Page 103 of Anything But Lonely

Beside me, Crew immediately starts bouncing to the beat of Eddie's drums, his head tipping back as he sings along to lyrics he's heard a hundred times before—finally being able to sing all the words. I laugh despite myself, reaching out to steady him when his dancing gets a little too enthusiastic.

For the first time all day, the pressure in my chest eases.

The questions about what comes next. About Mateo.

About what he meant by it’s only just begun.

They don't disappear, but the music quiets them.

And standing here with Crew tucked against my side and Mateo's voice carrying through the arena, I let myself disappear into it.

Just for a little while.

CHAPTER 35

MATEO

I can’t believe tonight is our last show.

And everyone who matters to me is here tonight. Mia and the twins, all of our friends, Talia, and even Crew—who convinced Talia and me that tonight was a special enough night for him to stay up past his bedtime.

Emerson is somewhere out there in the crowd too.

And there’s not even an ounce of sadness in me.

For months, I’ve been dreading this night.

The end.

But here I am, welcoming it with open arms. Almost looking forward to it.

Because I learned in these last few months, it’s really not the end.

It’s the beginning of something so much better.

And the anticipation is almost overwhelming.

These last few months have taught me that it’s the small moments that matter. The ones that happen in day-to-day life. The ones that happen so naturally you almost don’t even notice them. The ones I have the rest of my life to look forward to.

It’s the small moments that mean something.

It’s Crew—and Emerson—who mean something.

Like when I came home the night of our Valentine’s Day show and found the two of them curled up in matching Halloween pajamas and a half-empty box of chocolates abandoned between them. Crew had fallen asleep with chocolate all over his face and an arm slung over Emerson’s waist, like even in his sleep he didn’t want to let her go.

Like all those days in March where the three of us fell into our routine—the one I went to bed each night excited to wake up and do it all over again the next morning, even as domestic and refreshingly ordinary as it was.

Breakfast, soundcheck, Crew's endless questions, more games of Go Fish than any grown man should ever be forced to play, coming back to the bus or the hotel after a show and finding Crew fast asleep, usually with Emerson nearby.

Somewhere along the way, that became my favorite part of the day.

Along with the moments that got harder and harder to define, the little moments I started to look forward to more than I should.

The way Emerson would stand in front of me before a show and fix my hair, muttering something like “don’t mess up.” The way her fingers would linger for half a second longer than they needed to. The way she looked at me when she thought I wasn't paying attention.

We never acknowledged any of it.

Never talked about the way my eyes automatically searched for her in a room.