Knickers

Trusty Cockblock

The evening closes with The Offspring, and Maya holds my hand as I cry. As many sad stories as I have, I've always had a tendency to listen to The Offspring to counteract the soul-sucking misery, and now here they are, providing the soundtrack for our final moments at Warped Tour.
I don't think I could ever be the type to pretend I'm no longer Emo. It feels impossible to shake, the inclination to wear too much eyeliner and whine over existentialist poetry. Maybe it's rooted. Maybe I should be grateful.
At the end of the set, as the crowd trickles away, Maya and I stay, letting it flow around us and watching the diehard emos pass us by. Sometimes I say goodbye to one of them, a stranger, for no reason at all, and they always say it back. Maya hugs me and we sway, and we don't judge each other for our silly sentimentality.
After twenty minutes the crowd is gone, out in the world once again, never to be gathered in such a concentration again. I feel like I've lost a member of my family, and as we sit in the empty venue I can't help but feel like I'm in mourning.
Security notices me from the fence and makes his way over to kick us out. Before he can get to us we turn to leave, dragging our heels toward the main entrance, stealing final glances at all the merch tents, now mostly taken down. My backpack is regretfully heavy with unnecessary purchases from these tents.
On our way out we pass what I remember to be the Yungblud tent, where a huge, hopeful line had snaked around every surrounding structure. It had been almost impossible to penetrate this line earlier, and admittedly I had to bite my tongue to resist bragging about my late night interaction with Dom in a McDonald's parking lot.
In the darkness, two figures lift at packing away merchandise, far behind everyone else. One of the figures marches off into the darkness, carrying a box, leaving one person behind. A crappy hanging light dangles from the tent's frame, not illuminating much but providing just enough light for me to distinguish pink socks peeking out from a pair of cropped slacks.
He turns my direction and instantly recognizes me, standing under the stadium light and gazing mindlessly at him. He sets his box down and waves wildly at me, goofy in an irresistible sort of way.
"Hey, Marley!" he says brightly. "Hey Maya!"
I'm surprised he remembers our names. Maya jabs an elbow into my ribs, giving me no time to respond before she drags me off toward Dom's tent. On the way there I desperately try to rub the lingering tears from my eyes.
When we arrive Dom is cheerier than ever, immediately beginning to rattle off about The Offspring's set, but he stops mid sentence when he notices my bloodshot eyes.
"Oh, no, have you been crying?"
"No," I retort, lowering my gaze in shame.
"She's sentimental," Maya says.
"Me too, man," Dom agrees, nodding in solidarity. "You need a hug? People say my hugs can heal broken hearts."
"I believe you," I say, chancing an insecure glance up at him.
His smile is unwavering, and so, so warm. How can I, in my weepy nostalgia, say no?
So, we hug, and when his arms close around me it's a feeling akin to stepping into a warm shower, maybe flopping onto a bed of fresh sheets. His sweater smells like some laundry detergent I might recognize from childhood, and I suppose I lose myself too deeply in the relief of it that I mistakenly nose his hood down and off. It occurs to me a second too late that this might be an overstep on my part, but his arms only tighten, pressing my forehead into the warmth of his neck.
My god, he smells fantastic. What is that smell? Soap, or maybe a light cologne, and the lingering detergent, and the slightest presence of sweat, masculine and inoffensive in essence. It takes a hearty dose of willpower to regulate my own breathing so I don't come off like a drug-sniffing dog at Woodstock.
Several more moments pass before I realize that he won't be the one to let me go. So, out of a polite consideration, I retreat from his hug and fiercely reject the empty feeling I'm left with.
"Thanks," I say.
"I'm a professional hugger," he tells me, grinning, turning to throw a few more knickknacks into the open box on the table beside him.
"Let me help you," I suggest, hurrying to the other side to take the last remaining box of merch.
"That's sweet," Dom says, somehow widening his smile even further. "The van's waiting in the lot."
Maya trails Dom and I across the venue, hardcore eavesdropping the entire time, her eyebrows waggling obnoxiously whenever either of us say anything remotely suggestive. As we load the boxes, a particularly tall and thin man nods at the three of us in his passing. Dom turns, shoving both hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, his vibrant eyes peeking out from behind a messy mop of dark hair.
"Seems like I owe you both a drink," he says, swinging his arms back and forth to stretch out his back. "Plus you'd get a proper tour of the bus. How about it?"
Maya spins me around by the shoulder, blocking Dom out of our conversation. I know what's coming.
"Actually, I think Jay wants to grab dinner," she says, holding a subtle thumbs up below her waistline. "She might want you there. Want me to call?"
I shake my head at her, mirroring her thumbs up to indicate my truthfulness, and that I don't feel threatened. "Nah, you go."
Had I given her a thumbs down, she would have played the role of the trusty cockblock, obnoxiously insisting that I come with her to dinner to get me out of whatever obligation that was just placed on me.
"Alright," she says, spinning me back toward Dom and giving me a little shove forward. "Have fun, you crazy kids."
Then, Maya turns and makes for the exit, leaving Dom and I alone.