Free In Real Life by Jessica Love Page A

ruining everything. Leave now before you eff things up.
    I try to smile at Lo.
    â€œYou look like you’re in pain,” Grace says as she squeezes up behind Lo, drink in her hand. “Nick’s not going to want to make out with you if you look like you’re about to throw up on his shoes.” She jerks her head down to the stage area, where there’s an empty space off to the side.
    The three of us maneuver through the small crowd and gather in a circle.
    â€œOkay,” Grace says. “We need a plan of action.”
    â€œI think it’s important you see him before he sees you,” Lo says. “That way you won’t be taken by surprise.”
    I nod, still unable to talk.
    â€œThat’s why this spot is perfect.” Grace sucks up a long sip of her drink. “We’re sort of in the corner, so we can see everyone. Ideal for spying.”
    â€œAnd we have a good view of all the hot messes,” Lo says. “Look at that guy over there. I hate when guys think basketball shorts are acceptable attire for going out in public. Dude, you look like you’re in pajamas. Put on some real pants, por favor.”
    I tune out their color commentary as I scan the stage and the crowd. Guys wander across the stage to set up the equipment for the first band, which has to be Automatic Friday. I don’t recognize any of them at first, but then a dark-haired guy walks out with a guitar, and I know right away who he is. I would know even without the horrible ’80s hair.
    â€œThat guy!” I whisper-yell, and point to the stage. “That’s Oscar. He’s Nick’s best friend.”
    â€œWhich one?” Lo asks at the same time Grace says, “The one in the Volcom shirt?”
    â€œYup. Oscar Patel. He plays bass. He speaks three languages. He has a cat named Mando. He’s terrified of heights.” I could rattle off the other random Oscar trivia I’ve acquired through Nick over the years, but I’m overcome by the large stone in my belly again. Oscar is here, right in front of me. That means Nick is in this room. Somewhere. I try to take a deep breath, but I choke on it and end up coughing for several seconds before I can breathe again.
    Lo smacks her open palm on my back. “You’re a mess.”
    â€œSo if Oscar is here, then Nick is here somewhere. He has to be.” Grace takes another big drink and shares it with Lo as I keep searching the crowd. Will he be wearing a hat? Will he be wearing his lucky vintage Rage Against the Machine T-shirt? Will he have his glasses on tonight? Will he look the same in person as he does in all the pictures he’s sent me?
    â€œI think that’s him!” Lo squeals, and I follow her finger across the room. Now on the stage, behind the drum kit, is Nick. Rage T-shirt with a hoodie and a leather jacket layered over it. Brown hair messy and sticking up everywhere, exactly like in his pictures. Glasses. Look of concentration as he works hard to set up something or other on the drum kit.
    It’s him. In real life.
    The world around me screeches to a halt, and my mouth falls open. I tried to prepare myself, and even hoped a little, for the possibility he might not be as cute in person as he is in his pictures. But the thing is, it’s the opposite. He’s even better, completely gorgeous with his mouth twisted up as he screws the cymbal thing onto its stand.
    Nick. Right here. Four years of friendship and online chats and late-night phone calls, and here he is, across the room from me, more real than he’s ever been.
    â€œStop staring and go say something to him,” Lo says.
    â€œThere’s a barricade in front of the stage,” I say. “I can’t—”
    Grace leans over and pushes me on the shoulder. “It’s not a brick wall. He can still see you. Go,” she says. “Go now, before the show starts.”
    I don’t know if I can make my legs move,