2. Az
— ? —
Az
My birthday starts with a video call.
Seven in the morning, my phone buzzing on the nightstand, and I already know who it is before I look.
The same way I always know, that particular pattern of buzzes that means he’s trying to reach me, that means he remembered, that means whatever tiny scrap of his attention I’m going to get today is being delivered via screen.
I answer anyway. Because that’s what I do.
Eli’s face fills the frame, surrounded by chaos, people moving behind him, equipment being wheeled past, someone shouting about monitors in the background. Soundcheck. He’s at the venue already, of course he is, because the show is tonight and the show always comes first.
“Happy birthday, baby.” His voice is warm, sincere, and it twists an ache low under my ribs. “Tonight’s for you, I promise. Your seat’s waiting.”
“My seat,” I repeat.
“Row A, seat one. Same as always. I made sure they-”
A face leans into the frame. Blonde ponytail, bright smile, perfectly applied makeup at seven in the morning.
“Happy birthday, Az!” Brynn’s voice is cheerful, pitched loud over the background noise. “We’re so excited to see you tonight!”
We’re.
I want to ask who “we” is. I want to ask why she’s in the frame of my birthday call, why she’s standing close enough to him that her shoulder brushes his arm, why she’s acting like this is her day instead of mine.
But the call is already wrapping up, someone’s calling for him offstage, something about levels, something that matters more than this, and Eli’s pulling back with one last “I love you, see you tonight, it’s gonna be amazing. ”
The screen goes dark.
Thirty seconds. That’s what I got. Thirty seconds, half of which featured Brynn’s face.
Happy birthday to me.
I spend two hours getting ready. It won’t matter.
But I do it anyway. The black dress that hugs the tiny curve of my belly, barely visible, not yet obvious, but there. The heels that make my legs look longer. The makeup that takes thirty minutes because I keep messing up the eyeliner and having to start over.
Because maybe if I look good enough, he’ll look at me. Really look at me, the way he used to, back when I was the only person in the room who mattered.
I take a car to the venue because Eli offered to send one and I said yes, even though it felt like charity, because the alternative was paying for parking and I’m not feeling generous toward the universe today.
The driver is nice, doesn’t try to make conversation, doesn’t ask why I’m going to a concert alone, just drives.
The venue is huge. An arena with seats climbing into the rafters. There’s a VIP entrance around back, and that’s where the driver takes me, to a door guarded by a guy in a black polo who checks a list and waves me through.
And then I’m in the tunnel.
Concrete walls, harsh fluorescent lights, the distant thrum of bass as someone tests the sound system.
I’ve been in tunnels like this before, backstage, at shows, in the early days when it still felt like an adventure.
Now it just feels like a maze. A series of corridors that lead to places I’m not supposed to be.
“Mrs. Jackson.”
I turn. Dez is standing there, head of security, huge and gentle-faced, one of the few people on Eli’s team who actually looks me in the eye.
“Dez.” I manage a smile. “Didn’t expect a personal escort.”
“Mr. Jackson wanted to make sure you got to your seat okay.” He falls into step beside me, his presence solid and reassuring. “Happy birthday, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I glance at him sideways. “Did he tell everyone?”
“Just me. I think he wanted someone to… look out for you tonight.”
There’s a snag in his tone that makes me pause. A hesitation. Or worry.
“Is there something I should know?”
Dez doesn’t answer right away. He’s looking ahead, navigating the corridor, and his expression is carefully neutral. But when we reach the door that leads to the main floor, he stops.
“Your seat’s Row A, first seat on the left,” he says. “If you need anything, anything at all, one of my guys will be posted at the side entrance. Just wave.”
“Dez.” I put my hand on his arm. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He looks at me then, really looks, the way Eli doesn’t anymore, and I catch a flicker of pity in his eyes that makes my stomach sink.
“Just… enjoy the show, Mrs. Jackson.”
He holds the door open for me.
I walk through.
The seat is occupied.
I see it immediately, Row A, seat one, the one that’s supposed to be mine, the one that’s been mine for two and a half years of shows and tours and too many cities to count. There’s a piece of tape on the floor in front of it that says AZ in black marker, same as always.
Brynn is sitting in it.
She’s leaning back comfortably, her feet propped up on the barrier between the front row and the stage, scrolling through her phone like she belongs there. Like she’s been sitting in that seat for years. Like it’s hers.
I stand in the aisle for a long moment, staring.
She looks up. Her face arranges itself into an expression of pleasant surprise that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Az! You made it!” She doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand. Doesn’t do anything to acknowledge that she’s in my seat, the one with my name literally taped to the floor in front of it. “El wasn’t sure you’d come, you know, with everything going on, but I told him, of course she’ll come, it’s you.”
“Sit, sit.” Brynn pats the seat next to her, seat two, the one that doesn’t have tape, the one that doesn’t have my name. “We’ll squeeze in together, it’ll be fun. Like old times.”
“That’s my seat.”
The words come out quieter than I meant them to. Brynn tilts her head, confusion crossing her face like she genuinely doesn’t understand.
“What?”
“The seat you’re sitting in. That’s my seat. It has my name on it.”
“Oh, this?” She looks down at the tape like she’s only just noticing it. “Yeah, I think that’s been there for a while. From some other show or something? Anyway, El said I could sit here tonight since you might not-”
“El said.”
“Yeah, he-” Brynn’s expression shifts, goes careful and guarded. “I mean, I can move if it’s really a big deal. I just thought, with this leg wrapping up and everything, it would be nice to be close. For the last few shows.”
She’s still not moving. She’s sitting in my seat, on my birthday, at my husband’s concert, and she’s waiting for me to tell her it’s fine. To be the bigger person. To swallow this like I’ve swallowed everything else.
I pull out my phone.
The text takes me three tries to type because my hands are shaking so badly: Brynn is in my seat.
she needed a spot, ur late, it’s a chair ??
That’s it. That’s what I get. A black heart emoji and an excuse.
“Everything okay?” Brynn’s voice is carefully concerned.
I don’t look at her. I can’t. If I look at her right now, I’m going to say something I can’t take back, something that will make me the villain in this story, the jealous wife who can’t handle her husband’s work relationships.
Instead, I turn around and walk up the aisle. Two rows back. I find an empty seat in Row C, behind where I should be sitting, and I lower myself into it.
From here, I can see the back of Brynn’s head. The way she’s already turned back to her phone, unconcerned.
The lights go down.
I want it to be bad. I want him to be off his game, pitchy and distracted and clearly suffering for what he’s done.
But Eli has never been anything less than brilliant on stage.
It’s the one place where he comes fully alive, where all his awkwardness and social anxiety falls away and he becomes something almost terrifying in its intensity.
He plays for two hours. The hits, the deep cuts, the songs that made him famous and the ones that only the real fans know. The crowd loses their minds. They sing along to every word, phones raised like electronic candles, swaying in unison like a single organism.
And I sit two rows back, alone, watching my husband perform on my birthday, and I feel absolutely nothing.
He doesn’t play Doorstep.
This shouldn’t matter. It’s just a song, the first one he wrote for me, the one about that first morning on my doorstep, the one he used to close every show with. But somewhere along the way it dropped off the setlist, replaced by bigger singles and label picks and songs the algorithm preferred.
I didn’t even realize how much I’d been waiting for it until the set ends and it never comes.
And then Eli grabs the mic.
“I want to do something different tonight,” he says, and the crowd screams because the crowd always screams. “I wrote this one recently. It’s about… someone important. Someone who’s always been there. Who never left.”
He looks toward the front row. Toward Brynn.
The first chord rings out, and I don’t recognize it. New song. Something I’ve never heard.
“Bakersfield summer, dirt road driving,
You in the passenger seat, always arriving…”
It’s beautiful. Of course it’s beautiful. He’s always been beautiful, in his way, talented in that effortless manner that makes other people want to hate him. The melody is simple, almost nostalgic, and the lyrics paint a picture of someone who was there from the beginning. Someone who stayed.
“Every town we passed through, you knew the way back,
Home isn’t a place, it’s the sound of your laugh…”
I watch Brynn in my seat. Watch the way she brings her hand to her mouth, eyes glistening. Watch the way the people around her lean in, murmuring to each other.
The woman next to me elbows her friend. “Which one’s the wife again? I can never remember.”
Her friend cranes her neck toward the front row. “I think she’s the blonde? That’s cute that he wrote her a song.”
I don’t correct them. I don’t say anything. I just sit there, two rows back, watching my husband sing a love song to the seat where I should be, the seat he gave away.
“Bakersfield taught me how to come home,
You’re every road I’ve ever known…”