“Wyatt! Are we present today?” Coach asks, tapping on my helmet as I pass by him during warmups.
“Present, Coach.” I let my personal thoughts slip away as I pass the 25-yard line.
***
I didn’t know smoky bars still existed, but we found one tonight. Elbowing through the entry, there’s some soft music playing in the background while everyone waits for the show to start. It’s more of a lounge than a true music venue, and people aren’t paying much attention to us. Maybe I should give Mae more credit; she probably knew these things before we got here.
I let myself ease back a bit. I’d been so worried about having to put on an act for the cameras during our final night together that I’d forgotten that Mae wants the same thing as me when it comes to our relationship. She’s picked a place that is comfortable to her and I need to respect that. I can definitely give it a chance.
“Sister, you’ve been through the wringer since I last saw you.” Emerging from the haze of the bar, Linda greets us. Immediately stealing her away, I try not to let my thoughts regress to earlier. “Let’s go see Chris; he’ll be ecstatic to see that you came.”
“I might stay here,” I say, looking around for an excuse. I don’t miss how Mae’s brows crease and her shoulders drop slightly. I plant myself on an empty stool next to us. “I want to have a good seat for the show,” I say motioning to the stage.
Mae might catch onto my discomfort but Linda is none the wiser. She just swishes her hair and says, “Not a problem; you’ll just have to come hang out after.” She tugs on Mae again, who looks back over Linda’s shoulder until they pass security to the back room.
Sinking back into my chair, I cross my arms and stare at the empty stage. I have practice tomorrow, so I really shouldn’t have a drink tonight. I can feel the headache ramping up as the atmosphere of the bar starts to seep its way into every one of my senses.
As I’m hunched over, trying to center myself, a pair of hands rest on my shoulders. “Are you here alone?” I turn my head to match the face to the sultry voice. A stunning woman with dark red hair and gorgeous green eyes has sidled up to me.
I’m foolishly so caught up in taking her in that I don’t get a chance to tell her off. Mae has taken the stage and is staring daggers at the two of us. The woman’s hands slide away, and she retreats into the haze without saying a word.
Turning my attention forward, I watch as Chris’ guitar player joins Mae. “Hello,” she starts, as she always does; though, her eyes are still pinned on me, and she sounds confused. I stare back at her, unsure how to handle the situation.
Ever the professional, Mae purses her lips and her attention falls away from me. I just sit in a haze of precariousness as she recovers from our stand-off.
She’s suddenly got the whole bar in the palm of her hand when she says, “I know you’re here to see Chris, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sing a few for you guys tonight.” She adjusts the corded microphone and steps away from its stand. It could be the year 1975, and I wouldn’t be able to tell. She could be the queen of every era.
Hearing her voice in such an acoustic and raw format calms me down. I wish the show was just for me but I’ll take this over a stadium show. Here, there are no screaming fans singing along, no people shoving me to get closer to her. She doesn’t even sing her own songs tonight; she’s free to sing whatever she wants. By the time her set ends, she’s played a full hour of old country songs and stripped-back versions of new pop songs.
As she introduces Chris, the crowd gives a polite amount of applause, just barely overtaking the sounds of glasses clinking and quiet chatter from the back. She hands over her place to Chris and his small band before stepping off the short stage and beelining toward me. I have nothing to hide. I’ll be able to tell her that the woman came onto me and that was it.
A few people pause Mae briefly to take a photo or chat with her but for the most part, she is left to herself. Despite her nervousness about me, it’s clear that she’s in her element here. With each guest, she shares a bit of herself as she chips away toward me. I feel a twinge of guilt when I realize that I might have caused a bit of unneeded stress for her. I could have gone with her and Linda and it would have been avoided.
I’m sure gigs like this are therapeutic for her. No one is tripping over themselves to throw phones in her face; she can play whatever she wants without any choreography or plan, and she can be wholly herself.
The twinge of guilt grows into something more. She doesn’t get to see her friends and family nearly as much as I do; I should be able to handle a night with Chris and Linda every now and again. She also can’t help being the center of attention; that’s something that I will need to adapt to, not the other way around.
When she reaches me, I try to tamp down all of my annoyance from earlier. “Hey,” she starts, unsure. I offer a weak smile, not truly content with my thoughts. Her demeanor changes as she stands closely beside me and starts to run her fingers through my hair. “I saw what happened. You don’t need to say anything.” When I don’t respond, she gives me two options: “We can go, or I could buy you a drink and … ” She turns to the bar, clearly intent on the latter, but I catch her wrist before she can go.
Realizing the movement had been a bit harsh, I let go and drop my hands back to the table. “We can do whatever you want to do. It’s your night; I just have practice early tomorrow.”
“Oh,” she sputters, stepping to my side. “We’ve gone out late before. I didn’t realize it would be a problem.” She glances down, and we both look for words. She finds hers first. “I guess I’ll text Dalton that we’re ready. I should let Linda know, too.”
“I’ll wait for you at the door.” I turn away from the scene and head to the very back of the room. Keeping my head down, I’m careful not to incur any attention.
Mae is the opposite. When she finally returns, she has her head held high, passing through the throng of people as if she has not a care in the world. The crowd splits like the red sea, with all attention on her.
“Linda says she’s sorry she missed you. I told her we’d meet up with them soon.”
“Sounds good to me,” I answer, focused on the next hurdle of the growing group of onlookers outside.
Mae looks past me to the courtyard and out to the street at the awaiting paparazzi and public onlookers. “Of course,” she huffs as lights start flashing at us. “Usually this place is pretty discreet.”
“Well, you are Mae Evans,” I say, grabbing her elbow and steering her into the belly of the beast toward the blacked-out suburban where Dalton waits.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
I’m not able to answer as a photographer breaks ranks and steps into our path. He flashes his camera directly into our faces. Not caring, I throw an arm into him, moving him aside like a tin soldier. Mae protests at this, but I just want to get us out of here, so I pull her along.
