We filed into the fancy lobby, walking on ruby red carpet past long tables of t-shirts, adorned with pictures of Eamon and his band. This was all too detached from the history I had with him—he was not a rock star when I knew him, although he was a star-in-waiting. I knew that much the instant I saw him in that pub.
It was such a long time ago—eleven years. Maybe seeing him perform wouldn't affect me much. I'd changed since then. Not a lot, but some. He'd probably changed a lot, so much that I wouldn't recognize him as being the same person. He'd gotten married a little less than two years after I left Ireland, which had sent me into a bit of a downward spiral at the time. He got divorced a year later, and that slightly improved my mood until I reminded myself that we were half a world away from each other, I needed to get over it, and no marital split was a good thing.
An usher showed Amy and me to our seats. My heart couldn't settle on a steady beat, behaving like a hyper puppy, saddled with too much nervous energy. I closed my eyes and took deep breaths through my nose while Amy and Luke exchanged texts that made her giggle.It's going to be okay. It's just music. No big deal.
When the lights went down and the crowd rose to its feet, I stood, but that one bit of upward momentum left me feeling like I was floating a few inches off the floor. His band filed on to the stage and he brought up the rear. It was just like him to arrive with little fanfare and have it met with an intense roar of screams and applause from the crowd. He waved. He smiled. And I fought to stay in the present, to not allow myself to think this was a dream.
Watching him as he strapped on his acoustic guitar and he squinted into the spotlight, I had to wonder if there was some part of him that sensed I was in the room. Were we still connected like we had been, all those years ago? My body was keenly aware of his presence—it was like I was in a tin bucket on a rolling sea, clutching the sides so hard that my fingers cramped, terrified of being tossed into the waves, even when excitement bubbled up inside my stomach. The temptation of the ride, however scary, was more fun than sitting on shore.
“Hello there,” he spoke into the microphone, ‘there’ coming out like ‘dare’, his voice as rich and buttery as the best Irish shortbread. He'd said the very same thing to me that night in the pub. I was such a goner after just three syllables.
The crowed responded in kind, but I let the applause and voices fade. That wasn't what I wanted to hear. The drummer counted off the beat and the band joined in. Eamon's glorious hands stroked the neck of the guitar and strummed the strings, and it was as if his voice picked me up, lifted me straight into the air, and set me on a journey I had no idea I was so eager to take.
His music had always had a place between U2's ballads and Van Morrison's best love songs, but more sparse, which let his achingly beautiful, powerful voice take center stage. His lyrics stuck with you for days. Months. Years. Almost every song he wrote was about love or sex, with a Shakespearean slant—full of dark, romantic tragedy. Every perfect word and turn of phrase made you feel like you'd never be half as clever as him.
From the strong, upbeat songs to the gentle, acoustic ones, my heart swelled in the most familiar way, as if it had been sitting idly by over the last decade, waiting for him. I realized then that I could soak up a lifetime of his poetic thoughts and haunting voice and it still wouldn't be enough. A profound, but comfortable sadness came with that realization. As beautiful and incredible as he was, being with Eamon was like flying too close to the sun. Eventually, you'd have to steer yourself away.
Still, I was eager to hold on to every minute of his performance. I didn't want it to end, probably because it would mark a return to everyday life after a quixotic ninety minutes of escape. After two encores, time took its toll and Eamon his final bows. He walked off the stage, wiping his brow with a towel, and disappeared behind the curtains waiting in the wings.
Amy and I both collapsed into our seats. The house lights came up.
“Oh my God. That was amazing,” she said.
“It was.” I nodded, but it had been so much more than that. It stuck me with a cruel case of wanderlust, making me question one of the hardest choices I'd ever had to make. When I left Eamon and came back to the states, it had seemed like the sensible thing to do. He'd landed a major record deal. He had a world tour ahead. And Amy needed me—Dad had started drinking again.
“You're crying,” Amy said.
I reached up to wipe my cheek. I had to prove that I wasn't, but my skin was damp with tears. “Only a little.”
She looked me square in the eye. “He really meant something to you, didn't he?”
I shrugged. “It's emotional music.”
“Come on, let's get backstage. I really need to pee and I'm sure you're dying to say hi.”
I grabbed her wrist as she rose from her seat. “We can't. We shouldn't. Backstage is just lame anyway, isn't it?”
“Um, no. It's not. Don't you want to see him and talk to him? Catch up?”
Catch up?I nearly burst out laughing. Nearly.
“You can tell him how much you loved his performance.”
Been there, done that.The people next to us squeezed past and into the aisle. “I don't know if I can do it.”
“Whatever happened between you guys was a long time ago. Water under the bridge. He probably won't even remember.”
“That's so reassuring.”
She grabbed my arm. The next thing I knew, I was shuffling behind her as she pushed people out of our way. “Coming through. Pregnant woman.”
I didn't bother to protest since I detest crowds and her insane tactics were working, but I had to wonder if I looked like I'd put on a few pounds.
“Pregnant woman?” I whispered when we were in the hall leading backstage.
“I saw it in a movie.” Amy pulled out the passes, and the security guard instructed us to put them on. My brain was running like a washing machine spin cycle, round and round.
What do I say to him?
