Page 107 of Anything But Lonely

He’s just talking to the crowd. Not me.

He can’t be.

Can he?

The crowd cheers so loud at the mention that this might not be the end that Mateo has to almost yell into the microphone. “This last tour has been unlike anything we’ve ever done before, for plenty of reasons,” he says, the crowd finally dying down just enough for him to get the words out. “The biggest of those reasons, I got to have my son, Crew, on tour with me. Everyone, give it up for Crew!”

Crew’s stepdad hikes him onto his shoulders as a spotlight finds him. Crew’s mop of brown hair is pulled back into a bun at the top of his head, and he’s wearing a black Cross My Heart T-shirt.

He waves his hands with a grin on his face as everyone claps and cheers for him.

“And Crew made a very special friend during this tour. And she’s the reason he was able to be part of this incredible experience,” Mateo continues as Daniel holds Crew over the barricade that separates the crowd from the stage. Crew lands in the arms of one of the security guards before he’s pushed up on stage to join his dad, and, this time, I’m positive my heart jumps out of my chest, using every ounce of energy it has to get to Crew.

And Mateo.

“And he wanted to show her how lucky he is to have her,” Mateo finally says, and something tells me he isn’t just talking about Crew.

A spotlight shines directly down on me as Rumi and Ava’s eyes go wide from next to me. All of Mateo’s family and friends in the VIP section turn to look at me, mixed expressions of knowing to surprised faces surrounding me as the music begins.

“Crew told me that his friend’s favorite Cross My Heart song is the one that reminds her of her mom,” Mateo says as Eddie’s drums come over Theo and Silas’ chords, and my knees threaten to buckle.

The familiar beat envelops me as someone on the stage crew runs out to hand Crew a microphone, and tears burn my eyes as he holds it up to his mouth, holding it with both hands.

Crew looks to Mateo, who points to me in the crowd. Crew follows his gaze until he sees me, a small smile forming on his face. “Ems,” he says carefully into the microphone, his little shy voice going straight to my heart. “This song is for you.”

When Crew asked me what my favorite song of his dad’s was a few weeks ago, I should’ve known whatever I told him would get back to Mateo—the kid can’t keep a secret to save his life.

And even though this song is like a knife to the chest, and I’ve been avoiding it for the most part, it truly is my favorite song.

It destroys me, reminding me of the weight of losing my mom, forcing me to feel how painful it is to miss her.

But maybe that’s why it’s my favorite.

It forces me to feel after so long of forgetting how to. I’ve been numb for so long, comfortable in the apathy; numbness became easier than grief—easier than carrying the ache of her absence into every ordinary moment.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped letting myself feel the loss because feeling it meant acknowledging how permanent it is.

This song doesn’t let me hide from that. It pulls everything back to the surface. Every memory, every conversation I wish I could have one more time, every moment I reach for the phone before remembering there’s no one on the other end.

It reminds me that grief never really leaves—it just changes shape, settling quietly into the corners of your life until something wakes it up again.

And as much as I hate what it does to me, I think I need it. The pain is unbearable sometimes, but it’s proof that the love is still there. The tears, the ache in my chest, the feeling of being completely undone—they’re all reminders that she mattered, that she still matters.

Losing her created a kind of loneliness that no room full of people can fill.

Most days I carry it quietly, but right now, the song refuses to let me. I know it’ll break me apart, but it will always help me feel connected—to my loss, to my love for her, and somehow, in a way I can’t explain, to her.

Crew begins to sing, softly at first as Mateo sings with him, and my lips part. A tear runs down my face at the way the words don’t sound muffled or strung together.

They’re quiet, but they’re there. All of them. Clear as day.

Mateo is kneeling at Crew’s side, the two looking at each other as they sing together, Crew’s confidence building with every beat of Eddie’s drum, every strum of Theo’s guitar, every pulse of Silas’ bass.

Mateo notices too, his voice getting quieter as Crew’s gets louder, and I can’t stop the tears from falling. Around us, the crowd begins to realize what’s happening. Phones lower. Conversations die out. People who had been swaying to the music now stand perfectly still, watching the little boy at center stage.

But I barely notice any of them.

All I can see is Crew.