6
I don’t go home.
I should, but I don’t.
Bringing myself to leave just feels impossible.
Then there is the little problem I am having: Reagan is forcing me to go to Travis’s show tonight. Okay, well, she’s not forcing me, I agreed to, but I am starting to think it’s probably a bad idea. I’m quite certain he doesn’t want me there, and yet here I am, dressed to the nines in a sparkly black dress, my hair flowing, wondering what the hell I’m doing.
“This is a very bad idea,” I say, as I twirl my lashes up with mascara.
Reagan, who is wearing a gorgeous red dress, snorts. “Girl, I told you if you really don’t want to go...”
“Yes, I know, and I’m still going so I can only blame myself if it goes bad. God, why can’t I just pack up and go home, just leave all of this behind?”
“Because that isn’t your home, and you know it.”
I hate it when she’s right.
We drive to the show with Reagan hyping me up enough that I am starting to think she is doubting our decision. The venue is as big as they always are when Travis plays. A huge stage, thousands of people, and an atmosphere that is unmatched. We get ourselves a few drinks and then find our seats—good ones, of course—and look down over the stage, waiting for the show to start. My leg bounces nervously as I watch, just waiting.
The lights drop, the stage comes to life, and the crowd goes silent as we watch, just waiting for the moment the show begins.It is the best moment, if you ask me, the one right before the artist comes on stage, and you can feel your heart in your throat. The entire crowd pushes forward with a collective intake of breath, a sound you can feel in your soul. I grip the edge of my seat so tightly that my fingers hurt.
Then he’s there and the silence is no more.
Now, oh now, they’re screaming.
The spotlight follows him, and he stands center, black jeans clinging to his legs, no shirt, tattoos on display. The silver chain hanging around his neck glistens under the spotlight. Travis’s presence is so intense it distorts the air around him, and everyone in the crowd feels it. He keeps his expression impassive as he scans the crowd, and then he grins and I can’t hear myself think over the women screaming.
Travis moves differently than I remember, but better, more purposeful, every gesture meant to scoop up the gaze of everyone in the room. He has a way of anchoring the song with his body, like every muscle is linked to the words. I can’t tell if he sees us. He doesn’t do anything to suggest he does, but my skin prickles every single time he gets close.
I watch him sing, every song as captivating as the first.
God, I forgot how fucking beautiful he was on stage.
He ends the set with a song I’ve never heard before, and a hush runs over the crowd when he tells them that it’s a new song, and he hopes they like it. When he starts singing, there’s a rawness to his voice I have never heard, a pain that runs so deep it slices through the air and penetrates me right into my chest. The lyrics punch right through me. There are bits that are beautiful, as he sings about a love so pure it set his soul ablaze, but then he gets to the painful parts. The parts about breaking. About dark nights. About being left behind in the world. About drowning.
About me.
He notices me just as he is wrapping up the song, and I am probably the only person in the crowd who can hear it, but his voice hitches just a touch. Everyone in the room is watching him, maybe feeling the pain, but they don’t know the truth behind the lyrics, or the meaning of the girl he’s singing about, the way she ran, the way she never let him say goodbye. The way she fucking broke him into a million pieces.
He finishes with a yell, so loud it makes me flinch. I can’t stop the tears, I can’t. They burst forth with a painful sob that has me shoving my hand over my mouth. His eyes meet mine, and for the longest moment, we just stare at each other, then he slings the guitar behind him and walks straight offstage, not one single bow, not even a thank you. The crowd goes mad.
I push to my feet, not hearing Reagan when she calls out to ask if I am okay.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
Shoving through the crowd, tears running down my face, I barrel into a bathroom stall. The crying isn’t pretty. It’s loud, ugly, mascara running down my cheeks.
I hear some commotion, then Reagan’s voice. “Vi, open up. I know you’re in there.”
I open the door.
She takes one look at the mess on my face and doesn’t say anything. Just hugs me tight, her hands cold from the air-conditioning, and tells me she’s got me, always. I believe her. Then, she cleans up my face, even though my tears won’t stop, and tells me we’re getting out of here. She leads me through the crowd, in search of an exit.
It’s misting rain when we step outside. Not a full-on storm, but that weird sideways drizzle that sticks to your skin and makes your clothes cling to you.
“I’m going to get the car, stay here, don’t move,” Reagan orders.
