day the Earth Stood Still.”
“Poor peace seeking aliens. So foolish to think humans would be friendly.” Sighing, Shari shakes her head. “Too trusting and innocent.”
The same tune as my text alert blasts from the speakers.
“Did the aliens invent it?” I ask because it’s unlike any instrument I’ve ever seen.
Boone chuckles and kisses my shoulder again. “No, Mr. Theremin. As far as we know he was Russian.”
“Russian alien?” I ask, undeterred.
“Probably a Vulcan.” Boone jokes as the theme from Star Trek plays.
“How?” I ask.
“How what? I was joking about Theremin being a Vulcan. I’ve seen pictures of him and he definitely didn’t have pointy ears. Of course, he could’ve had them surgically altered,” he explains in a rational tone.
I twist my neck so I can look into his eyes to see if he’s seriously believing what he’s saying. We’re standing close enough he has to duck his head to meet my stare. His dark lashes frame his too pretty eyes. Gazing at him, I get lost in the swirls of amber and green.
“You had a question?” Warm, minty breath skims my cheek when he speaks. He’s leaned closer, and now his mouth is a few inches from mine.
I don’t know my own middle name right now, I’m so lost in his eyes and the angles of his cheekbones.
Eerie music plays through the speakers somewhere behind us reminding me we’re not alone.
“Wesley,” I whisper, more breath than spoken.
Boone jerks away. “Who’s Wesley?”
My lashes beat together as I blink away the Boone fog. “Me?”
“You’re Lucy.” Wrinkles line his forehead.
“Wesley’s my middle name. Well, technically it’s my father’s last name, but Lucy Wesley doesn’t sound as good as Lucy Halliday, so my mom gave me her name,” I ramble, throwing the words together quickly to get to the end of the explanation as fast as possible. “Nice to meet you.”
His attention flicks down to my extended hand. “Nice to meet you, Lucy Wesley Halliday. Boone Santos. No middle name. My sister, Sharyl, who prefers to be called Shari, Santos.”
“What are we doing? Why are you two introducing yourselves again?” Shari lifts her eyebrows, confused. “I think the creepy alien music is affecting your heads.”
Boone takes my hand, threading his fingers with mine. “We’re getting to know each other. Out of order, but I’m going to change that.”
“You are?” I ask, happiness lifting my lips into a smile.
“I’m going to take you out on a date tomorrow. For the whole day.”
I swear Shari sighs. Or it could be me.