Page 27 of Anything But Lonely

“You got it. But first,” I say, bending down to his height before turning him around. “Let’s get your hair out of your face.”

Gathering his hair into one hand, I use one of the ponytail holders Talia packed for him to tie his hair into a small bun before standing up and grabbing his hand to lead us into the kitchen.

“Oh, and one more thing.” I pause with my hand on the bedroom door, waiting until Crew looks up at me. “Remember last night during bathtime when I told you I have a special helper friend? The one who's going to travel with us while you're out here singing with me?”

Crew nods so hard I swear his whole body moves with it, his face lighting up at the mention of singing with me.

I wasn't sure how to explain touring to a four-year-old. I thought about telling him I was going to work, like Mommy does. Instead, he looked at me with complete confidence and asked if he was coming to help me sing.

That became the explanation.

Then, when bedtime rolled around, he asked for his bedtime song.

Last night was the first time he'd ever tried to sing it with me. Most of the words came out as sleepy little mumbles before he drifted off halfway through the chorus, but hearing his tiny voice trying to match mine lodged itself somewhere permanent inside me. It's one of those memories I already know I'll replay decades from now—when I'm old and gray, and I'm trying to remember what the best days of my life felt like.

One day, when he's older, I'll finally tell him his "bedtime song" isn't some meaningful lullaby I picked just for him. It's actually a Nickelback song that was stuck in my head. We were deep in the newborn trenches, and he was refusing to sleep. Talia told me to sing, so I did—and somehow Nickelback was the first thing that came out. In hindsight, I probably should've gone with one of my own songs.

Too late now.

To Crew, this is what I do.

I sing.

And now, somehow, he gets to come with me.

I don't have to leave him behind anymore.

"Well," I say, lifting him onto one of the kitchen counter stools, "she's here. She's still sleeping, but she's so excited to hang out with you whenever Daddy has to go sing."

Crew's eyebrows knit together, a little frown pulling at his mouth. "I don't need a special helper." He shakes his head. "I can sing with you."

“Of course you can sing with me, buddy,” I say, leaning forward on the counter so I can talk to him at his level. “But there will be times when I need to sing on stage. That’s when Emerson will be with you.”

“But I want to be with you,” he says, and his lip starts to quiver. He tries to hide it, and that hits me like a train.

“You will be with me, buddy,” I quickly say, reaching out my hand to him, holding it palm up for him to grab. He slowly takes his hand from his lap, placing it in mine. “As much as possible, okay?” He nods, using his other hand to wipe at his nose.

I’m about to circle back to how Emerson will be with him when I’m not, but I decide against it, not wanting to upset him anymore. He’s going through a lot of changes in a very short amount of time, and I don’t want to overwhelm him.

I squeeze his hand in mine before standing to my full height and clapping my hands together. “Now,” I say, “it’s waffie time.”

Crew’s smile is back as I open a few cabinets, looking for a toaster.

Our manager and crew always make sure our hotel rooms are stocked with anything we might need, along with our food and drink preferences. I made sure to get all of Crew’s favorites and staples, and as I’m grabbing the box of toaster waffles from the freezer, I make a mental note to ask Emerson about hers so I can make sure we have them at the next stop.

Plugging in the toaster, I move it close enough for Crew to be able to drop the waffles into the slots. I’m just showing him how to push the lever down to make the waffles “disappear” when the creak of a door grabs my attention.

“Morning.” Emerson’s voice has a rasp to it, her dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, aside from the bangs that perfectly frame her deep green eyes, the silver ring in her eyebrow peeking out between the strands.

She’s wearing a black tank top underneath denim overalls that cut off right at mid-thigh, all of her tattoos on her arms, legs, chest, and neck on full display. Even though it’s almost December, the weather here in Atlanta is much warmer than what we’re used to back home in Wisconsin during this time of year.

“M-morning,” I manage to say, my chest instantly heating at how hard it was to get the word out, and I feel the blood creep up my neck. “Sleep okay?”

“Peachy,” she deadpans, walking over to us. As she gets closer, I can see the dark circles under her eyes, but I keep the thought to myself. For all I know, she could still be tired from traveling. Either way, it’s not my place.

I glance at Crew, who watches Emerson carefully, his eyes scanning all over her body, no doubt looking at all of her tattoos. I’m pretty covered, so Crew is used to tattoos—he knows all about them.

But while you can still find plenty of open skin on me, the same can't be said for Emerson. Black ink winds across her body, countless individual pieces covering nearly every inch of her, layered together until it's hard to tell where one design ends and the next begins.