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“Well, you will be. Now, you know what we need?”

“A new apartment where I don’t have to couch-surf?” I say dryly.

She grins. “That, and a night of fun. And, oh, look, talk of the devil, we happen to have tickets to an Eddie Crowe concert tonight.”

I sit up biting my lip. “I don’t know. He might think I’m stalking him…”

“Oh, hell, no, you’re not bailing on this.” Christie crossed her arms. “You’ve been moody and angsty for days, and this is the perfect distraction. Besides, you’ve been listening to his music nonstop since you moved in here. You can’t tell me you don’t want to see him live.”

I sigh, reaching for my purse. “Fine. But only because I don’t have the energy to fight you.”

She squeals, already darting toward her room. “Time to get hot, babe. We’re making him regret not texting.”

“As if he’ll even notice us in the crowds of screaming women,” I call, but Christie is already in the bathroom.

Christie does not take ‘casual’ as an acceptable outfit choice.

“You’re not wearing that.” She yanks my plain black tank top from my hands and throws it onto the bed like it has personally offended her.

I groan. “Christie, it’s a concert, not prom.”

“Exactly. Which means you need to look effortlessly sexy. Like, oh, I just threw this on, but also I could break hearts with a single glance.” She rifles through her closet before pullingout a short, shimmery top that I was pretty sure belonged in a nightclub. “Try this.”

I eye it warily. “It’s… tiny.”

She smirks. “It’s hot. And it’ll look amazing with those ripped jeans you love.”

With a dramatic sigh, I change into the outfit. When I turn back to the mirror, even I have to admit Christie has a point. The top hugs me just right, the slight shimmer catching the light as I move. Paired with my well-worn jeans and ankle boots, I look… good. Maybe even confident.

Christie, of course, isn’t done. She sits me down, fussing over my hair until it falls in loose waves around my shoulders. Then comes the makeup, just enough to make my eyes pop and my lips look a little too inviting.

She grins, admiring her handiwork. “There. Now you look like the main character.”

I roll my eyes. “As long as I don’t look like I’m trying too hard.”

“You look perfect.” She spins around and strikes a pose. “Now, shall we go make country music history?”

I laugh, grabbing my jacket. “Let’s go.”

The lineoutside the stadium stretches for what feels like miles, but no one seems to mind. The crowd is buzzing with anticipation, conversations overlapping in a symphony of excitement. Fans decked out in Eddie Crowe merch clutch their tickets, bouncing on their toes, sharing stories of past concerts and favorite songs. Someone near us blasts one of his hits from a portable speaker, sparking an impromptu singalong.

“This is gonna be legendary,” Christie gushes, clutching my arm. “Can you feel it?”

I nod, soaking in the energy around us. It’s been so long since I’ve felt this kind of joy, this connection to something bigger than myself. People in line aren’t just strangers; they’re fellow fans, bonded by their love for Eddie Crowe’s music. A girl next to us in a vintage tour hoodie catches my eye and grins.

“First time seeing him live?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Been a fan for years, though.”

“Oh, you’re in for a ride,” she said knowingly. “His shows are insane. I saw him last year, and I swear I ascended.”

A guy behind her chimes in. “Dude, the guitar solo in ‘Midnight Dune’? You arenotready.”

Christie lets out a dramatic gasp. “Stop, I’m already emotional.”

We all laugh, the excitement doubling. Everyone here understands each other in a way that only fellow fans can. It feels like home.

An hour later, we finally reach the front of the line. The security guard takes my ticket, scans it—and frowns. My stomach clenches.