23 | Lemonade

"Oliver, get your feet off the table."

There goes my calm inner monologue while Mom passed my spot. Obediently, but grudgingly, I took my feet off the table and rested them on the ground as I mentally apologized to my boots for not giving them their proper glory. The shop was mostly filled with Clevemore students, and the other usual who frequented.

There was a whole crowd gathered around Bernardo's table, where people vied to get back row tickets for Brennan's concert tonight. That seemed to be the only thing everyone talked about today. Even the juniors GC, Perry and Brenda had approached me this morning, offering tickets to the show. It took all my willpower not throw away the front-row passes I had in my pocket. Mitch would knife me if I did so.

I begged my head to concentrate on my History homework. I begged my head to blur out the sounds of chatter. I begged my head to stop me from ripping my ticket in half.

I called Voira over to me after she cleaned up a table, "Voira, hey," I whispered, keeping a keen eye on Mom, "Do you think you can grab me something from the kitchen?"

My stomach was hungry and I had no choice.

Also, my uterus was craving something. Have to replace all that blood with food.

"I don't know, Ollie," Voira glanced warily at Mel, who was by the counter, chewing bubblegum. "Raquel might get mad."

I stifled a snort. My mother? Get mad? Of course it happened. It happened on a daily basis. It was the usual. But we always fell unaffected. "Who told you that? Melanie? You have to stop listening to her stories."

I knew for a fact that Melanie targeted newbies on the job. Once, she drove a guy away because he was convinced she was a vampire.

Voira's eyes went wide. "I can't do – do that!" she squeaked, "The food is for customers."

"So," I went for a slow nod, "If I'm not wearing my Sweet Moments apron and hairnet, and I'm not working here, does that mean I'm not a customer?" Mom let me off the hook today. She had Heron in charge of the ice cream station because the others just couldn't get the orders right.

Voira looked utterly conflicted. Mel's hawk-like eyes glanced up from her phone and narrowed at the poor girl beside me. Voira choked on a gasp and scurried away. There was an unspoken rule at our shop: if you were intimidated by Melanie Torrez, you were most likely new to the job.

"You have to stop getting my food plans backfired!" I yelled at Mel. Just making sure she heard me because I was way on the corner of the room.

Mel pretended not to hear but I knew damn right that she could. She pointed to the earphones on her head and did an exaggerated shrugging motion. What a poop.

My plan B to get food secretively was to snatch a plate from a customer's table. But it would be stupid to do so, because Mom had cameras in the shop. The reason wasn't to spot thieves, but to catch me on the act of stealing food. The woman had eyes everywhere.

In surrender, I slumped and began to run the options in my head. The most logical thing to do was to wait for Mitch to arrive and have her order something for me. God knew Mel wouldn't let me buy anything from the menu.

The upstairs kitchen in the house was tempting, but I was in no mood to hike up to the second floor or to cook.

Phone buzzing. That could be Jackson. I whipped out my phone and really, it was him. Hold the freezer, didn't he have class at this time? Unwilling, I answered the call. "Um, Winchesters' hotline. Did Castiel invade your lawn again?"

"What? Who is this?" A rough voice sounded from the other line. That definitely wasn't Jackson.

"I'm asking for Jackson Dale?" Clueless, I said.

Voices hooted in the background. The one I was speaking to boomed out a laugh. Shuffling and numerous grunts followed. What was happening?

"Oh, look at that," the rough voiced one mocked, "There's someone calling Jack-Jack. Should we talk to her?"

A bunch of wild uncivil monkeys. That was what I was talking to.

"Who is this?" the boy asked, "Are you his girlfriend?"

I tried to sound as casually as I could. But my heart was getting riled up, and my head was both confused and in this level of confusion, it was formulating murderous plans. Moriarty-worthy plans.

"I'm a girl, yes, and I'm his friend," I drawled out, "But definitely not his girlfriend, no. I'm sure you could understand the difference." I must be on loudspeaker judging by the sounds of bewilderedness from the other guys.

"Friend?" The main monkey echoed, "Friend? He doesn't have friends."

"Whoops, and so didn't Sherlock, but look how it was in season three. Whatever you're doing to him, stop it. You don't even know what he is or I am capable of," I threatened.

They all laughed. Laughs of jeer and mockery that sent heat up my skin, as if I were there and they were pointing at me in enjoyment. What kind of torture house was Acewell? Where was their own Yearbook Club?

"I'm so terrified!" One of them shrieked in a high-pitched voice, then guffawed. The leader again. "What are you going to do now?"

"You sound like a complete idiot; do you even hear yourself?" I muttered. How corny could they get? Attack a random guy, steal his phone, and call a number. "Lamer than Philip Anderson. But at least Anderson was smart enough to know that Sherlock wasn't dead."

" . . . Are you calling me stupid?"

"Oh my chocolate, you wouldn't see it even if it was pricked on your face!" I cried out, "What do you want, the word 'idiot' stamped on your dick? Ah, wait! You probably won't be able to see it!"

"Listen here you," he started but stopped, as if looking for an insult or threat to throw me off.

"No, you listen. Let go of Jackson, give him his phone and walk away. You're lucky you breathe the same air as that smartass. Now don't make me think twice about letting you go."

"And what are you going to do if we don't? Come over here and beat us up? Go on. Try."

Bully. I heard some shuffling. Shuffling. More scuffle. Main monkey wasn't saying a thing. My fingers fidgeted. Were they roughing him up? Because of me? Jackson, I'm so sorry in advance.

"You're not going to say anything about this, you hear me?" the boy was back.

"Loud and clear," I said, "But that doesn't mean I'm going to follow. And if I don't do what you say? What are you going to do? Huh?"

My hand was itching to hang up and call the Yearbook Club. It might not be in their division to answer to Acewell students, but poking and prodding should do it. However, I held my breath for a while to wait for the other guy's answer.

"You don't know what I'm capable of," he said menacingly. I wanted to roll my eyes. Was I just talking to an echoing room?

"Better do what I said before I Z-snap and whoop your ass to eternal damnation," I told him lowly, "Now."

In the background, another boy called out that a teacher was coming. The phone was dropped, I heard, and sounds of running filled the phone. That was worth it – at least Jackson wasn't harmed even more.

One second. I counted more. Five seconds now. Was Jackson dead? Do I have to revive him?

"S – sweets?" his meek voice said. I exhaled heavily through my nose.

I laughed, half in relief and half in amusement of myself. "Are you calling my nickname or are you offering me candy?"

Jackson groaned. Thump, thump. The sound metal hitting against something else. Was it is head? The lockers? Yes, it must be his head on the lockers. Thank you, science of deduction.

"Are you alright?" I asked softly, "What happened back there? You were being bullied!"

"I know, I know," he grunted grouchily, "Don't worry about me. They're gone. It's okay."

"What? What about the teacher? Should I hang up now; you could get caught!" I toned my voice down into a whisper, in fear that he still has me on loudspeaker and the halls were empty. Perfect opportunity to overhear a phone call.

"No, no , it's okay," he reassured, "I'm in the bathroom now. No more teachers."

"Chocolate and vanilla, Jackass Dale! You explain to me what happened back there, now!" I demanded. He was consistently telling me that he wasn't prey at Acewell and he blended in perfectly. I didn't know this kind of thing was happening!

I heard the sound of footsteps. Pacing? Then he answered, "It was nothing. Donovan just got in a bad mood today and he caught me out of the classroom while he was ditching. His goons pinned me to the lockers and messed me up. Thank you for that, by the way. Honest."

His voice sounded strained. He was breathing heavily. "What are you thanking me for? I didn't drive them away. I just sassed them out, and it feels like arguing with a complete idiot. You couldn't offend them because they wouldn't be able to recognize an insult."

"I'm serious, still. Whooping ass to eternal damnation? That was amazing."

My laugh was forced. Shaky. "No problem. So they do that all the time? Pick a random tribute and mess with them? Mess with helpless people? Call whatever number was on speed dial?"

"No, they didn't press speed dial. They called you because . . ." his next words sounded like murmuring. Incoherent jumble.

"Because what?"

"Because your name had hearts on it in the contacts list," he grumbled.

I smiled. How flattering. Heartwarming, too. And to think Jackson Dale was the type to put emoticons next to a contact name.

"Okay, I'm happy with that." I said to him, "And don't tell anyone but I've got a winky face and pizza beside your contact name."

He laughed. At least it cheered him up. "Sorry you had to hear all that, by the way," said he.

"Sorry? Sorry?" I voiced out harshly, "Your school should be sorry they let those people run free in the halls. I want to call the Yearbook Club at this very moment, believe me. Why don't you tell your parents this, huh? God, why don't you tell Brennan? You'd be better off at Clevemore."

"It's fine, sweets," he tried to persuade, "I'm fine. You don't have to tell any of them. Look, it was just this day and it so happened that they called you."

"And if it happened again? You're going to let it slide?"

"Of course, I am – "

"I know you! You could fight against them! You have the body! Why do you have to let them beat you up?"

He was irritated, I could tell. But I was angrier, thinking how many innocents they victimized in that school. How oblivious teachers and staff could be. "It's better to seem weak if you're up against them. If I fought back, they'll always come back for a challenge. I'll be a target."

"But Jackson, good vanilla, you promise me, okay?" my voice softened, "You promise me you're going to do something about it the next time? Tell someone besides me. And your pillow doesn't count, you hear?" I wished badly that I was there, so I could maybe hold his hand or pull him into a hug.

"Yes, I promise. This is a one-time thing."

"Okay," I kept myself calm, "Okay."

"So I'll see you later?"

I pondered over it. Mitch and I had front-row seats, but I couldn't leave her alone with the rabid fans. But terribly, I needed to talk to Jackson. I knew that after his classes, Brennan would have his arm and would be dragging him straight to the arena as captive.

"I think I'll go backstage for a teeny tiny bit," I said gently, "To see you, not your brother. I couldn't leave Mitch alone. And when we talk again, we'll talk about earlier."

"Noted. You'll be there?"

"I'll be there."

"Alright. I have to go now. The teacher would be wondering how long that bathroom break took." Before I could say a cheeky goodbye, he hung up, leaving me speechless.

Mel was staring at me when I found myself sucked back to the real world. Someone was eavesdropping. She raised her eyebrows at me and said something but I jokingly gestured at my ear and shrugged. She scowled and went back to her phone.

The door of the shop opened, and my attention was caught by the classical theme tune of Sherlock.

Mitch was here.

♫ ♫ ♫

Night. But it was a bit too noisy for my liking. A bit too bright than I was used to. And it was more uncomfortable than my usual Thursday night. The important thing was that I was hungry, and the screaming girls didn't satisfy my appetite.

No, don't panic. I wasn't murdering anyone. No killing spree here, either.

Well, not the usual.

It was Brennan's concert and that was basically more or less the same thing.

The arena was packed. Even though the air was chilly, I bet my chocolate bar that people were sweating because of how tight it was. At the back at least. The arena I saw at the rehearsal was completely different now. People of all ages occupied the seats, snacks littered here and there (making me hungrier by the minute), lights flashed and twinkled and I couldn't even comprehend how loud it was.

Phones. Of course. How could I forget? The people had their phones out. To take pictures they were probably going to delete later on and to shoot videos they were never going to watch anyway. Concerts baffled me.

As Mitch and I stepped towards the front area, it was getting less and less crammed. The front row seats were designed like first class, plush and leather, with cup holders. A curtain was draped on the stage, closing off half of the area. I wondered briefly who was the opening act for Brennan.

Montana doing it will probably send the people off running.

Mitch, beside me, pulled at my wrist, "No, don't look like that." She stared at me like I was a huge disappointment.

I probably was at this moment.

"Look like what?" I pulled out a tight smile, faking innocence. Mitch shook her head and dragged me to our assigned seats – two chairs at the very front which overlooked the whole stage. The view was extraordinary.

We sat down simultaneously. An announcer was going through the reminders for the show. I blocked out the sound. "Grumpy cat," Mitch muttered, facing me, "Of all the days you chose tonight to look like Grumpy cat."

"Mitch, I didn't look like I put makeup to be an internet sensation feline, did I? Ears? Absent. Whiskers? None." I said it all monotonously.

"Save your sarcasm, Ollie," she heaved out a huge breath.

I set down my iced tea on the cup holder – neat little things they were. And I ran two hands down my outfit. I was particularly proud of what I chose to wear tonight – an Iron Man t-shirt underneath a brown coat which was a replica of Castiel's, and a scarf like Sherlock's to top it all off.

"I don't get the point, really," I shrugged my shoulders, "Of a concert. People pay money to see other people sing? Bull. Total bull."

Mitch teased me back. She was the whole reason I was here, besides Jackson. "You just think that because you get to see Brennan sing every day when you go to work. Am I right, or am I right?"

"You get tired of it eventually. He's annoying when he sings at home. Like that one song you want to hate but is stuck in your damn head."

"Me? I'll never get tired of Brennan."

The admiration of people for Brennan disgusted me at times. They adored the outside. If someone would claim to be in love with Brennan Dale, it wouldn't be a fan. It would be someone who found his snoring and childish ways lovable.

Someone who would appreciate who he really was.

"Wait a minute," Mitch slapped her forehead, as if hit with a sudden realization, ""You have a backstage pass, don't you? Only one?"

"It's in my coat pocket," I replied, "I'm planning to give it to you."

"Why me? Don't you have Jackson to talk to? He was a bullied this afternoon, you said?"

I heaved out a sigh. That was true, yes. "I could see him anytime I want to. But this is your one time opportunity. You get to meet Brennan! I'll give you a pass just for tonight."

She seemed to be thinking deeply, weighing her options. "But are you sure? They would prefer to see you over me, you know. You can't just hand me a pass like that!"

We fought about whoever got the pass. She insisted that it was no big deal and I should go over there. I said that she could finally get her poster signed. She could finally have a selfie with Brennan for her collection. She wouldn't give in, despite how desperate she was before.

"What about this," I suggested, "No one gets the backstage pass and we go have dinner right after. My stomach is flipping hungry. Is that okay?"

She thought over it some more before nodding her head and agreeing with the compromise. "What do you do with the pass, then?"

Grinning evilly, I took the pass out of my coat and stroked it gently with my fingers. "I don't know. Maybe throw it in the middle of the arena and have fangirls fight for it?"

"We'll be caught in the middle of a riot!"

"It's going to be fun!

I put the pass back and patted my chest, indicating its safety. "Later, I'll decide on it," I told her with finality.

The announcer was soon done. The lights dimmed, much to my eyes' relief. The curtains were drawn dramatically – I bet my iced tea it was all Paul and Fatima's idea. Lights in the stage flickered on blindly, making me squint. What a night.

Gratefully, the opening act wasn't Montana, but a band whose name I didn't bother to remember. Eager cheers sounded when they played, but we all knew they were waiting expectantly for Brennan. It was only the beginning and I had my hand over my eyes in annoyance.

The band was over. Brennan was on. The screams came louder. I got more irritated. And hell, the boy had an entrance. He had himself sliding to the center stage, doing a guitar number. The control he had over these fans was appalling.

The show went on. Brennan sung so intensely I was shocked he wasn't losing his voice. His outfit was over the top, as usual – jacket, polished shoes, gelled up hair. Oh, and makeup? A clear sign that Montana and Fatima were around. Knowing Brennan, if he had his way, he would dress in long sleeves rolled up and jeans.

I started to get more bored when I downed all my iced tea. Mitch was on the edge of her seat. I sunk deeper into mine. I wished for nothing but for Castiel to swoop down and take me from my agony.

Brennan interacted well with the crowd, I observed. He ran to the corners of the stage, clapping his hands and throwing occasional winks to a particular spot in the audience. The girl went crazy when he did that.

Smirking, I remembered the time he told me he just stared at an empty space in the audience and winked randomly. He wasn't looking at a particular girl.

His eyes raked over the people. I almost lunged at him in anger when he had the nerve to wink at me. I flashed him the middle in response.

Soon, the songs were less loud and upbeat, and there came a number with a soothing song. Oh, that was right. The stool song. When he sat on a stool and played guitar. I narrowed my eyes as he casually strutted around the stage. The music was off, and he was left with his microphone.

"I'd like to dedicate this song to a very special girl," said Brennan, smiling. He ran to the end of the stage and fetched Montana from the backstage. The crowd was wild.

Sappy, I thought, and corny. Montana pretended to be shy and a blush appeared on her cheeks. Gentlemanly, Brennan led her by the hand to the stool at the center. Brennan picked up his acoustic guitar as my sister settled on the seat. He gave her a swift kiss on the cheek before playing.

Mitch sat back beside me, "They're acting, aren't they?"

"As usual," I answered.

The crowd didn't cease. They loved Brennan and Montana together as much as they loved Brennan to be with themselves. One side of them screamed out the two, and the other side wanted to keep Brennan only.

And my sister and Brennan were convincing. He would playfully tickle her in between lines and his eyes were glued to her and her only. Montana was blushing and flustered at the front. If only the whole world new it was a big fake.

"What if everyone knew it isn't real?" Mitch whispered next to me, "What if the secret suddenly comes out?"

"Then, everyone would lose faith in love. They're Brennan and Montana – they're inseparable. It would be the apocalypse if society will see them break up."

"They're good at acting," she said, "But it's sickening."

"I feel the same."

A couple more songs later, it was all over. The audience were all aiming for the stage, while Mitch and squeezed through the people to get to the exit. I felt my phone vibrate in my coat pocket. Who would contact me at this time?

Come backstage. Or else I make you come here myself.

From Brennan. That bastard. I fell behind Mitch, clutching at my phone. If I didn't come, then he could call my name over the speakers. It would ruin me. Fans would attack. A real riot would start.

"What's wrong?" Mitch turned around, looking at me in worry.

"Brennan's asking for me," I showed her the text. "Blackmailed me. Should I . . .?"

She nodded furiously, "Yes, you should! Don't want a riot start, do we? You should go." I climbed up the steps to reach her. I couldn't just ditch her here! With the people crowding around!

"I can't leave you here," I told her.

"I'll be fine," she sent a smile. "Go on."

I looked back at all the girls stampeding to the way backstage, asking for Brennan. I held Mitch at arm's length, "You go to the restaurant across the street, okay? Get us spaghetti, sandwiches and lemonade, okay? I'll be there right away."

"Lemonade?"

"Yes, don't forget the lemonade."

We bade goodbye and I pulled her into a tight hug. I didn't want to part ways with Mitch, but I had an immature boy to take care of. The audience was going more insane because some were climbing on the stage, waving flags with Brennan's face on it. Not good.

I pushed past the girls blocking my way, backstage pass in hand. Just as I was going to show the pass to security, it was grabbed from my hand and it was gone. I looked around in surprise to find a random girl whooping and running from me, pass in hand. The guards seemed to have seen it, because they chased after the girl as fast as their tux-clad bodies could let them.

Now, the pass was gone. Oops.

I quickly took out my phone to tell Brennan to hold on a while because I was caught up in something. Going around the side of the stage, I looked for a way to sneak into the backstage. Maybe I could even find Paul or Fatima and tell them to bust me in. Maybe Maira or Walter. Were they even around at Brennan's concerts?

Finally, I found a nook to squeeze myself into. I was in a shed for props and instruments, but not quite the backstage. To my delight, I saw a familiar woman walking by a crowd of screaming girls.

"My God, Oliver! You scared me!" Glenda put a hand to her chest, stopping abruptly in front of me. She was dressed primly tonight, pencil skirt and tucked in blouse. Her hair was tucked in a tight bun which I was certain was cutting off blood circulation in her head.

Glenda Reynolds. If Dad had taken me with him when Mom and he divorced, Glenda would be my stepmother then.

"I'm sorry!" I gasped out, catching breath, "I was wondering if you can take me backstage. Brennan asked for me, and he might start a riot if I don't come right away."

She looked both frightened and worried at my words. She was the kind of woman who wasn't easily adapted to my quirkiness. She was no Maira Dale but she was alright for a mother. As long as she took care of my sisters, she was on my good side.

And she was also Harmony's manager.

"I – I think I could take you there," she gently took my arm and led me away warily from the crowd.

"Thank you so much," I sighed in relief, "I thought I was going to get killed by those girls."

She laughed shakily, "Well, you know Hollywood fame. Hectic business. What are you doing here, anyways? I never thought you'd show up in Brennan's concert."

"I didn't want to be here, but I had to be with my friend. Brennan gave me tickets, you see. What about you?" She guided me to a series of halls, where it was deserted except for the stoic bodyguards.

"Montana asked for to be here. To support Brennan and her. And Harmony – I have to go back to her in a while."

Soon, we stopped in front of a door. Two buff men guarded either side of the door. They stared at Glenda in confusion, and then looked at me. "She's with me," Glenda merely told them.

"I have to go now," Glenda turned to me, "You'll be alright past that door?"

"I'm already dead during the concert. I guess I'll survive." She nodded and patted the top of my head before scurrying off. Thank God for stepmothers.

Slowly, I opened the door to the room. The little space was all green, with couches here and there. I wondered where Brennan was. But when I ventured further inside, my question was answered. Brennan, Jackson and Montana were there, gathered around a circular dining table.

"Ollie!" Brennan perked up, seeing me. I huffed and closed the door behind me.

"Aren't you supposed to be out with your fangirls?" From here, the screams and cheers could still be heard, but faintly. But my attention was immediately snagged by the food on the counter, hot and steaming. My stomach growled.

"I told Paul I wasn't taking autographs tonight. Or pictures. I'll come later for those who have backstage passes."

My look on him was incredulous. "They're your fans, for chocolate's sake!" I said to him, "Even though they're quite annoying, they love you! Do you know how much? My school gave us half a day off to prepare for the concert! We had shortened periods today!"

"That's why you got to answer the call this afternoon," Jackson piped up suddenly. I glared at Brennan.

Brennan waved the thought off, "I already said it before. They'll be fine. I was hungry."

"I bet food was what you were thinking when you sung that song to Montana," I crossed my arms. Jackson stood from his seat and walked over to me.

"Maybe," said Brennan thoughtfully. Montana gave him a sharp slap on the arm.

I shook my head, clearing the thought of Brennan's selfishness from my head. I had to go back to Mitch as soon as I could. I faced Jackson and scanned his face for bruises and anything else. I narrowed my eyes at the little cut on his jaw.

I lightly traced the spot around the cut. "Damnation to those boys," I muttered as he took my hand away and squeezed it.

"It's okay, I'm fine." Jackson said, "You? I didn't think you'd get through the whole concert."

"Never said I did. Almost mauled Brennan there. He was enjoying that I was suffering," I told him indignantly. "I'm not convinced, Jackson. You can't let that kind of thing pass."

"There was a lot of trouble at school actually," he whispered, giving me a hug and resting his head on my shoulder. Over his shoulder, I saw Brennan and Montana giving us curious looks.

"Why?" I asked. He hadn't pulled away yet. I didn't complain.

"Why do you think?" he chuckled, "It's Brennan's concert. Imagine what happens."

I could imagine it. People at Acewell cruelly snatching tickets and passes from each other, others beating up people for tickets, others passing rumors. Being the star's brother, I couldn't think how hard it was for Jackson.

"It's also known as the day girls began to flirt with me," Jackson said.

"Damnation to those girls, too." We pulled away carefully. I wanted to hug him still. Wrapped around him for hours. "Wait. Was that the reason Donovan was beating you up?"

He shrugged, "I told you – he was in a bad mood. But it might be his girlfriend flirting with me earlier that day."

He looked at me worriedly, "You won't tell, will you?"

I took a glimpse at Brennan. He was setting the table – plates, utensils and glasses. My sister was busy with her phone. "No, I won't tell."

"Thanks, sweets," he whispered, giving me another hug. Wow, what a hugger he was tonight.

He stepped aside so I could give Brennan a piece of my mind. I put my hands on my hips and stared as he hummed, fixing up the table. "So you called me here to cook? Dinner?"

Brennan seemed genuinely offended by the idea, "No! I called you here because I cooked something! I want you taste it."

Brennan . . . and cooking? Those words weren't supposed to be in the same sentence.

Much to my shock, Brennan took out the plate with food. And it wasn't microwave food. What a miracle. "Come on," Brennan cheered as I neared the table, hypnotized, "You could be my taste tester."

Hesitantly, I sat down as he distributed the meal. Just one spoonful, maybe, and I go find Mitch. That was it.

♫ ♫ ♫

Maira Dale. Brennan took after his mother's cooking. I was starting to suspect Jackson was the same, but he had assured me they had cooking classes at Acewell. But Brennan's cooking was worse than Maira's. There were still bits of plastic on the 'roasted' meat, the peas were undercooked (Montana had spat hers out) and the 'sauce' was nothing but a mix of ketchup, mayo and garlic, according to Brennan.

That boy's nerve. To act like he was on MasterChef. The plating was good, but the food was awful. I had walked out of the room, and Brennan had been pleading for me to stay and cook. I had ignored him, and told Jackson I'd call. The younger brother called for pizza then. My sister was just as pissed off as me.

The people at the arena were relatively lesser than when I came. After a journey up the steps, I looked for that restaurant I told Mitch about. It was directly across the street.

But I didn't enter the restaurant yet.

"What are you doing here?" I approached a figure leaning against the glass of the store.

Lawrence looked up in surprise, and in the dark streetlight I saw his eyes were bloodshot and his hair disheveled. He wore a hood which I knew he was wearing for a few straight days and he looked so worn out.

"Ollie," he cracked a smile, "I knew you were going to be here."

I hadn't seen Lawrence Riley since we kissed. I had tried contacting him, out of guilt which I felt for no reason, but he never answered. And now he was here, standing before me. I had desperately wanted to talk to him about what had happened.

"Are you okay? You look like crap," I tentatively laid a hand on the side of his head.

"Fine, fine," He said hoarsely, "I figured – well – I wanted to talk about . . . about you know what."

If I was the reason he lost his joyous glow, I'd do anything to bring it back. This wasn't the Lawrence I knew.

"Here? Or do you want to go inside?" I asked. He shook his head right away, saying he wanted to talk here, outside, in the dark empty sidewalk. I moved closer to him, taking his hand on mine. I didn't want to lose him. He was one of my real friends.

"I'm sorry I did that," he rubbed the bridge of his nose, "I was just so confused, Ollie. I thought I was hopeless. That I wouldn't find my soulmate."

"I know. I just don't want you to avoid me, okay? Did you . . . um . . . did you feel something when . . . ?"

"No. Not really. There wasn't any feeling there." He swung our hands slightly, "I'm sorry I made it awkward between us."

Awkward? Awkward? "What! What are you saying, Riley? It's only awkward when you think it is. I'd be really happy to have you back. Sweet Moments isn't the same without you."

I spotted a smile threatening to come out of him. A wide grin I usually saw him wear. "Thank you. You don't hate me?"

I snorted, "Of course not. Your lips tasted like ginger, by the way."

"What? I was eating Cheetos that day, not Ed Sheeran!"

"Pretty sure it was ginger. Ginger."

"Damn, it must've been the ginger tea I drank. Whatever. So we're cool?"

"Cool," a smile graced my lips. I had him back tonight? It turned out that the concert wasn't all that bad.

"I'm sorry for saying all those things about you and Jackson, by the way," said he, "I never meant to."

"We aren't meant to last, anyway."

His eyebrows furrowed and his face crinkled. "Are you dating now or something? Anything I didn't hear about?"

"Us? No, cakes, no. But just between us, I want him to. But I don't want to move so quick either."

"If you do, I'll be happy for the both of you. I'll be there to help, I swear it, Oliver Ridge."

"I'm happy to have you back. We'll find a girl for you, and I swear it, Lawrence Riley." I reached up and wrapped him in a tight hug, which he gladly returned. "I missed you so much," I whispered in his ear.

He kissed the side of my head, "I missed you, too."

We stayed like that for seconds until we pulled away. A grin was spread on his face, giving me a sign of the real Lawrence. The optimist Lawrence. "Oh!" I glanced at the restaurant. Mitch was inside. "Do you want to eat inside with us?"

Lawrence shook his head, "No thanks. I already ate. And lots of homework at my flat."

"But," he held onto my shoulders, looking at my eyes directly, "I found a matchmaker."

"You did?" I exclaimed, "Really?"

"Yes. And I want you to meet her tomorrow. At the mall? You up for it?"

"You're not taking her to the shop? I'm hurt," I frowned playfully.

He laughed a little, "No, she arranged the meeting. I'll text you."

"I'll be there."

After one last hug, he walked away, hands in his pockets. My stomach was on a roar now, probably starting a rebellion in my body. I pursed my lips and slipped inside the restaurant. Spaghetti and lemonade were waiting for me.

A wild Thursday night it was.

♫ ♫ ♫

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