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He shakes his head. “No, she never said anything. I mean, I can understand why she didn’t, but seeing them like this . . .”
“Did Juliet ask you about her?” I look around the dance floor to see if I can spot her.
“She did. I gave her an abbreviated version of our time with them. She asked if you had feelings for her, and I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me, but I told her that although you haven’t said anything, I thought you did. She decided to call it a night and catch a cab to head home early.”
I let out a deep sigh and rub my hand over my face. “I guess it’s better she knows.” I do love her, I’m just not in love with her. I hate that she’s going to get hurt in the end.
“She’ll be fine. You know she wants what’s best for you.” He pats me on the shoulder and a look of understanding passes between us. “Come on, let’s go down there and wait for them to get finished.”
We take the large staircase down and walk along the wall toward the front of the stage. I figure this is as good a spot as any to try and catch up with her as she leaves. She must have questions and I’m ready to answer them.
“All right, ladies and gentleman, we hope that you all have had a wonderful evening. This will be our last song of the night, and even though I can’t take credit for writing this song, I have always loved what it has meant to me. Life can change when you least expect it, and the person who inspired me to sing this one tonight has changed mine for the better. It’s called ‘That Place in Time.’”
She leans back and the strings cut into the silence with the opening bars. Avery’s eyes close as her fingers play the chords on the piano that I usually play on the guitar. She leans into the mic, begins to sing, and another piece of my heart breaks off and is now forever hers.
“Ash . . .” His voice trails off as we watch the girls. “This entire night is definitely going down in the books.”
I can’t take my eyes off her.
“That Place in Time” is off of the first Blue Horizons album. It’s over ten years old and is one of the first songs we ever sang as one of our own. She’ll never know what this moment means to me. Not to be too full of myself, but surely she knows of the singer Will Ashton—it feels like everyone does—but very few remember Blue Horizons. We were just a local mountain band that was discovered and reinvented. She has to have put two and two together . . . right?
My eyes prick with unshed tears as her voice and the melody bounce off of the concert hall walls and land straight in my very essence. I’m speechless. All I can do is stare. This amazing girl is on stage right now singing a song to me that I wrote, and in her own creative way. The combination of the piano, the strings, and her beautiful voice causes me to tremble. I am so moved. Never has anyone ever done something so personal and thoughtful to me, for me, or about me. The ache in my chest is so strong, all I can do is reach up and rub directly over my heart.
Watching her on stage, I don’t really know how to describe it, but she’s got thatthing. That thing that’s so unique and so rare that I can’t put my finger on it, let alone describe it. It’s in the way she moves, walks, talks, sings, and presents herself. It’s that thing that is so special, I’m not even sure if I’ve ever really even seen it before. Passion is pouring out of her hands and through her words, and it’s contagious. Watching her eyes light up doing something she loves causes that fire to light inside of me. I was already well on my way back to that place I once used to be, that place where the music just means more, but this reignites the desire and ambition I had lost.
She finishes the song and stands up to face the audience. The room erupts in applause and cheers, and I find myself clapping along with them. She is the complete package with qualities that make her so much more beautiful than I ever thought. Emma and Cora both go and stand on either side of her. All three of them are beaming and laughing. They hug each other, wave goodbye to the room full of people, and turn to leave the stage.
As if it were my show, post-performance adrenaline races through me, and suddenly my excitement turns to nervousness. My hands begin to sweat, and my heart begins to pound.
Is she going to want to see me, or will she walk right by?
THE CROWD IS cheering and applauding, and I honestly feel better than I have in a long time. Half way through the performance, my wrist began to ache, but there was no way I was stopping. I just told myself, “One more hour and I’ll wrap it up tighter.”
Emma and Cora come over and engulf me in a huge hug. Both knew I had been nervous about tonight—between my personal feelings about the event and the cause and how my arm would hold up—and I’m so glad everything went as smoothly as we had hoped.
Walking toward the edge for one final wave, I look up and see Ash and Clay standing by the wall near the stairs that lead up to the stage from the dance floor. Ash’s hand is over his heart on his chest, and his eyes look glassy. His lips are pressed together and there’s just the faintest hint of a smile. He looks proud of me and that makes my heart swell. I had been worried about his reaction to my career, but maybe it turns out I don’t need to be. After all, if there’s anyone out there who understands the pressures of being high-profile, it’s him.
I don’t see the girl anywhere, and feel nothing but relief. I don’t know who she is, but he can tell me later. The anger and hurt I first felt at seeing him with her has pretty much dissipated, and the more I think back over the last month, there is no way he could’ve been with her because he was with me, wasn’t he? Too many texts, too many kind words, and so much time he’s given me throughout each day. The minute Mr. Lang said his name, I instantly knew who he was, and vice versa. I feel kind of stupid for not recognizing him sooner, but sometimes when a person is removed from their setting, it’s hard to place how you know them. Although I feel a little lied to, reality is, I lied to him too. But did I? I am who I am, and that’s a girl who likes to be with her friends, feel carefree, bake cupcakes, vacation in the mountains, listen to and write great music, and sing. Most of these things he already knows. A name is just a name—it shouldn’t define me, and so shouldn’t it be the same for him?
A crowd begins to gather at the bottom of the stairs and anxiety ripples through me. We are supposed to walk down to a roped off area in front of the stage and for fifteen minutes stand and pose for pictures. Some of the guests this evening paid—or contributed to the organization—to have a photo with us. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary. I usually just stand between the girls and they keep people away. It’s understood through the industry that I have a “germ phobia,” so no touching or hugging. I lock eyes with Ash. His brows furrow as he sees something in my expression. He moves away from the wall and begins to walk toward me. Emma is in front of me, Cora behind, and Mona and Mr. Lang are at the bottom of the stairs . . . and so are all the people.
My chest tightens and I start counting. One, two, three, four, five . . . I know by the time I get to fifty I will be behind the ropes and away from all of these people. I can feel my fingers as they tap out onto my hip, and I focus on the feeling. Playing my part, I just smile. People are talking to me, but the noise in my ears is a buzz and it’s getting louder and louder.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . I’m so thankful Ash is so tall. Emma gently grabs my hand and keeps me steadily walking toward him—she must have seen them too—and I keep my eyes locked on his. There’s a carpet at the bottom of the stairs that leads to our designated place behind the ropes. He’s positioned himself next to the carpet, and with each step, I’m getting closer to him. He smiles and the pressure on my chest begins to open. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four . . .
Suddenly, without warning, someone slams into the back of me. Heat erupts along my spine, long fingers tightly wrap around both my upper arms, and they begin to push. Fear streaks through me, everything flashes white before it blacks out. I squeeze my eyes shut; I don’t want to see.
It’s happening.
Again.
There’s no more music, just the deep rumble of thunder and the pelting of rain from the storm outside. Losing my balance, I trip over the fabric of my dress and my weight drops. The warmth that shines down from the stage lights is immediately gone and is replaced by the coldness of the wood floor as my knees hit and I’m shoved face-first down on it. There’s no more Ash, no more benefit concert, no help, only darkness.
Hands. I feel them all over me, and as tears find their escape from my eyes and roll off my face, all I can think is . . . please make it fast.
In the movies, bad scenes always happen at night and during a thunderstorm. Loud, rolling booms and flashes of lightning light up the screen to intensify the terror of the moment. Glimpses of the victim and the attacker are shown to heighten the anxiety, and as we wait for the striking moment, our knuckles strain white as we squeeze the person next to us. Only for me, this isn’t a movie—it’s my reality.
My reality, minus the flashes of light. Yes, there is rain, and yes, there is thunder, but no light other than the muted faint glow coming from the windows in the living room. The hallway is dark. I can’t see him and I have no idea what’s going to happen next as he squeezes the back of my neck in a pincer grip. There’s no one here but him.
