Page 8 of Watching Ames

It was irrational, but I had worried that the gifts would suddenly cease once I knew they were from some faceless admirer. That they would become figments of my imagination. Even though a part of me was concerned about a stranger sending me gifts, disappointment and a strange sense of loneliness had settled in my gut each night when I failed to receive a delivery at my door.

My steps quickened as I got closer to the apartment, excitement and pleasure causing my heart to race as I tore the envelope off the door and unlocked the front door in a rush. Bex close on my heels, I ripped into the envelope before we'd fully shed our shoes and bags. In the dim lighting of the entryway I could discern a few pieces of paper. Pulling out the largest first as we made our way into the kitchen, I flipped on an overhead light to read the lettering on what turned out to be a parking pass for a parking deck downtown. I handed the pass silently to Bex, who stood just over my shoulder as she waited with anticipation for what else was inside the envelope.

The next two items were more paper, long strips of it that were clearly tickets of some sort. Bex’s eyes were clearly less strained than mine after squinting at pottery all day, her gasp causing me to focus harder at the black lettering across the top of the ticket.The Living Deadran across the top, and I was unable to stifle the shout of surprise that accompanied those words.

One of my favorite bands - who I’d never managed to see live - was playing this weekend at a local venue. I already knew this; I tried buying tickets, but they had sold out the moment they went live. The venue was small, standing room only, allowing for a more intimate showing but much more competition among fans. I had scoured the internet for weeks for tickets but nothing was available, only resold tickets with prices so inflated that I could never rationalize paying for them. But there they were, not just a ticket buttwo,just in time for the show on Friday.

“We can’t use these,” came out of my mouth first, even as my fingers gripped the thin paper tighter, a soft crinkling giving away my reluctance to part with them.

“Like hell we can’t,” Bex crossed her arms, raising her chin in a defiant tilt I was all too familiar with. Her face always looked that way when she felt stubborn, and I was prepared for her argument based on that look alone before she even began. “First of all, it’s a crowded concert and we’ll be together, so it’s not like it’s some plot to kidnap you. Even if it were, I could kick the ass of whoever tried to fuck with you.” Her point stood; Bex trained regularly in martial arts after an ex got her into the sport, and she had the muscles and skill to show for it. “Besides, if your admirer shows, maybe we can scope him out together. See if he’s a better catch than Peter.” She raised an eyebrow in silent question, and I laughed despite myself, trying to ignore the sincerity I heard in her voice.

I feigned indecision for a few moments, unwilling to give in too easily, but I already knew there was no way I could give up these tickets. Bex must have seen me beginning to cave, because she let out a whoop and immediately headed into my closet to find options for us to wear Friday. I heard the screech of clothes hangers along with a few disgruntled noises at certain points in her search, and I imagined her sour face as she found the tea-length dresses and blazers that I wore to various events with Peter through the past couple of years.

While she tore through my clothes, my fingers finally released the grip they had on the tickets, setting them gently on the kitchen island. Against my better judgment I flicked back through the envelope, looking for the shade of silver I had so quickly become familiar with. I pulled out the card, eyes devouring another short set of words from my admirer.

Have fun.

XO

My eyes flicked between the tickets sitting on the island and the card still gripped tightly in my fist, trying to ignore the thrill that accompanied my fear. I should have felt scared of the increasingly extravagant gifts he was leaving me and the fact that he would know exactly where I was Friday night - even where I’d be parked - but a darker part of me craved the idea. And I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

* * *

Friday came so fastthat it caught me off guard. My stomach was in knots, fear mingling with excitement that left me weak in the knees . Bex and I had workshopped our outfits days in advance, which meant when I got home from bisque firing a large chunk of myMorelplates, clothes were already laid out on my bed.

I dressed hurriedly, pulling on the cutoff shorts and a black racerback tank that showed off my shoulders, toned from working and hauling clay all day. Gold jewelry adorned the piercings that littered my ears, small chains connecting a few of them to one another and another set of thin gold chains of varying lengths looped around my neck. Bex met me in the hallway as I pulled on my worn boots, wearing yellow plaid pants and a cropped black t-shirt. She gave me a quick nod of approval as we grabbed our bags and headed out the door, eager to make the quick drive downtown to the venue.

The venue was a squat black building with a line already snaking around the block by the time we arrived. Ignoring the cars looping the building in large circles vying for street parking on the packed curbs, we headed directly to the attached parking garage, where the prices were inflated enough to deter most of the concert-goers, who would rather save their money for drinks and merch. I flicked the parking pass onto my rear view mirror as I entered the garage, waved on by a middle-aged man reading a thick paperback. He called out as we passed by, “Lot closes at midnight!” and I gave him a thumbs up in acknowledgement despite the fact that his eyes hadn’t lifted from his book.

We parked on the third floor of the garage, and I skipped several spots in favor of one nestled directly next to the stairwell and under an overhead light, just in case. Bex didn’t breathe a word, which only confirmed that she might have also felt some nerves at taking unsolicited gifts from a stranger. Despite being an overall badass who almost never showed fear, my sister wasn’t an idiot, and clearly she’d realized we might be tempting fate by accepting these tickets.

But seeingThe Living Deadlive was too alluring, and I reasoned with myself that even if I had parked on the street, I could still be found by my admirer, or even a random attacker, just as easily as I could using a parking pass to a garage with hundreds of spaces. Plus, my admirer clearly already knew where I lived, so how much more danger could a concert be? And even if Bex was having second thoughts, the rational side of my brain was having a hard time convincing me to be truly worried. Ever since our conversation about my admirer, all that ran through my mind was her question of whether I felt safe, and my immediate answer.

I felt safe, my gut clenching in excitement rather than worry. My precautions - locking my door twice, parking next to lighting - were more for general safety. But I knew I couldn't say any of this to reassure Bex, because despite how I felt, I knew it was crazy to trust a man I’d never met. Though, I reasoned with myself, I guess this was what happened when I pushed every urge and gut feeling down for years in order to pursue what was responsible and rational. They eventually just bubbled up and refused to be ignored.

Bex pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts, hooking her arm through mine with a rare, excited squeal that I couldn’t help but return. We joined the end of the line as the doors opened, shuffling along as everyone was ID’d, and we traded our tickets for above-21 wristbands before climbing a short flight of stairs into the space itself.

The main floor was still mostly empty by the time we pushed through the double doors, only the spots closest to the stage claimed. The rest of the crowd grabbed drinks at the bar or sat at a few of the low tables sprinkled throughout the back of the building. Bex and I made our way toward the front, mingling just behind a group of college students leaning against the edge of the stage.

We stood in silence for a while, content with spending time together, occasionally talking about what songs we thought the band might play or people watching. But as time stretched on and the crowd began to thicken, I checked my watch, realizing that the opening act was supposed to take the stage over 15 minutes ago. Just as I leaned over to mention this to Bex, a crew member took to the stage, detailing some technical difficulties that would delay the concert for another half hour.

Bored with standing around, I edged closer to Bex as the room continued to fill in, thinking about how we were about to see one of our favorite bands at such an intimate venue. Which brought me to the actualhowof our being here.

Bex must have had the same thought because as I inched toward her, she leaned down to whisper-shout over the din of the crowd, “I wonder if your admirer is here.”

We both glanced around, eyes taking in all the people gathered for the same event. I shrugged, acting unbothered, even as my eyes looked for any sign of him, as if our eyes meeting would tell me all I needed to know. As if I’d be able to pick him out of the crowd. Bex spent some time pointing out attractive men in the audience, but I shot them all down. Some looked too nice - “the flowers he sent weren’t nice guy flowers,” I argued - while others looked too mean - “he has to be somewhat sweet to write hugs and kisses at the bottoms of his cards.” After a while, all the guessing had me feeling dejected rather than hopeful; either my admirer was one of the men I’d already brushed off, and I’d be let down, or he wasn’t here, and I’d be just as disappointed for a whole other reason.

I opened my mouth to explain my catch-22 of disappointment when I instantly felt guilty, realizing Bex had been in town for almost a week and most of our discussions had revolved around me. We’d been so focused on me and my business, me and Peter, and me and my admirer, that we hadn’t spoken about her life at all. While we kept in touch - through calls and texts and video calls - Bex had never been great with sharing, always private with her feelings. I usually did a better job jabbing at her soft spots until she spilled her guts, but I hadn’t made any effort at all this week.

“How’s Ivy?” Just as I finished voicing the question, I realized she hadn’t mentioned her girlfriend all week, and I looked a little closer at Bex’s face as I waited for her to answer. She tried to hide a slight wince but I caught it, pouncing to ask, “What happened?”

“We broke up.” She held up a hand to stop me, knowing what I was going to ask, before continuing, “Nothing crazy.”

She rolled her eyes, knowing that my thoughts had immediately gone back to months ago, when she was stuck in a jail cell over a boyfriend. “It just wasn’t right. Another teacher.”

Bex liked to refer to all her past partners as “teachers” because they always taught her something. A skill, a hobby, a new red flag. It started shortly after she decided to forgo college, claiming her relationships would be the only higher education she’d ever need. And considering the sheer number of skills she’d picked up from her partners in the past, I could never argue with her.

“So where have you been living?” Bex had been staying with a series of friends and partners for the past year, most recently with Ivy. Her relationships flared bright and fast, with Bex usually moving in within weeks. But the attachments were always tenuous at best, none of them ever really lasting longer than a few months.

---