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“Obviously. Lyndsey, I’ve known you since we were five. Do you think I’m going to let one bad week decimate twenty-plus years of friendship? No way.”
I gave Allison a bear hug, and Michael laughed.
“You know, Lyndsey, I’ve heard so much about you from everyone. It feels like I’m meeting a celebrity. Al and Priya haven’t stopped gushing about you all week. Although, I hear my brother did a number on you, and I’d like to apologize on his behalf.”
I wave my hand away, “It’s okay. I actually … uh, broke up with him,” I admit.
“Fuck, you’re smart and sensible? I almost wish you could be my sister-in-law!” Michael jokes.
“It’s great to meet you,” I say.
“You as well. I give you props for putting up with Vince’s neuroses on a personal and professional level. Working merch for him was almost as bad as growing up with him.”
Vince bursts through the door as if he’s been summoned, “Lyndsey, have you seen my guitar picks? I—"he stops and takes in the scene before him, his brother, niece, and ex-girlfriend gathered together in a huddle.
“What is this?” He immediately turns to Priya, “Did you orchestrate this little father-daughter reunion? Are you trying to be Oprah or some shit? Priya, you can’t be a talk show host! Remember what that cable network said back in 2004? You lack the journalistic chops!”
“Well, I wanted to meet my kid, and you weren’t being any help, you sly bastard! Come here!” Michael crosses the room, picks Vince up, and spins him around.
“What the fuck? Put me down! You’re going to give me vertigo five minutes before I go onstage, you shithead!” Micheal places him on the ground and immediately locks him in a headlock.
“Don’t touch the hair!” Vince yells as Michael ignores him.
I walk over to Vince’s bag and look into the front pocket, where, sure enough, his spare guitar picks remain. I grab a handful and give it to him.
“Thanks, Lynds,” he mumbles, caught off-guard by the sudden influx of family members and vertigo.
I can’t help it. My heart still clenches when he says my name. I want to talk to him, but I don’t know what to say.
Allison and I watched the band’s final show from the side stage.
Michael’s in the front row. He wanted to be by the barricade. After the first three songs, Vince steps up to the microphone. This is unexpected. He doesn’t usually do the talking during sets.
“So, um. Tonight’s a special one,” Vince begins, “It’s our last show of the tour!” The crowd whoops and Vince waits for them to quiet down.
“My brother’s here, along with my friend Allison, who is coincidentally my niece. Genetics are fucking wild. Um. I dunno what else I wanted to say. I guess, well, a lot of people I love verydearly are here tonight, and they love me though I’m an asshole sometimes, so I wanted to say thanks. Thank you to Priya, our inimitable frontwoman.” Vince pauses for the thunderous applause.
“Thank you to Apollo and Henry for always having my back since I was seventeen. And thank you to our tour manager, Lyndsey. Um, you all might have seen her running around the venue. She’s incredible. She’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, which doesn’t sound like much coming from me, but you have to trust me. This is her first tour with us, and it’s been amazing. I can’t wait to see what she does next. I realize that as a musician, one of the accidental perks of my job is that I get to be around people who are incredible at what they do, and Lyndsey is no exception. I love her a lot, y’know? I’m not much of a public declaration guy, but Priya’s on a therapy kick right now, and she told me it’s better to get it out in the open. So there you go, Lynds. I love you. This one’s for you.”
My heart doesn’t know whether it should crawl out of my throat or fall out of my butt. I’m in shock. Does Vince still love me after a month of bitter glances and awkward silence? He got pulled into my black hole of depression and thought, “This is cool?!”
Vince grins and winks at Priya, and they launch into a brand-new song with Vince on lead vocals, with lines about loving someone enough to watch them go. It’s obviously about me, and it’s working. I can’t fucking help myself.
The past month, I’ve been going over my and Vince’s relationship in my head over and over.
What if we make each other better? What if we push each other to grow?
All of my previous boyfriends hated it when I toured, but Vince wanted to be on the road with me. I think about what he said that night at his house, about how we want the same things.
I watch him onstage, commanding the crowd with the flick of his wrist like he’s a magician, and I hope he meant what he said.
After the show, I help Priya out of her Gogo boots one last time before handing Apollo the towel that’s tossed over my shoulder.
“Great show, everyone,” I say.
Michaels joined us backstage, “You’ve improved,” he says dubiously.
“Thanks, Pitchfork,” Vince mumbles. He searches aimlessly for his Nicorette, and I hand him the pack on the table.
