Page 101 of Anything But Lonely

But it was always enough to notice.

We hadn't crossed the line—not like the night he took my underwear or the naughty video I sent him—but we were getting closer in smaller, much more dangerous ways.

It was easier to pretend the big moments didn’t matter. They were reckless, unexpected, and over almost as quickly as they started. We could blame them on curiosity or a lapse in judgment or the fact that neither of us had thought through the consequences.

But the small moments scared me the most.

The kind that happened after Crew was asleep.

The kind that came from late-night conversations in doorways, from him knocking on my room just to ask a question he could have texted, from the way we'd say goodnight and neither of us would immediately walk away.

Because the dangerous part isn’t that we might cross a line.

It’s what happens when we finally admit the line is so blurred, we can’t even see it anymore.

And then, suddenly, it was April.

And our week-long break back in Milwaukee came and went without me even fully registering the days. Between Ava and Anderson’s re-proposal and Jack and Rumi’s courthouse wedding, it felt like my time wasn’t even my own.

It wasn’t until I was back on the bus that I realized I missed the therapy session with Dr. Hannah I had agreed to do while I was home. I’ve had maybe three sessions in just as many months. But with how fast life has been moving, I haven’t really had time to notice.

May was practically nonexistent. Crew and I spent our days exploring whatever city we woke up in before heading back to find Mateo, eager and waiting to hear every detail of our day.

He always wanted to know what we’d done that day—where we’d gone, what we’d eaten, what the silliest question Crew had asked was.

And then the three of us would head to whatever venue the show was at that night.

Crew and I had developed our own little routine. We’d find our spot in the wings, usually close enough to see everything but tucked away enough to have our own little world, and the second the music started, we’d turn it into our personal concert.

It became one of my favorite parts of those nights—the part no one else really saw. Just Crew and me, completely lost in the music, while Mateo was only a few feet away, sneaking glances our way. Every so often, I’d catch his eye, like he was making sure I was still there.

Eventually, the set would reach the song that Crew and I always left after. It had become our cue, the unofficial end of our night at the venue. Without fail, Mateo would find us from the stage and sneak us a wave just as he finished singing the final note.

May disappeared in those little moments—one city bleeding into the next, one show blending into another, and every night ending with Mateo lingering by my bedroom door under the guise of “wanting to say goodnight”.

It was chaotic and exhausting and somehow completely ordinary at the same time. And now it’s June, and we’re three shows away from the final show of this farewell tour.

And I’m afraid of what will happen when this all slows down.

“We can’t forget to pack Pepper 2.0,” I tell Crew as I help him clean up the hotel room, just like we do whenever it’s time to hit the road.

Tonight’s show is in St. Paul, then we finish up by stopping back in Chicago, and then Cross My Heart’s last official show will be in Milwaukee—where it all started.

It’s hard to believe not only this farewell tour but Cross My Heart as a whole is coming to an end. Mateo has put so much of himself into this band over the years, and it’s obvious that it isn’t easy for him to say goodbye.

“I can’t wait to see the real Pepper,” Crew announces, taking his favorite black cat stuffed animal from me and carefully putting her into his little backpack with the rest of his toys. “I miss her.”

“I know you do. But don’t worry, Georgie is taking really good care of her,” I tell Crew just before he starts asking questions about why some cats have black fur, and others don’t. We get deep into a conversation about the different types of fur we’ve seen on cats as we pack up his clothes into his suitcase before we head over to tonight’s venue.

“Ems,” Crew says softly after a moment of silence. I thought he was trying to think about another color of fur we didn’t mention yet, but he surprises me with the way he avoids my eyes.

“What is it, champ?”

“Am I—” he pauses, looking up at me for a second before looking back down at his hands in his lap. He’s sitting on his knees on the hotel bed, only a few more pieces of clothing left to fold and pile into his luggage. “Am I going to see you once Daddy is done singing?”

His question catches me off guard, my heart clenching at how sad he sounds, like he’s preparing himself for an answer he doesn’t want to hear.

I want to tell him that of course he’ll see me—as much as he wants.