TARA
Today marked the second day of the Glastonbury music festival, and the atmosphere was pure magic—mud, laughter, and music vibrating through the air.
Even though I'd just spent a week on the Greek islands basking under the Mediterranean sun, feasting on unreal food, and perfecting my tan, a strange homesick feeling had clung to me. It was baffling because, for as long as I could remember, all I'd dreamed about was scarpering. Pulling a Darren—packing my bags and legging it, leaving everything behind. But now? Jesus, now that idea felt like pure madness. That's why Jonathan and I found ourselves crammed into a tent, surrounded by thousands of others in this mucky field.
Memories of yesterday made my grin stretch so wide it hurt my cheeks. Jonathan and Gerard leaping about like a pair of mad eejits to Fatboy Slim was an image that wouldn't quit replaying in my head. Arms slung over each other's shoulders, they were langered out of their minds but buzzing with life. Their attempts at belly-bashing and trying to out-jump one another were nothing short of hilarious. And then Fatboy Slim transitioned into The Killers. As soon as the first notes of Mr. Brightside hit, all bets were off. We were all at it—jumping, screeching, dancing like absolute lunatics without a single care in the world for the stares we were getting.
I was buzzing for another day packed with amazing bands and artists, but at the same time, I didn't want to crawl out of the tent this morning. Tomorrow, it'd all be over, and we'd head home. Neither Jonathan nor I had brought up the inevitable—what was happening in September. He'd made up his mind about Dublin, and I had made mine about London. Still, we danced around the topic like a pair of absolute cowards.
Not that I was worried. We'd been through worse.
"You're thinking too much."
"You're supposed to be sleeping."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I miss you," he murmured, shuffling closer until his broad chest pressed snugly against my back and wrapping his arms tightly around me.
"Morning, baby," he whispered, planting a lazy kiss on my cheek before dropping his head onto my shoulder.
A contented sigh escaped me as my fingers tangled into the nape of his hair, soft and slightly messy from sleep. "Good morning, star."
"I love this," he said softly, his voice almost wistful.
"You love what?" I asked, craning my neck to look at him.
"You." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "This." His arms tightened their hold. "Being here now."
"I love this, too," I whispered back.
"Don't you just want to stay forever?" he teased, though the flicker of pain in his eyes betrayed his playful tone. "We could hide out in this tent, just the two of us, and never leave."
"We'll be okay, Jonathan," I assured him, taking his hand in mine and threading our fingers together. "We've been through worse, haven't we?"
"But I want to be okay now," he muttered, his brows furrowed. "I need to know we're on the same page, Tara."
Before I could respond, the tent shook violently, and Gerard's voice rang out. "Oi, Cap! Are you getting your hole – I mean, making sweet love, or can I come in?"
"Yes, I am!" Jonathan barked. "Now fuck off!"
"He's full of shite, Gibsie," Darragh chimed in from outside. "Open the zip!"
Seconds later, the zipper hissed down, and three heads popped in—two blondes and a smirking brown-haired fucker.
"Morning, family," Gibsie chirped, crawling inside like he owned the place.
YOU ARE READING
Needing 13 - Johnny Kavanagh
Lãng mạnI had never needed anyone. I didn't know what it was like to need a person until I met him. I needed him. He looked at me as if there was something inside me worth looking at. I hated him for it. Why? Because I could see myself loving him. If o...
