Bentley Little - The Burning

"This should be interesting," she shouted. The preconcert music had suddenly cranked up several decibels.

"What?" Brian shouted back.

i said, 'This should be interesting'!"

He nodded. "They're really good!"

The lights dimmed.

Even though Lightyear was from the Phoenix area, what locals referred to as "the Valley," the band members were still Arizonans, and the crowd treated them like conquering hometown heroes. A huge roar greeted the musicians as they took to the stage, and though Angela had gone to a lot of concerts and a lot of clubs back in Los Angeles, she had never experienced a reaction like this. She, too, got caught up in '· the excitement, and as the band slammed into its first song, she felt the way she had the first time she'd seen Pearl Jam: as if she were in the presence of greatness.

The concert was amazing. She was an old hand at this stuff, jaded as only an L.A. native could be, but after the show she wanted to hit the table at the back of the hall and buy the group's CD. These guys were definitely going places. The lines were too big, though, and she wasn't sure she had enough money with her, so she decided to pick one up tomorrow at Hastings. If they didn't have any CDs in stock, she'd order one.

Brian was silent on the way back home. She expected him to stop off somewhere-a coffeehouse so they could talk, even a lovers' lane so they could make out-but he drove her directly back to Babbitt House. Despite the good vibes left over from the concert, and even before he said a word, she had a queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach, a bad feeling.

"I don't think this is working."

The car was pulling to a stop in front of the lawn, and his eyes were still on the road, not on her.

Where was this coming from? She thought things were going great. Not just tonight but overall. They had fun together, they never seemed to run out of conversation, and physically ... well, they were both obviously into each other. She'd even e-mailed her friends in L.A. about him because it looked like this was going to last awhile.

And now it wasn't "working"?

When had this happened?

She looked at him and found that although she was surprised, she was not surprised. That bad feeling had been trying to tell her something and on some level she'd understood.

Angela cleared her throat. "Why?" she asked, not trusting herself to say more. There was a sudden distance between them, they were no longer a we or an us but two separate people, and she was now asking the question of a stranger.

The car had stopped, but he remained looking out the front window, would still not turn to face her. "I just ... I don't know. Sometimes you can tell, you know, if things are working out or not. ..."

Why hadn't he said anything about this before? He'd obviously been thinking about it for a while because nothing had happened tonight that could have possibly resulted in a change of heart. She grew angry as she recalled their light conversation at dinner, the easy good time they'd had before the start of the concert. He'd been lying the whole time, putting on an act, and she hated him for it. Why had he gone out with her tonight? Why hadn't he canceled? Because he already had the tickets, wanted to see the show and thought it was too late to line up anyone else? She was suddenly sure that was the case.

She said nothing, let him hang there.

"I don't know," he said. "I haven't met someone else, if that's what you're thinking. It's just that I thought ... well, maybe I should meet someone else. I mean, I like you and all, and we had some fun, but neither of us thought there was any real future in this relationship, did we?"

She had. She stupidly had, and it was all she could do right now not to cry like a baby.

He looked at her, finally, and the expression on his face implored her to agree with him, begged her not to cause a scene.

"Fine," she said. It was all she could say, and though she wished she had some witty rejoinder or were mature enough to behave as though none of this bothered her, she was not that composed or sophisticated, and she was just grateful that she didn't trip over the curb or slam her skirt in the car door as she exited the vehicle.

"Do you want me to-" he began.

"No," she said without turning around, not knowing what she was turning down and not caring. She didn't want anything from him at this point. She continued walking toward the house, willing him to leave, waiting to hear the sound of his car, and was grateful when she finally heard him pull away and head up the street.

She stopped walking, breathed.

What the hell had just happened?

It wasn't any big deal. She knew that intellectually. She'd gone on a couple of dates, and it hadn't worked out. It had happened before and would no doubt happen again. The thing was, she'd invested herself this time; she'd really liked this guy, and she'd thought it had a serious chance of working out.

No. That wasn't it.

What really bothered her, what left her feeling emotionally beaten up, was the fact that she hadn't seen this coming. Before, she'd always had a good bead on the romantic reality of every relationship or potential relationship in which she'd been involved. She'd been able to read the emotional truth of any situation, and the fact that she'd been so tone-deaf this time shook her to the core.

And, bottom line, it always hurt to be rejected.

She continued up the lawn, reached the front door. Chrissie was going to be out, on a date of her own, and Angela was glad. She didn't want her roommate home right now. She wasn't up to facing people or answering questions; she just wanted to crawl into bed and watch TV and be by herself. Tomorrow they could dissect what had happened. Maybe morning would give her some perspective.

She took out her key, opened the door-

And Winston and Brock were waiting for her in the foyer.

"We saw what went down." Winston said sympathetically. "We happened to be-"

"Spying," Brock finished for him. "And we could tell from your body language what was happening."

"When you stopped on the lawn after he drove away? My heart broke."

"We're so sorry."

Angela didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed. She was a little bit of both, but she was thankful to have such caring friends, and though it was a cliched Lifetime channel sentiment, she realized that knowing Winston and Brock were there for her made it easier to deal with the rejection. She declined their offer to come into their apartment and commiserate, though. "I'd rather be alone," she told them.

"Understood," Winston said. "Understood."

"Thank you."

"But a word of advice?"

"Hit me."

"When life gives you lemons-" Winston began.

"-throw them at your enemies." Brock smiled. "Aim for the eyes. Do as much damage as possible."

"Exactly. Take whatever you're given and use it as a weapon."

Laughing, she threw her arms around them. "I love you guys."

"We love you, too," Winston told her.

She felt better as she walked up the stairs, but she was still glad that she didn't run into anyone else, and when Chrissie arrived home early, gave a small knock on her door and asked if she was awake, Angela remained silent in the dark.

There was a traffic jam on the way to school the next morning. The highway was clear, but getting to it took her nearly twenty minutes-even though it was only four blocks away. Despite the series of one-way streets in the old downtown district, traffic usually flowed well here, and when Angela looked east and saw that all of the southbound roads were jammed, even the one coming from the Snowbowl and the Grand Canyon, she knew that there was something seriously wrong.

She didn't know what it was, though, until she reached the campus and arrived late to her first class, Cultural Anthropology. The room was abuzz with the news, and even the instructor had deviated from his planned topic to discuss the day's events.