One (One Universe)

from them, not even to look at him. I push my foot lightly down on the bass pedal, and the most satisfying boom comes from the soft contact. So firm and quick.
    I giggle again. That’s twice in one week I’ve giggled within twenty feet of this guy.
    My hands fumble for the screws on the tom holders and floor legs, lowering them enough so that I get a sense of what it would really be like to play. I let my foot hover over the high-hat pedal and twitch it, imagining.
    Suddenly Elias’s hand is on top of my left one, and his other hand puts something in my right. He brings my hands together. I stare up at him as my fingers clench themselves around two brand-new sticks.
    “The smallest ones we have,” Elias says. I want to tell him it doesn’t matter what size the sticks are, but thank you. Something stops the words from coming out of my throat, so I nod dumbly.
    He smiles — for real, not sadly — and says, “Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”
    I shake my arms around, loosening my shoulders, and I spin the stick in my right hand. My wrist adapts to the action like that’s what it was made to do. Elias’s eyebrows go up, and he laughs like he’s never seen anything so awesome.
    Heat floods my face, but as soon as that stick hits the tom’s clear head, making the first mark on it, I am in another world. The ends of my sticks explode with a long note on the side and then crash against the cymbals, their sound so crisp and clear that I can practically see the shimmers they send through the air. I bring it down to a steady beat on the snare and side for a few bars, and I’m stunned by how beautiful these drums are, how strong and solid. They don’t tremble or budge a bit.
    After twenty seconds, I start a driving thrum between the snare and the high-hat, my right foot bouncing my leg along to the rhythm I pound out on the bass.
    My whole body moves with the rest of the band I can only hear in my head, letting my drums shine, making them sparkle.
    I hear Elias’s feet shuffle. He must be getting bored, I think, but I don’t really care. Then, all of a sudden, a low chord progression plays over and over again to my drumbeats. I look up for a split second through the blur of the sticks, which are now playing at exactly the same rhythm as my heartbeat.
    Elias is standing there in his t-shirt and jeans, having shed his bulky sweatshirt, holding a deep blue electric, playing along with me.
    A grin so wide spreads across my face that I swear my cheeks will crack off and fall onto the floor. I don’t even know why Elias playing along makes me so happy, only that I start to bounce my shoulders on purpose now and play a little faster.
    Elias keeps right up. He grins now, too, and as our eyes meet, I start to drum more gently, letting him riff. His fingers are moving so fast right at the base of the guitar’s neck that I almost want to stop my drumming so that all I have to do is listen to him play, but I don’t want to make him stop. I close my eyes, feel my body move almost of its own accord, feel it absorb the drums’ vibrations, and let the sound of us playing — together — wash over me.
    A lump rises in my throat, and something hot and wet slides down my cheek. I’m crying. I’m playing the most beautiful drums ever and crying.
    A second after I realize it, I decide I don’t even care.
    For the first time, I don’t have to drown someone out. Elias is meeting me where I am. He’s the only person who’s ever been willing to do that — able to do that. Now that he has, I’m not so sure what to make of him anymore.
    Elias stops playing and basically ditches the guitar on the floor. He crosses the room to me in a handful of long strides. He’s looking at me like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know where or how. I let the sticks clatter on the floor and stand up, turning toward him.
    It’s almost painful how far back I have to tilt my head to look at him. He stands there, looking at me, his eyes a little worried, and he’s so close that all I need to do is lean my head forward and I could just fall into him.
    My stomach feels tight but I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or nervousness or him being so close to me or me wanting to be closer to him.
    It takes me a split second to figure it out. I let my head fall, and then his arms are around me, letting me decide how close he holds me. Breathing in the scent of his t-shirt — sunshine and aftershave and detergent — is the only thing that could