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At least one of us can relax right now, I think turning my gaze back to Waylon, envying his ability to not give a shit how obvious he is about his excitement to get home.
When he asked me earlier why I was so antsy— “My boyfriend’s waiting for me, what’s your excuse?” —I just shrugged and said I missed my bed.
Which is true…
It was his idea to head home tonight, rather than staying the night in New York like our label had budgeted out for us. Will and Ivy were supposed to come to this show, but her car was acting up again, and they didn’t want to risk breaking down on the highway. And with how close we were playing to home…like hell Waylon was going to wait until tomorrow to see his boyfriend. If we didn’t agree, he probably would’ve Ubered his crazy ass back to Shiloh.
Not that there was any chance in hell we weren’t going to agree. Shawn might not be dying of impatience, but out of the three of us, he’s definitely the most relieved to go home, for no other reason than tour has tapped him the fuck out. Big time.
“What the hell?” Waylon breathes, snapping me back to the present.
Pushing off the bench, I kneel on the cushion next to him and squint through the dark glass to see what snagged his attention.
“Oh, shit,” I say on a laugh when I see the bodies crowding the sidewalks leading up to O’Leary’s, the bar I half-own, and live above with these two guys and, since last summer, Will.
There’s a shuffle of movement behind me, telling me Shawn’s getting up too, his curiosity piqued.
The three of us stare out the tinted windows as the bus crawls down the middle of Main Street.
“It’s, like, the middle of the night,” Waylon says.
“It’s only midnight, Grandma,” I reply dryly, earning myself another flash of his middle finger.
Pretty sure that’s a new record.
“Can I skip the party and go to bed?” Shawn says dully from my other side.
I cut him a sideways look. “Dude. Be grateful.”
His face bunches like the mere idea offends him, and Waylon makes the sound effect of a whip snapping.
Shaking my head, I chew on my lip ring as I take in all the familiar faces waving at the bus. Some hold signs high up in the air. Hell, some have pom-poms like we’re a sports team returning from the playoffs.
It’s ridiculous, but fuck if it doesn’t bring a smile to my face and make my insides all mushy.
This. This is the Shiloh I love.
Because as awe-striking and humbling as it is to sing to crowds of people who know and love our songs…
There’s just something special about coming back to the people who know us—really fucking know us—who’ve seen us at our worst, and vice versa.
Small towns are not without their flaws—far from it. It’s full of nosy busy bodies, and bent laws, and assholes who carry around their so-called traditional values like a loaded gun.
But it’s home.
These people are home.
Not including the assholes, obviously.
And seeing their support for us—their pride…it just feels fucking good after everything we’ve been through.
The brakes squeal as the bus comes to a familiar jerking halt, right in front of the bar. Over the engine and through the thick glass windows, I can hear the muffled whoops and cheers rise up into the night.
They can’t see us, so I take one last opportunity to absorb it all, just like I did during the encore tonight.
Waylon’s already gone, making a mad dash for the doors before we’ve even fully stopped.
Meanwhile Shawn takes his time, throwing on his leather jacket and grabbing the black guitar case holding his precious acoustic inside, the one he refuses to store even when we’re not practicing or writing.
