When rehearsal ends, Lou comes right over and grabs my hand.
“Your family is here,” she says, her thumb stroking the back of my hand. “In the Green Room. Let’s go.”
One of the stage techs struggles with an amp, and I give him a nod, telling him I’ll be right over. “Let me finish this one thing, and I’ll catch up,” I tell Lou.
She nods, then invites the band to come with her, saying she knows how much her friends will want to catch up with them.
One thing becomes two, and I don’t leave the stage for another ten, maybe fifteen minutes.
On my way to the Green Room, I can’t help but scan every hallway for Nash.
And then—just as I step off the stage and into one of the long stadium corridors—I see him.
In an instant, my body goes haywire from too many emotions.
Anger.
Hurt.
Sorrow.
Regret.
I don’t know whether to fight, flee, freeze, or fawn. And frankly, I’ve done all four at one time or another.
With Nash, specifically.
I thrust my hand into my pocket, clutching the flash drive, debating what to do. Wondering if I have the nerve.
His boots slap against the concrete stadium floor, and—surrounded by his entourage—he doesn’t even notice me.
The edges of my vision blur, the world shrinking to tunnel focus. A sick weight settles in my gut, heavy and cold, as I look at the guy I put all my faith in at such an early age.
The guy I worshipped. Loved like a brother.
Apart from that moment on stage a couple of months ago, I haven’t seen him since before my accident.
Sean said he sent a huge floral arrangement to the hospital. Sent cards and baskets to the house.
But after waking up in a hospital bed, I was done caring about everything that had gotten me there.
At least, I thought I was.
But that was a lie—a way to protect myself from truths too painful to confront. So instead, for the last ten-plus years, I’ve hated myself. Beat myself up. Let guilt eat me from the inside and shame and anger fester until they became the only things keeping me upright.
My fingers press into the flash drive as we get closer and closer to passing each other.
A war rages inside me. Do I keep my head up and meet his eye?
Or duck it?
Fade away into nothing.
My work boots and his fancy cowboy boots fall in perfect sync, the clatter echoing off the walls.
Ten feet away.
Five.
