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“Yeah?” I called, looking in the full-length mirror and running my hands through my hair.
“You decent?” Simon asked, poking his head in.
“I have nothin' you haven't seen before,” I answered, glancing in his direction before turning my attention back to my reflection.
“Yeah, but that was back when you were useless,” he teased, coming in and laying a hand on my shoulder.
“Feels like yesterday,” I said, only half-joking, as my eyes met his in the mirror.
The cheerful glint in his eye dulled with a surge of bittersweetness. He nodded slowly as his lips curled into a melancholy half-smile, and he asked, “You okay?”
“You know, Si,” I said, turning to grab my phone from the dressing table beside the mirror, “today's been kinda shitty, and I didn't think I'd be good for tonight, but”—I tucked the phone in my pocket as I turned to face him—”I'm okay.”
He nodded, a serious expression on his face, where there was usually one of mirth. “Really?” he asked, a little doubtful—and who could blame him?
But I wasn't hiding anything, the way I used to. I wasn't covering up the pain, sadness, or anger with an exterior of stone or a false sense of humor.
“Really,” I answered, feeling lighter than I had in years. “I'm okay.”
***
It was surreal to walk out onto that stage with one less leg than I'd had that last time. But our crowd at home loved us more than any other, and they answered with a cheer that brought tears to my eyes as I went to the mic, moving slowly to take it all in.
Those people.
This place.
The memories they were tied to from five years ago.
The memories I was replacing them with in this moment.
It all mattered. It was all a part of them and me.
“Hello, Long Island,” I said into the mic, pulling in the same air they breathed. “Long time no see.”
They responded with a roar of applause and screams that could probably be heard for miles around.
“We've missed you,” I said, lifting a corner of my mouth in a smile that didn't quite reach my heart. BecauseI miss youdidn't even begin to cover it, but there wasn't enough time to express how desperate I'd been for this, how much I'd longed for their ears and love.
Instead, I swung my guitar around and jammed our way into “Miss You Lately,” which led into another song, then another.
We played better than we had all tour. We rocked out like we'd never been gone, and just as I'd once felt our band floundering belly-up and on its last legs, I felt the life pumping back in. Electric and pulsing with every applause and cheer. We were back—I knew it like I knew myself—and I couldn't wait to see where this second life took us.
But Lennon…
The whole night, I looked for her in the front row, and every time my eyes passed the spot I remembered her standing in, I expected to see her. Smiling toward me and reveling in the greatness that was this show. But she was never there, and every time, I felt my heart drop further toward a hell without her in my life.
It was my own fault for getting my hopes up, I guessed. She had never promised she'd show up, even after I had the tickets and backstage passes sent to her house.
“I need to see if I can get someone to go with me,” she had said.
“I can send a car,” I'd offered, but I knew what she'd say.
“No, don't do that,” she'd replied, proving me right. “I'll talk to my parents and Connor. Maybe one of them can give me a ride. Okay? I'll let you know.”
That was the last I had heard about it though, and I never brought it up again. It was for the better to leave it as a surprise, one way or the other, I had thought. But now, feeling that fathomless void expand and pulse and bleed with every glance toward the front row, I wished I'd had time to prepare my heart for the inevitable.
“Your lady friend isn't here,” Dave commented during our three minutes backstage before the encore. His eyes held an apology I didn't want. “That sucks, man.”
