Walking Heartbreak (2 page)

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry.”
Zoe’s pitch slinks low and repentant from next to me in the cab. It took her long enough.

“You’re mean. I should have stayed at home,” I say, but her hand goes out and pets my cheek, fingers feminine-smooth, silky soft and different from Jude’s.

“What good would it do though, sweetie? You need to live a little.” She means well, and I love her. She needs to stop talking.

“
You
fucking live.” My outburst is unintentional and leaves Zoe momentarily speechless. The taxi driver turns up the radio, some country song melding with the smell of
Wunderbaum
. Who decided car fresheners were worthy of an invention anyway? I feel sick.

“I am living.” Zoe’s voice lowers through the words. “We’re going to a concert. We’ll have drinks. Dance, Nadia. Remember dancing?”

“I don’t want to dance.”

“Bull. Once we’re there, the crowd will be fantastic. Everyone will be on their feet, probably rushing the front of the stage and mosh-pitting.”

“Oh no,” I mutter as her short, black nails go to her mouth for a quick nibble of happy-jittery energy.

I stare out the window. Let my eyes first fix then give up on each palm tree passing us. Zoe is the life of the party, a quirky, charming blast to be around in this mood. Just—
you
have to be in the mood too. I hope she calms down.

I should go home.

“Emil…” Zoe hums. “He’s so freaking hot. Kisses like a pro too.”

“Emil who?” I ask because it will make her talk about something besides mosh pits.

Her jaw drops in exaggerated surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the lead singer of Clown Irruption? He squirms up there on stage, all smarmy and slinking around his microphone. All sweaty, and then—”

“Ew,” I say.

“Oh come on, ‘sweaty’ is like sex. Or, like, sex
is
sweaty.”

I groan. “I’m not comfortable talking about this, Zoe.”

“Which you need to get over and I’m helping. Did you see when he was singing that one song, the super-sad, really beautiful song, how he massaged his bulge on the mic stand? I swear he’s got a full-on joystick. Maybe I’ll volunteer to help him with it.” She yells the last part, because the driver has notched the radio up to concert level, despite the tune being slower than a psalm.

Zoe bounces closer to me. Leans her chin on my shoulder so she’s sure I can hear her when she says, “You notice that? The driver”—she wheeze-shouts now—“is a fellow prude of yours!”

NADIA

“No, we’re on the guest list,”
Zoe says, mouth against the round window of one of the ticket booths. People shift patiently behind us, clearing their throats and leaning on each other or hugging.

Nightfall dropped over us like a blanket midway up the line. Bottles came out of purses and backpacks, and now the guy right behind me takes an unsteady step into my body while apologizing.

I miss my little apartment. I want to
not
be here. I’m about to leave Zoe alone.

“Whose list?” the crusty old man asks. Thick glasses hang low, creating painful-looking dents over the bridge of his nose.

She snickers, pleased. “Clown Irruption’s. You thought I meant Luminessence’s list?”

Zoe swings to me and lifts one of the curling iron coils she created on my head before we left. She speaks directly into my ear like I’m deaf. “I told you how I got the backstage passes, right?”

I shake her off. “Yeah, you—”

“I totes messaged their tour manager on Facebook and told him Emil wanted me there. Sent him a pic too to jog his memory of our make-out session the last time Clown Irruption came through.”

She’s all grins. It makes me smile too. “Let me guess. He didn’t remember you?” I joke, because who wouldn’t remember Zoe?

“Right, uh-huh!” The giggle she emits comes from deep within her. It’s the kind of profoundly happy sound I used to make playing in the ocean with Jude. Or when he tickled me. When he teased me. When we ran off to Vegas to get married by the Beauty and the Beast in a tiny church.

“Emil friended me on Facebook, you know.” If Zoe’s grin gets any bigger, I’m afraid her head might split horizontally and drop to the ground like a heel of bread.

“And your status? ‘It’s complicated?’”

“Ah you think you’re so funny. Wait…” She turns to the employee again. Accepts two tickets and holds them up victoriously next to a couple of black all-access stickers. “Score!”

She’s contagious.

“He loves you.” I’m smiling big too. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to come along.

“And I lust him!”

A stocky guard
with a blue button-up and
Security
sprawled over a breast—yes, breast
—
lifts his chin at my insistent friend. “I’m sorry, ma’am, the concert is about to start, and there’s no backstage access until after the show.”

“No, listen to me. Just
ask
their manager. Emil wants me there. He needs me like air to prepare. I’m, like, his
Prozac
. Do you want this to be a lousy show for him because I’m not with him? Because you stopped his love from being at his side?”

My cheeks heat with embarrassment at the scene Zoe’s making, complete with frantic hand gestures and puckered lips. Ninety percent of the time, she gets her way with her mixture of sex appeal and unwavering dedication. Tonight, she’s convincing as hell. So convincing, in fact, that I’m surprised when the guard doesn’t relent.

We’re creating a line. People are huffing behind us, wanting to get to their seats inside. “Call Troll,” she insists.

The man cups her elbow to usher her forward. “As I said, the concert is on in fifty minutes. If you’re not ready to enter, please step out of the line.”

“‘Troll?’” I ask.

She yanks free and grumbles as she moves forward. “Idiot. He could’ve gotten him on the phone. Yeah, they call the tour manager ‘Troll’ because apparently he’s Norwegian. Where trolls are from or something? And they turn into stone in the sun—which isn’t a good thing—because then they crack open and fall apart.”

“Which… is relevant how?”

“He doesn’t like the sun either. Troll doesn’t. The guy. Stupid-ass security guard. Watch though. We’ll get in.”

Five minutes later, I slouch in a bright orange plastic seat that’s lined up between four hundred million others in a half circle. Zoe must have made an impact on cute-boy Emil because even I realize that, despite their generic appearance, we have particularly good seats. We’re first row, slightly to the left, and so close to the stage that I can see the sweat at the temple of one of the stagehands.

Zoe deserts me. I groan as she hops the barricade to the ground floor of the arena and unceremoniously wedges herself in behind the sound desk. The youngest of the two men fiddling with buttons greets her with a polite nod.

Annnd: let the Zoe-style persuasion ensue.

I can’t watch her do this. Me, I tip toward introverted, and to witness my fearless, extremely extroverted friend go all out gesticulating, pointing to the stage, clutching her own heart, even mimicking Emil singing, is just… ah.

The sound guy’s brows arch until they disappear under his bangs. Then he nods once and picks up his phone.

There’s movement in my peripheral vision. Security. He passes me, descends the remaining few steps, and—great. It’s the guy from the door. Now he’s on floor duty? He grabs Zoe’s arm. She jerks herself free while the sound guy speaks on the phone. Security Nazi doesn’t give up. With calm assertiveness—of the kind that makes Zoe very mad—he guides her away and tucks her behind the barricades. To be sure, he leans his stocky, middle-aged behind against the bar dividing them.

Zoe’s cheeks flame with anger as she stomps toward me. “Can you believe it? Old dude’s a complete moron. He needs to get a
life
!”

“Indeed,” I say—she’s not paying attention anyway. She plops her butt on the chair next to me and chews off another layer of nail polish while she waits for the sound person to get off the phone. Once he does, he meets her gaze and breaks into a reassuring smile. Comes over, leans on the railing right in front of us, and says, “Troll’s coming for you.”

“My Zoay!”
Emil rasps out in a road-worn rock-singer pitch. “She’s the coolest chick!” he assures bandmates and a few others wearing black rock ’n roll T-shirts. One looks up from a guitar, mutters, “Hey, Zoay,” and digs back into his work, tightening strings and adding one that’s missing.

“Where’ve you been since last year?” Emil asks.

“
Emeel
.” Zoe draws his name out, long and intimate, the way she does when she puts effort into snagging a guy. “Working and stuff, you know. Saving for college.”

“College? Bah. College is for pussies.”

“You’re full of it, handsome,” my friend purrs. “Last time, your buddy told me you did the college dance already.”

The singer’s eyes narrow with flirty intensity. He bites his lip then lets it go as he scans her body. “Oh really? I’m full of it? Come here.” He crooks a finger, beckoning her closer, and it’s like watching a cheesy, romantic comedy when Zoe saunters forward.

A few minutes later, I’m even more uncomfortable. I remind myself that Zoe did introduce me (briefly) at one point. It could have been worse.

In thirty minutes, we need to take our seats, and time seriously just snails by. Everyone else pops in and out of the dressing room as they get ready, while I’m stuck in Zoe-and-love-interest-land.

Unfortunately, the boy-band-blond singer never covers up. The shirt I suspect is his remains draped over his chair. And Zoe has planted herself on his lap. They’re not kissing yet, but there’s a heck of a lot of nose-touching and murmuring into each other’s ear. Emil’s green eyes twinkle with humor at whatever Zoe says, and when he admonishes, “Oh Zoay, Zoay, Zoay,” and rocks her flush on top of his—

Anyway, that’s when I take action.

Zoe is remarkably observant. My hand barely curves around the door handle before she calls out, “Nadia, what’re you doing?”

Sweat dews at the base of my neck. I can’t stay in this room. “Nothing,” I say. One of the waves she coiled down my chest won’t leave my eye. With two fingers, I push it over my shoulder with the rest of my hair, hoping it stays put.

A hairband. Once I get to a restroom somewhere in this enormous basement, I’ll wring my purse inside out and find one. “I’ll grab our seats, okay? You come when you’re ready.”

That does it. Zoe rockets off Emil’s lap and stretches a hand out for me like we’re in some Shakespearean play. “Nadia, no, wait up. I’ll go with you. Sorry, I promise—”

She doesn’t get far because King Emil of Clown Irruption stands, hovering above her, and draws her back in against his chest. Suddenly two sets of eyes, round with childlike need for control, stare back at me.

“Dude!” Emil exclaims, losing his Swedish accent on the one word. “I want you two to watch from the side. I’ll talk to Troll.”

“Where, pumpkin?” Zoe swivels to meet his eyes. I can tell he has no idea what
pumpkin
means in this context but decides it’s not important.

“On stage, Zee,” he says like it’s self-explanatory, and Zoe claps her hands.

“See, Nadia? Emil’s gonna get us the best seats. Behind you guys, right?”

These two don’t know each other at all, and yet they’re eerily synced. They act as if life is simple, like they’re boyfriend and girlfriend—this is playground love at a slightly more mature level. Ha, the universe must be on an Emil-and-Zoe wavelength tonight, because what could be better than playground love?

He nods against the top of her head. “Ja, to the side. Only the best for you.”

I roll my eyes.

“Hey, I saw that,” my BFF says.

“Zoe, I can’t stay here.”

“Oh come on, Nadia, we’ll get to see everyone’s ass while they play. Don’t be a buzzkill.”

“Oh wine.” Emil’s puppy-pretty features smoothen with his solution. “Duh, your friend wants to get sloshed. Wait, I’ll show you where the booze is.”

He lets go of Zoe and aims at a side door.

“No, Pump, she doesn’t. See Nadia, she’s just…”

I hold my breath, afraid of what she’ll say. I breathe out, relieved when she finishes: “really hungry.” If only she’d stopped there. “Just look at her,” she adds. “She wasn’t always this skinny. It’s her husband’s fault.”

“She’s married? How old are you?” he asks, eyes straight on me. I all but bash the door open at his next comment: “A little young to be married, don’t you think?”

“It’s complicated, Emil. Do you have any food?” Zoe reaches me before I can exit, links my arm with her own, and pulls me back in. “Wait up… pretty please? For me?”

“Ja! We totally have food. There’re pre-show deli trays in the other room with Bo. Next to the wine, by the way. You want wine, Zoay?” The last sentence he says low in the voice he probably uses on all his girls.

“‘Ja?’” Zoe giggles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh yeah, it means ‘yes’ in my language.”

“Swedish,” Zoe croons equally low, and I’m done. Out of here. Sadly, Emil is strong. He hooks an arm around my waist and snatches me back in.

“Can you guys stop freaking
handling
me?” I burst out.

Emil flings the side door open, grabs “Zoay” with his other hand, and all but pushes me in. “’Kay, so here’re the deli trays. Go crazy, Nadia. And the wine’s in there too, Zee, or do you want champagne? I’ll hunt down Troll. He’ll get us champagne if you want.”

“Naw, wine’s good,” she says. I hear a loud smack then some suckling noises behind me. My urge to flee roars to an unprecedented level. I wish I’d been faster—I could have been in my arena seat by now.