Page 38 of Anything But Lonely

Thousands of people become one living thing—arms in the air, voices climbing over one another until I can't tell where the band ends and the crowd begins.

Eddie wrote this one for Mia, after she lost someone close to her.

And I sing it for everyone who's ever lost someone they couldn't stop reaching for.

Halfway through the second verse, my eyes find her.

I don't mean for them to.

Emerson’s still tucked off to the side of the stage where the crew stands. She’s holding Crew in her arms, his head resting on her shoulder.

She isn't singing.

She isn't moving.

She's just... listening.

Watching me like she's afraid that if she looks away, she'll miss whatever she's been waiting to hear.

I force myself to look back out at the crowd.

All of these people—and they know every damn word.

They scream the chorus so loudly I barely have to sing it, so I hold the mic out towards the crowd, letting their voices swallow mine until the whole venue sounds less like a concert and more like a confession.

Every night I tell myself these songs belong to them now.

Tonight, I catch myself wondering if they belong to Emerson, too.

The bridge strips everything away. The guitars disappear. The drums fall silent.

It's just me.

Just my voice.

The same way it was this afternoon.

Except now, instead of empty seats, there's a whole venue holding its breath.

I close my eyes on the last line because if I don't, I think I might look for her again.

CHAPTER 15

EMERSON

I thought Crew would be wired after the concert—especially when he made that puppy-dog face when I told him we had to go.

I didn’t really want to leave either.

That’s why we stayed one song past what we were supposed to.

I’ve seen Cross My Heart in concert before, but I’ve never been backstage, seeing how it all goes down. There’s something so special about it—watching them from an angle I’ve never gotten to see. Without the roar of the crowd surrounding me, swallowing everything whole, I caught the quiet moments between songs—the nods, the grins, the effortless way the band moves together after years of doing this.

And of course, stupid Mateo Lane.

It really should be studied how the man can go from fumbling with a microphone stand to literal sex on stage—sweat dampening the hair curling at the nape of his neck, his forearms flexing as he grips the microphone stand, the stage lights carving sharp lines across his jaw.

He sang like the music lived somewhere beneath his skin, every lyric pulling another roar from the crowd without him having to ask for it.