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"That's all you need to know?" I stood straight, my body suddenly full of action. "All right, then."
Brandon watched curiously as I brushed past him.
"Bathroom?" he asked when I didn't say where I was going. But now I could hear the slight fear in his voice––the fear that yet another person he cared about in his life wasn't coming back.
I turned and gazed down at his big blue eyes. "No," I said. "But I'll be right back."
My heart thumping loudly in my chest, I slung my purse over my shoulder and marched to the bar, fueled more on adrenaline than anything else. Conscious of Brandon's inquisitive stare drilling into me, I waved over the bassist, who was on a break in between sets.
"Five minutes at the mic and the keyboard," I said, handing him another fifty.
He just nodded, and stepped back to speak to the lead singer. He nodded as well, and gestured for me to come onstage.
Having performed occasionally with my dad for most of my life, I didn't get stage fright. But as I looked out at the crowd of faces, in the center of which stood the tall Adonis who had captured my heart so completely, the stakes had never been this high.
"It's all yours," said the keyboardist as we traded places. He raised a skeptical brow. "Hope you know what you're doing."
"Me too."
I leaned into the mic above the keyboard, sounding a loud blare, and winced with the rest of the crowded bar. Immediately, everyone stopped talking and looked right at me. Brandon's eyes were about twice their normal size as he watched, transfixed by whatever I was about to do.
Well, that was one way to get everyone's attention.
"Hi everyone," I spoke into the mic.
A few people raised their hands, but most of them were looking at me like I was nuts. Maybe I was.
"So, I won't take up much of your time before the band comes back," I said. "But I have something I need to say. See that guy right there?"
I pointed to Brandon, and about fifty heads turned and stared at him. He wasn't one to blush, but right now his face was a bright, ruddy red.
"I love him," I spoke clearly, willing my voice not to shake, even though I knew my face was already flaming red. "Who here's been in love? You know, the all-consuming, do-anything, give-them-your life kind of love?"
Several people raised their hands. There were a couple of shouts of approval in the back.
"Well, that's how I feel too," I said with a smile. In front of me, Brandon was stock-still, but his lips quirked slightly at the edges as I spoke. It sent an arrow of warmth into my chest, urging me on.
"But the thing is," I continued. "The thing is, I did some things recently that made him doubt it. And when you love someone, you have to let them know it. Don't you agree?"
A few whistles and claps spurred me on.
"So I'm going to play a song for him," I said as I sat down at the piano. I adjusted the mic lower and turned into it while I played. "You can sing along if you know the words."
I'd never been much of a Springsteen fan before I met Brandon. Sure, I knew the big hits––anyone in the Tristate area knew the big stuff from New Jersey's golden boy. But after I found out how much his music had changed Brandon's life, starting with a cassette tape from Susan when he was just twelve, I'd unconsciously started listening to him more, learning about him. It was funny how much his story actually overlapped with Brandon's and mine. He'd met his wife while he was trying to escape a bad marriage. They'd both worked in the same industry (she was his backup singer in the beginning). She was even red-haired too.
Although I knew Brandon preferred Springsteen's earlier stuff––especially The River, the album Susan had given him––I found myself drawn to his later stuff, the stuff he'd written for his wife. I'd even learned a few of the pieces myself, though I couldn't have told you why at the time.
Maybe somewhere in my soul, I knew it would come to this. Somewhere, I was always doing it for him.
My fingers pressed lightly across the keys, feeling my way through the opening chords of "If I Should Fall Behind," the ballad Springsteen had written for his wife in the early days of their marriage. It was a song about commitment, a song about redemption. A song that he wrote to show her that he understood what it meant to be there, thick and thin. To show her what love meant.
In the corner of my eye, I saw Brandon collapse into a seat in the middle of the room, then lean forward to listen. The chatter of the bar had started again, but quieted down when I lifted my face to the mic, closed my eyes, and started to sing.
I wasn't a natural singer; never had been. But in a way, the song fit that too––Springsteen wasn't known for his voice either. I crooned the simple lyrics that spoke of images of love, the kind that lasted, not because a couple magically stayed together, but because they worked to make up the distance that sometimes grew between them. I played the simple chord progressions that matched the melancholy message: that everyone screws up sometimes, everyone falls behind. But, as Springsteen wrote, if Brandon fell behind, I'd wait for him. And that if I did the same, he'd wait for me to catch up too.
Somewhere in the middle, I lost myself in the music in a way I'd never been able to do before. All I saw was Brandon, and Springsteen's poetry spoke to his handsome face so clearly. I poured my heart out, and by the time I was done, the entire bar was silent. Behind me, the band's musicians stood still with their instruments. People held their drinks like statues.
But I didn't see any of them. All I saw was Brandon, who still sat at his table, knees fallen open, hand loose across the table top, jaw dropped completely. Even from twenty feet away, I could see his eyes glistening with unshed tears, two glittering blue stars in the sea of bodies. It didn't matter that there were still probably a hundred people in the room. In this moment, there was only this, there was only us.
