The sun has set, everything is dark. The only light in the truck is that from the stereo display. The soft blue casts a dim glow over Halston's face. His jaw is tense, his nostrils flaring every few minutes. He hasn't said a word since we got in the truck, hasn't even looked my way, and I can't help but wonder if maybe I did something wrong, something to upset him, and that's why I hadn't seen him since yesterday.
Maybe it was purposeful, maybe he was avoiding me, and I foiled his plan by coming to his door.
Sure, he could've turned me away, but he doesn't seem like that kind of guy. I feel like he would've said yes whether he wanted to or not.
But maybe it has nothing to do with me. Maybe he's relishing in post-sex bliss, the memory of his hook up still fresh in his mind. Maybe he's having a hard time staying awake—guys usually like to sleep after they get off, and it was pretty clear that there was no time for that when I showed up at his door.
I want to ask about her—who she is, if she means anything to him, are there other girls like her or is she the only one. But there's a line here, between us, and that would be crossing it. That would be jumping over the line and clearing it like an Olympic athlete.
If it were me on the receiving end of a question like that, I would be livid. It would be complete intrusion of my privacy, and that wouldn't fair very well for person who asked.
Traffic gets heavier when we reach Main Street, but still nothing compared to the Houston traffic I was used to growing up.
Halston pulls up alongside the curb in front of The Anchor, putting the truck in park without a single word or glance my way. As much as that bothers me I don't let it show, I have more pressing things to think about, like the song I'm about to perform in front of a crowd for the first time.
I slide out of the cab and lean into the back to grab my bag and guitar. I mumble an almost-inaudible thanks and start to shut the door, but. Halston's voice causes me to pause.
"You need a ride home?" He asks. He's looking at me now, finally, though his emotions are masked, his face a blank canvas.
"I..." I begin, ready to decline. My hand grips the door tight. I can't force myself to hold his gaze. I glance up briefly, though, and am met with eyes that hold a sadness I've never once seen in them before. My mind changes in an instant. "Sure. That would be great."
He nods. "What time?"
"Give me a few hours?" I ask. "If that's okay."
"I'll be here," he replies.
"Thanks, Halston. Really. Thank you."
With that I shut the door and head for the entrance, watching his taillights fade into the distance. I give the bouncer my name and, as promised, he points me in the direction of the stage.
From there I'm shuffled into a side room where I meet Joel, the guy in charge of the open mic night. He gives me a quick run down of what to expect, and then he shuffles off leaving me and the other performers to prepare.
There's a man on stage already, and about three others in the room with me. I don't bother introducing myself, just give a few quick waves before taking a seat and busying myself with tuning my guitar.
I'm not the least bit nervous. Performing in front of crowds doesn't scare me. It's actually where I feel most comfortable. Whether I'm being tossed into the air or singing my heart out, I get to experience a few moments of pure bliss before the real world comes back to smack me in the face.
"Ryah, you ready?" Joel asks, poking his head through the cracked door. It feels like hardly any time has passed at all since I last saw him.
"Absolutely," I reply with confidence. I rise from the metal chair I have been perched on since my arrival, grab my guitar by its neck and head for the stage.
