“Didn’t you go for another beer?” Brooke asks, watching me drain my cup.

I plop down in the folding chair next to her. Before I can respond, Holland plays the last resounding chord of her opening set, the audience blooming into a sea of half-hearted applause. The change of volume rids Brooke of her curiosity, and I escape having to explain my second encounter with John.

Hoards of people shuffle past one another heading toward the bathrooms and food vendors just before the Boxley Brothers take the stage. With Brooke texting on her phone, I roll the left sleeve of my jacket up and check for marks where John had grabbed me. Nothing, thank God. I want to chain-smoke the rest of my cigarettes to calm my nerves, but that would deplete me until next week. Covering my face with my hands, I try to drown out the clamor around us. The image of John's fingers clenched around my arm makes me fidgety and is ingrained in my mind. No matter how much I'd been thinking of him the past few weeks, one thing is clear— he hasn't changed a bit. What an asshole.

"Excuse me, are you lost?" I hear Brooke ask candidly.

Glancing over at her on my left, I notice the offended look plastered on her face.

“You the one who gave me the ticket back there?” Following Brooke’s gaze to the rooted voice on the other side of me, I find the guy I’d thrown the extra ticket at a few songs ago. Standing beside the empty seat, he’s holding two beers and is staring right at me.

“Oh. Yeah.”

"Nice," he says, handing me one of the beers. "Appreciate it." He's wearing a gray V-neck T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans. When he settles himself in the chair beside me, I feel the warmth of his body against my right side, and a sudden pang of guilt washes over me. If he knew why I’d given him the ticket in the first place, he probably wouldn’t even want it.

Leaning forward, Brooke eyes him with pursed lips. “Well. Guess I’ll have to get my own alcohol then.” She climbs over the back of her seat and disappears into the crowd.

Sitting here sipping my third beer, I realize I probably shouldn’t drink anymore tonight. I consider giving the guy his beer back but reason that the building up of my buzz is helping to calm my panic. Side-eyeing him, I notice his tanned, muscular forearm is inches from me on his lap. His bookish face and nerdy glasses contrast his mysteriously simple vibe. I want to lean over and tell him he’d be a lot hotter if he’d ditch his rumpled, serious look. But I’m not in the frame of mind to consider anyone attractive tonight as it is, so I keep quiet and wipe the thought from my mind.

The Boxley Brothers finally take the stage for their first song, and I notice the guy beside me is drumming his fingers on his thigh in anticipation. There’s something about his innocence laid out in front of the music like this that makes me grow giddy with excitement and understanding, and I can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to have his fingertips drumming the same song on my leg.

Seriously, Ellie? Get a grip.

I roll my eyes at myself. Suddenly craving contact, I lean into his shoulder. "Have you seen them before?" I whisper over the opening guitar chords. The way the band makes their instruments sing in elegance and finesse splits my heart in the best of ways, my angst from the chaotic evening finally melting in my lap.

"Yeah, sure. Couple times in Raleigh," he says, his eyes still fixed on the stage. "Then last year here." As he takes a long sip of his beer, he looks over at me, and the depth of his dark eyes hit me like a train. "They've got that sounds-first thing down with an indie blues overtone. Hard to describe it."

My throat goes dry at his words, and I feel an immediate affinity streak through my warm limbs. His description is nearly verbatim what I’d told John when he first asked me about my favorite band years ago. Indie. Bluesy. Music first, lyrics follow.

"People underestimate how talented these guys are," he says, his mahogany eyes still glued to mine. His lips curl to the side with a grin. "They're one of the best."

Smirking, I nod and cross my arms over my chest, suddenly growing self-conscious under his entrancing stare. I feel my cheeks heat up with his attention, and even though I begin to think I'd trade this entire concert for a chance to captivate this man, I can't let him miss the opening song on account of me wanting his attention. The heady buzz from my beer drowning me in a desperate state of freedom, I say nothing. But in the wake of my silence, I reach my hand up to his chin, and with a single finger, I slowly turn his head back toward the stage. Through his half-smile, I want to tell him he doesn't deserve to miss any of the show because of me. With his gaze now removed from me, I feel lighter, momentarily free from the fire burning within me.

Banjo and mandolin notes roll off the stage, hitting the crowd in waves as I sway along to the beat. Drunk on the soothing sounds of the Boxley Brothers, I can't help but feel this music swim to my core. And this is how it usually happens for me. "It's like they're in time with the pulse of the entire universe," I whisper.

He must hear me because the guy turns his head back toward me. When I look over at him again, he searches my eyes, this time scanning me with a piece of heartfelt concern. "Never heard anyone explain it like that before." The corner of his mouth lifts. "But you're right." He extends a strong hand toward me. "I'm Mason."

Mason?

I exhale. Mason.

His name ricochets around the comfortable space of my mind. I could get used to a name like Mason. But when I shake his hand, as if on cue, the lead vocalist, Cole Boxley, begins to belt out the lyrics to the top song from his setlist, "Stones Unturned." And it's pure poetry.

"I'm Ellie," I say over the song.

As if the universe smacks me in the face of this nearly perfect moment here in the darkness of the crowd, Mason nods. "Nice to meet you, Kelly."

Shit! Kelly? This bursts my happy little concert bubble. Do I freaking look like a Kelly?

For a split second, I consider letting Mason think my name is Kelly. Par for the course, I can take it in stride, right? I'll never see him again after tonight. He doesn't have to know my name is anything else. But then I think about the show and how long I'll hold on to this memory for years to come. How it feels too false to share this love of the same band with the guy and not have him know who I honestly am, even if it's only a one-letter difference. Be the storm, Ellie.

“Ellie!” I say louder. “My name’s Ellie.” My correction isn’t meant to shame him, but it accidentally launches him into a full-on, adorably crooked smile. He brings a quick hand up over his eyes, and the depth of his dimples that now show are tell of his embarrassment. His reaction causes me to genuinely laugh for the first time in what feels like weeks.

Suddenly, the hilarity of this moment is ransacked by Brooke as she squeezes past us, causing me to break eye contact with Mason. Her herbaceous perfume stirs the stale air when she takes her seat beside me. I try to stifle the tail-end of my laughter by the time she sits, but she notices and latches on to my elbow causing me to wince.

“Oh my God, Ellie. Are you flirting?" She leans past me for a better look at Mason. "If you are, he's gorgeous. Where'd you find him?"

Turning toward her to block my words from Mason, I furrow my brow and try to keep a straight face. "He's not gorgeous," I whisper, fighting the obvious smile that lingers. I pull my arm away from her and yank my jacket tighter around me. "And I'm not flirting— I'm being the storm."

“The what?”

"John's ticket. I gave it to some stranger on the lawn. It was him," I say, shrugging in the direction of Mason.

Brooke’s jaw drops. “Where did that come from?" With a turn of her expression, she waggles her eyebrows at me. "Nicely played, El. A beautiful choice, if I do say so myself." She's still peering around me to get a better look at the guy, and if he notices any of this, he doesn't let on.

“He’s not beautiful,” I hiss trying to hold it together. “Now, please direct your attention toward the band.”

Brooke is the best and the brightest in all sorts of ways. She's funny. She's smart. And she's drop-dead gorgeous. But her one little fault is that she goes to most concerts for the social aspect of them, not to enjoy the music.

I focus back on the stage, the blue and purple lights forming rich pools of color and bathing the band in a waterfall of light. As the night grows darker, the set carries on with this stranger, a very focused and absorbed Mason, at my side. The energy of the songs wash over us, and we're lulled by the liquid velvet harmonies drawing us into a trance.

After Holland joins the Boxley Brothers for two purely acoustic numbers, they launch straight into their final string of songs, the encore of the night. My heart aches knowing it's about to end. I want the bliss of this night to carry me forever. Being here with my best friend on one side of me and this newfound stranger to my right. The emotion of the music, the taste of the beer, the weight of the air. It all sinks itself into a tight little ball in my chest, pulling at my seams, threatening to split me right in two.