Page 37 of Not a Friend (Crescent Light #1)

Two Years Ago, November

Delicate as a petal Hot as a brand Under my skin Without, within

T he line for the Crescent Light concert was still wrapped around the building twenty minutes after the doors opened.

On one hand, that was amazing. Any up-and-coming band should be thrilled to have a line of concert-goers out the door.

But on the other hand, on some level, it shocked me to my core.

Crescent Light had gained popularity. Logically, I knew that from my research. But in my mind, I couldn’t imagine it. They were stunted. Stuck forever in that place where they only played open mic nights and small gigs in stuffy bars like Brick Road Bar for crowds of no more than forty people.

But my image of them shifted as Wren and I shuffled along in line, surrounded by fans wearing Crescent Light merch.

Their logo—a giant crescent moon resembling the letter C with a capital L tucked inside of it—was everywhere.

On the front of shirts, on enamel pins stuck on denim jackets, even on phone cases.

A group of girls who looked to be no older than sixteen stood in front of us wearing shirts that looked custom-made with photos of each band member printed on the back.

What are they, the indie Backstreet Boys?

“Who’s that one?” Wren asked, boldly pointing to one of the girls’ backs. “He’s got that tortured-yet-sexy vibe to him.”

I laughed. “That’s Leo.”

Nate’s distorted face stared back at me from one of their shirts. Even that proximity was enough to make me nervous.

Finally inside, the venue was abuzz with excited fans pouring to the bars and the restrooms for last-second relief before the show.

“God, this place is packed,” Wren shouted over the music and the noise as we filed into the main hall. The concert was for general admission only.

“Let’s go up to the mezzanine. We’ll get trampled down here.” Lacing her fingers with mine, I dragged her to the staircase.

“There better be a bar up there!”

There was. The line was thankfully a little shorter than the one on the ground floor, but still felt miserably long as I fidgeted in place, desperate to get this over with. We got beers and found a decent spot along the front row of the mezzanine level.

House lights dimmed, signaling the show was about to start, and I took in the stage.

The drum kit of the opening act sat in the middle, but the Crescent Light one sat upstage, barely concealed and entirely distracting.

I was distinctly aware of the knowledge that Nate was in the same building I was standing in .

I peeked down over the edge of the mezzanine to the crowd below, packed in like sardines, only getting more and more squished as the last of the line outside filed in.

There had to be at least five hundred of them down there, plus the additional two hundred or so up on the second level that wrapped around the whole hall.

I pulled my phone out for the tenth time in twenty minutes, checking the time.

Anxiety fizzled through my blood, knotting up my stomach, making my palms sweaty. I took a purposeful, long breath in through my nose and released it slowly out through my mouth.

Everything’s fine.

Anxiety is a funny thing. The fact that I had to frequently remind my brain and body that I was not in imminent danger on a semi-regular basis was silly and nonsensical.

But that was just part of living with it.

My logical mind knew there was nothing wrong, yet the physical reactions shouted otherwise.

I calmed my racing thoughts by opening the professional part of my brain as the opening band took to the stage.

The Collective Three was, ironically, a five-member group that was known very little in the area, from what I could tell.

Yet their style was uniquely their own. I mentally cataloged every detail about them, so deep in my project research that I couldn’t help but listen critically.

Their music tended to lean heavily into alternative rock, but they consistently used funk-inspired baselines to support their rhythm sections.

It was all complemented by their singer, who had an extraordinarily soulful voice that was surprising based on the heavy tattoos and piercings that covered every surface of his body.

Overall, I was pleasantly surprised and decided to do a deeper dive on them when I had the time.

If not for the Newbie Comp, then for my personal playlists .

The next artist, one I was already researching before discovering tonight’s show, took the stage.

She was a singer-writer by the name of Leyanna, who had the voice of an angel and a modest backing band.

Her black hair hung in long, straight curtains around her narrow face and down her slim shoulders as she sang the most heartbreakingly sad lyrics I’d ever heard.

The crowd sang along, swaying to her melodic songs and dancing to her poppier tracks.

Throughout my research, I’d become a genuine fan of hers, and I danced right along with the crowd.

As her set came to a close, my nerves ramped up again like a tidal wave rushing from my stomach, up my chest, and into my throat.

Leyanna left in a parting of thunderous applause, and as the crew descended on the stage, an excited hum started anew in the venue. The stage crew cleared her band’s equipment and made way for Crescent Light, readjusting everything until it was all set and in place.

“You ready?” Wren asked, nudging me in the ribs. She probably noticed I was looking a little green as I stared a hole into the stage like a baby deer caught in headlights.

“Not even a little bit.”

I felt her gaze on me, but I didn’t meet her eye. After a long second, she leaned closer. “He still gets under your skin, doesn’t he?”

It wasn’t accusatory. She said it like it was a fact. An observation, and nothing more. I didn’t answer, I just nodded.

It was as close as I would get to admitting I missed him. His company. His voice. His laugh. The freckle between his shoulder blades. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and gave me a reassuring squeeze.

My eyes remained glued to the stage when the venue went pitch black.

All was quiet for a split second before lights from the back of the stage flooded outward, bathing the crowd in illumination.

It reminded me of midnight in the countryside during a full moon when everything shines from the sky alone and leaves a haunting blue haze on the otherwise dark world.

Four shadowy figures emerged, backlit, each indecipherable from the other.

The crowd went wild, screaming and pushing closer to the stage, pressing as near as they could to the four men.

They took their places—one sitting at the waiting drum set, two dispersing stage left and stage right, and one coming straight forward, looping a guitar strap around his broad shoulders.

I stood frozen, feeling the anticipation of every person in the venue racing through my veins, like any second, my fight or flight might kick in and send me bolting out the door.

An acoustic guitar cut through the noise of the crowd, a soft and simple melody I recognized immediately as the very first Crescent Light song I ever heard.

The one from that night at Brick Road Bar, when we all played cards and laughed.

When I got to see the musical side of Nate for the first time.

He took me home that night.

It was a song I’d listened to dozens of times and I knew every word. A song that always did, and probably always would, hold a special place in me.

Still shadowed by the lights behind him, the specter I knew was Nate approached the microphone at the front of the stage. Quiet as a secret, he sang the first beautifully haunting lines that I’d heard so many times before.

All the hairs on my arms stood upright, and I couldn’t help but lean in because I knew what was going to happen next.

I knew that a ghost of a smile would be playing on Nate’s lips because it always did at this moment, right before the wall of sound, when the entire band would strike that pounding chord in perfect unison.

At last, Crescent Light was brilliantly lit, all their faces visible for the first time since taking the stage.

My heart thumped in my chest at the first glance of his angular face—exactly the same but somehow different.

His hair had grown out and skirted his ears, making him look older.

More mature. The crowd erupted again, arms waving and heads bobbing to the beat as Nate led them through the first chorus.

“Holy shit,” Wren shouted next to me. “You didn’t tell me they were this good!”

“Yes, I did!” I didn’t peel my eyes away from the stage—from Nate. I couldn’t. “Several times!”

“Well yeah, but I thought you were just exaggerating because you were dickmatized by the singer. What’s his name again?”

“Nate,” I breathed.

“All I gotta say is I get it now. He’s fucking hot! And a great singer.”

All I could do was nod in agreement as I sang along to my favorite Crescent Light song.

The next one was one from their most recent EP, which I never got around to listening to. I didn’t exactly want to. Not just because I knew I was going to love it but also because going into the concert with a fresh perspective on some of their songs felt like the least biased approach.

I listened curiously to the unfamiliar song, taking it all in.

It was poppier than most of their others, with cheerful chords that gave me the vision of a young girl listening to it with the windows down in her car on a warm summer night. But as the song went on, the lyrics took on a cheeky, almost antagonistic edge .

Your fake smile lights up the room So pretty, but it’s all untrue Nobody can see. Nobody but me. Don’t know that love ain’t free? I still remember all the time I was yours, but you weren’t mine We talked about my daddy issues And how your family made you cry

I stood stiff as a board, shaking my head at the ridiculous thought that the song could have anything to do with me. But how could it not?

The song faded into the next, a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain . ” It was amazing, of course. One of the best covers I’d ever heard. The guys had so much fun while they played, which in turn made them damn near addictive to watch. Song after song, they held the crowd captive.

They played another unfamiliar one from their EP, a sensual, bluesy song that Nate himself played rhythm guitar on. The tempo was slow, unhurried, every word dripping from his lips like thick honey.

You want me like I want you Oh, babe, I know you do Nothing to say, nothing to do Just know it’s only me and you I breathe it in Your sweet perfume Let go for me I’ll do it, too You want me like I want you Oh, babe, I know you do You need me like I need you Honey, what are we to do?

The mental image of Nate and me in his bedroom, illuminated by only the moonlight, wrapped in each other’s arms, flashed through my head. A hollowness settled through me. Memories flashed to all the times he sat, hunched over, pen in hand, writing. Writing these songs.

This song.

Wren didn’t have to say anything. I felt her side-eye as my cheeks burned and seared.

I wasn’t na?ve enough to think Nate was never going to write about me, about us.

The guy wrote about everything . He never left the apartment without the leather-bound notebook with all his scribbles and inspirations inside, for crying out loud.

Writing about us was one thing. But writing about us, forming words into lyrics, marrying those lyrics to chords and melodies, creating a demo, recording, putting those records on an album, and then performing those songs live was a very, very different thing.

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or pissed. More than anything, I felt… exposed? Put on display, naked for the world to see.

It was official; there was no way I would function normally until I looked up the lyrics to every song they’d released in the last two years. All the songs he might have written when we were together or shortly thereafter.

His music was my only chance at ever understanding what went through Nate’s head when we were together.

It was the only way I might ever get closure because every thought he had, every emotion he felt, had a better chance of going into that leather notebook than being spoken aloud.

The temptation to pore over every word was too strong .

Wren and I wasted no time leaving the concert hall after the show was over. She was mostly quiet on the walk back to the car, the silence a comfort to me after the emotional evening, but offered one remark.

“Their music really is great, Olive,” she said softly. “They’ll be perfect for your project.”

“I know.”

Then, because she couldn’t resist. “And, again, he is smoking hot. Congratulations on hitting that, girl.” She gave my ass a loud smack, causing me to burst into laughter, effectively breaking the tension in my shoulders and in my heart.