1642734778_punk-57-pdf

him to keep going.
When did he write that? When we were fighting? Before we met?
A chaperone walks on stage after the song ends and cocks her head
disapprovingly at the band. They smile and take off their instruments,
quickly getting out of there, because while they may have had permission to
perform a song, they probably didn’t have permission to say a few of the
words that were in those lyrics.
I laugh as Dane takes a dramatic bow and the crowd cheers. I don’t even
know what just happened. Were people dancing? Where’s Trey and Lyla? I
don’t know, and I don’t care.
Misha hands off his guitar to one of the guys, and I inch forward
through the crowd, waiting for him to come to me. He hops down off the
stage as the other band takes over again and starts playing.
He comes up and wraps his arms around me under my ass and lifts me
up. I laugh even though tears wet my face.
I touch his cheek, looking down at him. “I didn’t want to cry.”
“A lot of your words are in those lyrics,” he tells me. “We do more than
a few things really well together, you know?”
“Good and bad.”
He stretches his neck up, brushing my lips. “And I want it all.”
I kiss him, everyone else forgotten. So that was 57. He’d sent me pieces
of the song in the past year, but I’d never heard the whole thing.
“I love you,” he whispers. “And I’m ready to leave as soon as you are,
so keep me posted.”
“I’m ready.”
He smiles and sets me down. “Let’s go have some fun.”
He takes my hand, and we walk through the crowd of dancers, running
into J.D. as we pass the food tables.