Page 98 of Anything But Lonely

“You don’t sound too excited about that,” I prompt, wondering why she seems so reluctant to return back to her life before she started nannying for Crew.

She shrugs, but she doesn’t say anything until we stop at an intersection, waiting for our turn to cross. “I may not want kids of my own, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to miss that kid of yours.”

It takes everything I have to keep my features schooled. Details about Emerson for me are like drops of water to a man who has been walking the desert. I can’t get enough, savoring each one since I have no idea when I’ll get another.

“You don’t want kids?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant, like I’m just making conversation. I told her how I was one-and-done with Crew that night on the tour bus, and I had an inkling this was the case for her, especially after her reaction—her relief—to hearing I had a vasectomy, but there was no way for me to know for sure without her explicitly saying the words.

Emerson shakes her head as the cars in the road begin to slow to a stop and the small crowd around us starts inching towards the street. “Not in the cards for me,” she answers. “Pregnancy scares the shit out of me, and, honestly, I just don’t want to be a mother.”

She steps down from the curb, and I keep my steps in time with hers as we cross the intersection, letting her words land.

I’ve seen the way Emerson is with Crew. How instinctual, how thoughtful, how nurturing she is. And while she may be all of those things, it’s not my place to judge someone’s choice on whether or not they want to be a mother.

I’m just grateful she’s sharing this piece of herself with me.

And I want to tell her that.

“What comes next for you?” she offers. “I’m sure you’re dying to say goodbye to this rockstar way of living and become,” she pauses, holding her hand up to cup around her mouth, leaning in to whisper, “a regular person.”

A chuckle escapes my lips, even though I know she’s just trying to change the trajectory of the conversation because it’s gotten too close to something she doesn’t want to talk about.

I decide to let her, offering my own reluctance for returning to real-life instead. “I’m more scared than anything else.”

“How come?” she asks, our gazes still out in front of us as we walk down the snowy sidewalk.

I sigh, the feelings I’ve been holding onto for the last year begging to be unloaded, just so they stop feeling so heavy. “I don’t really know who I am without Cross My Heart.”

Emerson lets the words hang between us for a moment. “I’d argue you’re still Mateo Lane.”

“Thank you, Emerson. You know, that really helps.”

She bumps my shoulder again with hers, and my entire body warms at the contact.

“Seriously,” she says, “you’ll always have Cross My Heart. Just because you aren’t touring or making new music doesn’t mean that part of your life is over.”

“I think I’m okay with it being over,” I admit, having realized these last few months that our time together as a band is finding its natural end, and I have to be okay with that. “It’s more that I don’t know what comes next.”

“Well, what do you want to do next?”

I shake my head as we turn a corner, the coffee shop we started at this morning coming into view.

"I don't know. I'm almost forty, and Crew starts kindergarten this fall."

The words feel strange coming out of my mouth.

For so long, everything in my life revolved around tour schedules, recording sessions, and release dates. My calendar was planned months—sometimes years—in advance.

Now, the thing I look forward to most is walking my son to school.

A year ago, that thought would've terrified me.

Now it doesn't.

That's the problem.

Because I can picture it. I can picture being home. I can picture coaching Little League, helping with homework, and sleeping in my own bed more often than not. I can picture family dinners and school recitals and all the ordinary things I've spent years missing.

And I want those things.