Page 209 of Love Felt Like This

Poe grins. “Don’t worry, I’m already making a list of places for us to visit.”

“Let him vacation alone,” Royce adds, slapping Poe over the head. “Christ, man.”

I stand and pace to the corner of the table where my open guitar case sits. Inside are the set list and ripped pieces of paper from notebooks—ideas and lyrics and a few tic-tac-toe games from the tour. In the corner are Ava’s red car and the Birds on the Block sticker from set. I close the guitar case and snap the lock shut.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Maybe a vacation would be good.”

Dom side-eyes the case but doesn’t comment. I’m happy he doesn’t.

I’ll need time to relax while I can. I won’t have time to think once I’m back on the interview circuit.

The stage lights finally dim. The crowd explodes into cheers and variations of whooping as we’re handed our in-ear monitors. Poe, Royce, and Dom make their way out first to take their places at their instruments. The excitement is almost deafening, but the moment I tuck both my earpieces in, the sound calms to a muffle. I pull in a breath and let it out.

A hand presses against my shoulder as a stage manager conducts me onto the stage. Slowly, I make my way across to the piano. There are distant shouts. It’s just white noise, but I can feel the anticipation coursing through the crowd.

I slide onto the wooden piano bench and poise my fingers over the keys. When I press down a single key, muffled cheers erupt once more. A dull hum of excitement beyond my earpiece.

It doesn’t remotely compare to sitting at a piano in Elk Grove. Not even five thousand people can compare to the feeling of my thigh brushing against Beverly’s. Nothing can compare to Beverly’s beaming smile. Nothing sounds better than the off-key notes she sang in our terrible duet.

I lean toward the mic propped up on the piano.

Hello, Los Angeles.

But the words are lost on my lips.

Hola, Madrid.

Ciao, Milan.

Bonjour, Paris.

Over and over and over. It’s the same greeting every time.

Hello, city.

My body isn’t in it this time. My soul is still with her, back on that set yesterday. Maybe it always will be. So I murmur into the mic in a voice that feels distant to even me.

“This one’s for her,” I announce.

I look out past the stage lights, refocusing on the blurry mess of bodies and pinpricks of lights from cameras or flashlights shining back at me. But suddenly they all start to move aside, as if someone were tracing an unsteady line down the middle of the crowd. Each side splits like schools of fish, parting like the Red Sea for one single person. That person makes their way toward the stage.

My heartbeat shoots up my throat. My fingers now won’t land on the keys.

Among five thousand people, I see her.

I’d recognize that green-eyed woman anywhere.

Chapter Forty-Four

The Heart of Griffin Harvey

Beverly

“The VIP session ended two hours ago.”

“You’re kidding.”

The man, dressed in all black, with some sort of official who cares what it means badge, throws a thumb to the stage, where stagehands rush to set up instruments.