Page 66 of Anything But Lonely

“Full?” I ask Crew as he leans back in the booth.

The two of us are tucked in the back of a local burger joint. It’s decked out like the 50’s with red vinyl booths, checkered floors, and old movie posters lining the walls. There are neon signs glowing above the counter with framed pictures of classic cars and enough color to have your eyes sore if you look at it all too long.

“Full,” Crew echoes, leaning back into the booth and pressing both hands to his tummy.

I reach over to his plate, grabbing a few of the curly fries he left before washing them down with the last sips of my soda.

Our waitress comes over to clear our plates. “Any room for dessert?” she asks, looking between Crew and me.

“I think we’re good,” I say at the same time Crew lets out an excited, “Yes!”

I look at my son. “You just said you were full,” I say with a laugh.

“Ems says you have to finish every meal with something sweet.” Crew smiles wide at the first mention of Emerson since we left the house earlier this afternoon. “Can I get a chocolate milkshake, please? With whipped cream? And sprinkles?” He asks the waitress, his eyes wide and eager.

The waitress looks to me with a smile, and I let out an exhale. “Make that two, please,” I tell her.

“Pinky promises and dessert? What else has Ems taught you?” I ask Crew once the waitress heads back to put our milkshake order in.

Crew tilts his head, looking up at the ceiling as he taps his chin. “She told me that Cross My Heart is the greatest rock band ever,” he offers.

My brows shoot to my forehead. “She did?”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it.

I don't know why that surprises me so much. Maybe because Emerson has spent most of our time together acting like my music is just another thing she tolerates. Like the screaming crowds and sold-out arenas and songs that have become a part of people's lives don't mean anything to her.

But now that I think about it, maybe I should've known.

She always insisted on tagging along to soundcheck, and I convinced myself it was because Crew liked watching us play. Because he loved seeing the stage before the crowds filled it, loved standing beside the speakers while we ran through songs.

I noticed the way she’d sing along backstage during concerts, too. The way she'd smile when she thought no one was watching. But I wrote it off as her having fun. As her getting caught up in the moment.

And then I saw that goddamn Cross My Heart shirt she was sleeping in.

But I think part of me was still denying that she could be a fan.

I could never let myself even consider that maybe she actually liked it.

Liked us.

Liked me.

I would've never known, with absolute certainty, if Crew hadn't told me.

And for some reason, that small piece of information feels like a gift.

“Can we go see Ems now?” Crew asks after the last sip of his milkshake.

“Buddy,” I say carefully, and Crew’s eagerness fizzles out almost immediately.

“You pinky promised,” he mumbles, that bottom lip jutting out again.

“I never said we would go and see her. I promised we could see what she’s up to,” I explain, but four-year-olds are never big sticklers for semantics.

Crew is buzzing as we make our way out to the car, trying to jump and reach for the phone in my hand.

I open the door to the backseat, helping him into his car seat. “Can I talk to her?” Crew asks as I make sure he’s buckled in.