Page 111 of Love Felt Like This

I say goodbye again, and just before I walk away, Beverly squeezes my fist.

Once I’m backstage and clutching the neck of my guitar in the wings, I find I’m gripping it to the beat of her hand squeeze. I think of Beverly. I think of her smile. I imagine her laugh.

I walk onto the dark stage toward the glow-in-the-dark tape indicating my mark. Generally, I’m with the guys, but they wanted an acoustic version of the movie’s nominated song. I settle onto the lone stool with my guitar and mic while my name is announced. And when the bright lights come up, I immediately search the crowd for her.

In the middle of the room, Beverly sits. She’s giving me the biggest thumbs-up. My bandmates follow suit. And as my fingers strum the first chord, I feel that weightlessness in my chest. A type of mysticism that comes with creation and performance. A magic that comes with being noticed by Beverly Lark.

In that moment, despite playing something different, my mind starts imagining other lyrics instead.

New lyrics.

Lyrics about a beautiful green-eyed woman with a soft smile and a softer heart.

I’m gonna write this damn album.

I’m gonna win every award, even Best Rock Performance, right under Beau’s pompous nose.

And I’m gonna thank Beverly for it all.

I’m gonna praise her for the entire minute they allow for speeches, and I’ll continue singing about her virtues even when the music tries to cut my speech.

I’m gonna prove to Beverly that she’s worth every moment of my time and that Beau never deserved a single second of hers.

Chapter Twenty

I Know What I Like

Beverly

Everyone is trying to grab Griffin while he’s in town: publications asking for exclusive interviews, musicians requesting he record a guest track on their next album, and conversations that go nowhere but leave the person with a grin on their face because they just talked to the Griffin Harvey.

I understand now.

I’d never seen Griffin perform on a stage before, but that—that—was something I didn’t expect. The confident croon of his voice, the sensual strum of the guitar, the way he closed his eyes—either for fear of the crowd or the stage ledge, I’m not sure. But it seemed like a religious experience. I sure felt blessed, anyway. Amen.

Griffin doesn’t win the award for Best Song Written for Visual Media. But he just smiled and said there were better movie songs anyway. Beau would have had a meltdown, and the fact that Griffin didn’t had me hugging him for probably longer than I should have. Once the awards wrap up, we bypass any further interviews by sneaking out some back door through the kitchens and into our blacked-out limo.

Inside, I finally meet Jimmy, a man with slicked-back hair and all the scoffs and eye rolls of a man raised in a big Italian family in Boston. He replies with a lot of “Yeah yeah yeahs” when all the guys give him conflicting, over-the-top stories of why they avoided interviews.

“Jim,” Poe croons, “would we lie to you?”

He throws his hands in the air. “You are lying to me right now!”

The limo erupts in laughter—including a beaming Griffin—as we cruise down the road to a destination I do not question.

He seems comfortable with his bandmates. It’s obvious in the way he’s quicker to show that half smile and how he glances over at me with it still plastered on his face, as if gauging whether I’m having fun too. He watches me take off the diamond choker necklace and tuck it into the box like Greta instructed me to, still smiling, like he’s blissfully drinking in the night. It’s full of boisterous laughter over nothing. Insults as a love language. Ragging on poor old Jimmy.

When Poe cracks open a bottle of champagne just for the heck of it (“Poe, we didn’t even win anything!”), he pours a flute for me, Royce, and himself. Adding in the drinks from tonight, I don’t know how many alcoholic beverages Poe has had. But Griffin and Dom stick to their water, and I take the offered plastic flute, tap it to Poe’s, and throw it back.

Three flutes later, our limo pulls up outside a building with sleek spray-painted black brick. There are no signs or entryways, so for a second I assume we’re lost. But when Jimmy opens the building’s side door for us, I’m showered in bright-purple lights and strobed blues. Neon signs descend from the ceiling. Every inch of floor is crowded with people.

All at once, it hits me what place this reminds me of.

It looks exactly like the club where I found Beau cheating.

Somewhere, a confetti cannon blows. I jump, stumbling back into a hard chest. Griffin’s palms clutch the silk of my gown, holding me upright. My brain is already bubbling from the booze. He strokes my back, as if calming a spooked horse.

We ascend an iron staircase to an upper floor overlooking the bar, and a crowd of people mingling at high tops. My stomach drops at the recognizable faces—not anyone I know personally, but faces adorning movies, streaming platforms, and online viral videos. Everyone looks like they’re in the most interesting conversation in the room, but I don’t know how they’re hearing each other. The music is so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts.