Liv: If by hot you mean in the middle of a hot flash, I’m already there.
She shot back an eye-roll emoji, and I pulled up a pop radio station on my phone before tossing it on the bed. I half-stripped, half-danced my way to the bathroom to the sound of “Drop It Low” by Ester Dean.
I took the fastest shower of my life, but took the time to blow out my long, dark hair, which was already far more than I usually did. Humming along to the radio, I piled mascara on as though my life depended on it. I finished by slicking on a lipstick that I probably bought back when Taylor Swift was still singing country songs. I threw on some ripped black jeans, a Queen shirt, and a jacket since the unusually cool weather showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.
I headed over to the dresser and spritzed myself with my favorite fragrance, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I returned the perfume to its home beside an old photograph of me and Ella.
Not half bad for a thirty-something divorcee with a hostile kitty.
My phone pinged from the bed, and I giggled to myself. I grabbed it and ran back down the hallway as Mama scrambled across the floor with an annoyed meow.
“I’ll see you later, Mama,” I said to her, snatching my purse from the foyer and starting toward the door. I was still shoving my feet inside my boots when the door rattled shut behind me. I bounded down the sidewalk toward Ella and Grace in the backseat of an SUV with the Lyft sign illuminated on the dash.
“So the meet and greet isbeforethe show?” Ella asked Grace, furrowing her brow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, mom,” Grace assured her for the third time since we’d arrived at the Ryman Auditorium. After a quick dinner at Adele’s, one of our favorite places for dinner and Sunday brunch, we hopped in another Lyft for the short drive over to the venue.
The Ryman Auditorium was a show stopper, no matter who was on the schedule. With its stained-glass windows and perfect acoustics, it was known as the Mother Church for a reason. Every show there felt like coming home in a way that can only be described as spiritual.
Even being from Nashville, I’d only been to the Ryman a handful of times. The most recent being the last time I’d accompanied Ben to an event about five years ago. One of his artists, a young blonde who’d been hailed as the next Carrie Underwood, was playing for the first time. I sat in the front row watching as Ben beamed up at her proudly, wondering if he would ever look at me that way. I shook my head in an effort to remove the memory from my mind.
After we checked in with our tickets and passes, we were instructed to follow a tall, dark-haired usher to the backstage area. We felt the audience erupt as we wound our way behind our guide through roadies and concert-goers in the underbelly of the auditorium. The sound of a bass drum began to thud, and the opening notes of a song began to play.
Grace squealed, her loose blonde waves shimmying over her shoulders as she grabbed Ella’s arm and looped her other arm through mine. “That must be Sam Corbyn.”
“Who is that again?” I leaned into her ear so as not to display my ignorance too loudly.
“The opening act.” She sighed, her eyes going all star crossed. “He sings that‘Blue Skies’ song.Andhe’s British. He’s so hot!”
“Well, God save the Queen.” I laughed, my spirit buoyed by her excitement.
I looked at the framed photographs and old posters that adorned the walls from concerts past and imagined the many talents that walked these halls. Once upon a time, I longed to be one of them. Playing the Mother Church was one of those honors that every singer/songwriter hoped for. I pushed the thought from my mind as our guide came to a stop behind a short line of fans who chattered nervously amongst themselves. An expressionless and muscular bodyguard in all black with a sleeve of tattoos stood watch outside the door.
“This is our stop.” The usher gestured at the closed door that we were all now waiting outside of. “They’re letting each group in one at a time to chat with the guys and take some photos. When you’re done, if you’ll go back up the way you came, the ushers at the main floor entrance will show you to your seats.”
“Thank you,” Ella said as he waved, disappearing down the hall and into the crowd. “I wonder if these guys are as good-looking in person as they are on Instagram. I was checking them out earlier and they are H-A-W-T.” She spelled out the last word, causing me and Grace to burst into laughter. I wasn’t sure, but I could have sworn the bodyguard’s lip twitched.
“What does that even mean?” I snorted between laughs.
“What?” Ella asked. “It’s what the young people say.”
“Mom.” Grace shook her head. “We donotsay that.” We watched with interest as the door opened and two squealing girls stumbled out. They took off down the hall as a group of four teenagers slipped inside the room.
“I’m just saying.” Ella raked her fingers through her golden hair, adjusting her off the shoulder sweater so that it showed off her bronzed skin. “You’ve got two single ladies here on the prowl.”
“I sure hope you mean you and Grace.” I raised my brow pointedly in her direction.
“Um, no. I mean you and me,” she fired back. “Grace isn’t allowed to date till she’s thirty. I’m pretty sure these guys are too old for her anyway.”
“Derek just turned twenty-eight.” Grace sighed dreamily. “He’s notthatold.” She’d informed us over dinner that the bass player and youngest band member, Derek, was her favorite. She also spent a solid fifteen minutes showing us his Instagram page that was filled with artsy and romantic photos he’d taken.
I laughed. “Oh to be twenty-eight andnot that oldagain.”
The bodyguard’s lips twitched into a smile.
“You’re not old, Aunt Liv,” Grace assured me. “I mean you’re old, but you don’t, like, act old. Besides, you’re a total smokeshow.”
“A what?” Ella and I asked in unison.
