"Pretty please, can I come?" Beth asks from the backseat of Mason's sedan. "I think mom will let me if you convince her good enough."

"Sorry, Beth. You can't show up to the music festival unsupervised, and I've got to work that day."

In shock at the thought of him missing the festival, I turn to him as he drives us the fifteen miles toward the Peachtree Venue for the show. I'd been looking forward to having him see me in my element. "You do?" I ask, trying to hold back the concern in my voice. "I didn't realize you had to work that day." The thought packs a sour, depressing punch, but I suppose I should be grateful that he contributed by getting me that press release.

"Of course I do," he says, hooking a hard left onto Barwell Road. "Who do you think's covering the festival for the paper?" He reaches over and caresses my bare knee, a caring gesture that goes unnoticed by Beth.

"You're seriously covering it?" I say, tucking my hair behind my ears out of nerves. I try to hold my tone in around Beth, but my voice edges toward an elation that I just can't shake. "You're the best," I whisper, locking eyes with him for a split-second. And I mean it.

This is huge. Even Charlie will be stoked on the fact that The Anchor will run another piece for us. It'll mean all kinds of sponsorships and incentives for local bands next year. No more question if there will even be a next year. Based on his earlier press release, I have no doubt that Mason's write up will put the sleepy old town of Southport on the music map of North Carolina permanently. "You have no idea how happy that makes me," I say, still trying to play it neutral.

"Yeah? You get the Boxley Brothers to come, I'll give it the front page treatment," he says with a wink.

Beth gasps. "The Boxley Brothers? Come on, Mason!"

"Sorry, sis." He shrugs with a genuine grimace. "Work is work. Maybe you can convince pops to bring you down."

"Yeah, right," she whines.

"Hey, Beth," I say, trying to take her mind off the festival. "Would you believe me if I told you Mason and I actually met at a Boxley Brothers show?"

She lets out a tortured sort of grunt, and as I flip the sun visor down, I peek at her in the seat behind me. She has the happiest, most hopeful expression I've ever seen on a teenager as she gazes out the window, her cell phone clutched to her heart. "You're so fucking cool," she sings.

My hand pops up over my mouth as I suppress a giggle. "You are, too, kiddo."

"Enough with the language, Beth." Mason runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. "You know that's not allowed."

"Sorry, Mom," Beth chides. I can tell she wants a reaction from her brother, but he's not giving her one.

The Peachtree is a much bigger venue than the Hatfield amphitheater in Wilmington where I met Mason. With all the people swarming, I latch onto Mason's shirt and grab Beth's hand which she doesn't seem. We weave through the sweaty crowd toward the box office and finally make it inside. Mason offers to buy us food and drink, but we're so full from hamburgers and birthday cake that we decide on a bottle of water for each of us.

We settle onto the grassy side of the hill at the back of the venue where we can get an unobstructed view of the stage without being packed elbow-to-elbow in the congested part of the field. Mason is to my right, and Beth is sitting in front of us cross-legged, taking photos of the surroundings with her cell phone.

"While she's not looking," Mason whispers, planting a hard kiss on the side of my face over my hair. "A kiss for my sexy girlfriend."

My cheeks grow red-hot. I'm not entirely sure when this shift happened, but being beside him right now, I'm giddy as hell and desperately trying to reel it in with his sister a few feet from us.

"I want a shirt," Beth says eyeing a wandering group of young adults, all wearing Sweet Tennessee shirts.

"Did you bring your money?"

She sighs at Mason's irritatingly parental question and digs through her new leather purse. "No, I left it at home."

"Well, we already got you a ticket to the show. Besides that, you have a ton of T-shirts. Mom would kill me."

"You're one to talk, Mr. Boxley merch," I tease, leaning over onto his shoulder, wanting to rile him up before the show even begins. "You lured me over to your car with a whole trunk full of it," I say, planting a casual kiss on his shoulder. "Come on, I'll get you one," I tell Beth while eyeing Mason. I'm hoping for him to tell me not to so I can be the cool older sister I always wanted to be, and like clockwork, he shakes his head with a shrug.

"You're not buying her that, Ellie. Shirts are a rip off at these big venues," Mason says with a grunt, trying to sound official. Annoyed at me for not sticking with his decision, he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and for the first time, I get a tiny glimpse of what he might be like as a nagging father. To be clear, I don't hate it.

"Not to mention, design isn't what it used to be for bands like this."

"Please," I sing, sounding way fuller of attitude than I intend. "You bought the tickets. I'm just a guest here."

"Fine, can I at least go pee?" Beth says like she's miserable.

"I'll go with," I suddenly say, popping up off the grass.

Mason furrows his brow at me in question.

"What? I have to pee, too. Besides, what are you gonna do? Send her alone? We'll be right back."

Before I trounce away following Beth, Mason takes my forearm and pulls me down to his level. "Let's get one thing straight. You're more than a guest," he says, squeezing my arm affectionately. The corners of his mouth are turned down in sincerity, and his brow is furrowed. Butterflies immediately rise in my throat, and I sheepishly smile at him.

Beth and I make our way to the bathroom line, my arm linked through hers so we don't get split up in the crowd. She gawks at a couple who is nearly passed-out drunk by the side of the doughnut trailer.

"Hey, I'll get you a shirt," I say, trying to take her mind off of the grunge going on around us. "Everyone deserves a souvenir from their first big show."

Beth's face lights up in pure joy.

When we make it over to the Sweet Tennessee booth, Beth sees a black T-shirt with electric blue calligraphy with the name of the band that she has to have. The lead singer of

Sweet Tennessee is behind the booth, and he grabs us each the same shirt. Beth takes them with an open hand, but she can't peel her eyes from the lead singer, nearly star-struck.

I want to tell her he's probably some grungy asshole, not to waste her sight on him, but I don't. "You think Mason will want a shirt?" I ask.

She shrugs. "He said they're a waste of money. He's a pill sometimes— bitter and hard to swallow." Eyeing me, she's unsure of how I'll react.

I laugh genuinely and feel especially close to this girl— the younger sister I never had. "He's not so bad most of the time. What if we just get him one of those hats?"

Beth nods and stands on tiptoes pointing toward the hat with electric blue writing. "Yeah, this will help hide his awful hair," she laughs.

As the lanky guy with long blonde hair is ringing me up, I pull my phone out of my back pocket to check for any response from the Boxley Brothers. No phone calls, no messages. A part of me wants to be upset at the situation, but I have to remind myself that my request was pretty heinous.

As Beth and I speed walk back to Mason and our spots in the grass, we hear the opening notes of the opening band, Forever Blue Sky, starting with an eclectic mix of guitar and something like an electric banjo.

I drop down next to Mason on the grass and set his new hat in his lap.

Looking over at me, he grunts. "What's this?"

"It's not obvious? It's your new Sweet Tennessee cap," I say, flashing him a smile. "Now you can match Beth and me."

"Great, thank you," he laughs as Beth shushes both of us from her spot in front of us. "Guess I'm over here just living my best life with you, huh?"

And the phrase makes my heart soar.

I've been to enough shows to be able to predict the sets with almost perfect accuracy. Sweet Tennessee is no different. They open with their second most famous song, drawing enormous cheers from the crowd and lead into their newer singles before ending with their number one. Despite it being predictable, it's a solid show.

After the show, we all pile into the hot car.

"That was the best birthday ever," Beth sings, as we wait in line to pull out of the parking lot. "That bassist is the cutest guy I've ever seen."

The venue has gone dark, our primary source of light now the lampposts every few

yards. Mason has the air conditioner on full blast and all four windows rolled down to air us out from the heat.

"Can we turn on some Sweet Tennessee, please?" she says from the backseat.

"We can. But the high of a concert lasts longer if you don't pollute it with other music afterward."

"What song do you want?" I ask Beth.

"I like the one they played last. I don't know what it's called though."

"I'll see if I can find it." Taking Mason's phone from the center console, I search for her requested song. Mason looks over at me and smiles something inquisitive, and I feel my heartbeat quicken.

Suddenly, Beth sighs into the night air. "All I want to do for the rest of my life is follow bands around the country and go to shows every night. Is that a job?"

"Afraid not. That's called being a groupie, and you will one-hundred-percent not be doing that," Mason says.

"It's true," I agree. "My boyfriend from high school played guitar for a local band. After we graduated, I followed them around the state all summer. It's basically a lot of smelly guys in a broken-down van trying to scrounge together enough courage and gas money to make it from one city to the next. Not very appealing."

Beth gives a jealous whine and throws her head back against the headrest.

"Stop making it sound so cool!" Mason shouts with a laugh.

"I'm not, it's the truth, I say in defense. But Beth has dissolved into a fit of giggles from the backseat.

Not hearing another word from Beth for the rest of the song, I turn in my seat to make sure she's okay, but she's fallen asleep, her head crooked to the side and her phone clutched in her hand.

"She's out," I whisper to Mason. "Wasn't a bad concert first concert, right?"

He grins at me and shakes his head. "It was perfect. Thank you for tonight." Reaching over, he takes my hand and slips his warm fingers through mine.

"Not fair." I shake my head at him. "You paid for the tickets."

"Beth would've never wanted to go to a show with his nerdy older brother if it weren't for you being there," he says. "You really are pretty fucking cool."

I can't help but grin at his claim. "Enough with the language," I tease, mirroring his earlier scold. "You know better than to use that word," I whisper.

The drive back to the Matthews' house is only half an hour with the backed-up traffic leaving the venue, and we ride the rest of the way home in a comfortable silence. I feel tender and easy next to Mason, our fingers intertwined, my head laying against the headrest, eyes shut and listening to the sounds around us. I almost fall asleep myself, kept awake only by the sound of Beth's light snoring from the backseat and the feel of Mason's hot, wide hand in mine.