2. Az #2
When he finishes, the crowd erupts. Standing ovation. People are crying. And in the front row, Brynn is wiping her eyes, looking up at him with an expression I’ve seen in mirrors, the look of someone who loves him and can’t help it.
Eli nods, just slightly, just enough, in her direction. Maybe it’s meant for the whole front row.
It doesn’t look like that from here.
The encore is three songs.
Between the second and third, Eli grabs the mic, still breathing hard, sweat dripping down his temples. “This last one,” he says, and the crowd screams. “This one’s for my girl.”
In the front row, Brynn waves.
I watch the people around her turn toward her, phones raised, capturing the moment. Watch her laugh and duck her head like she’s embarrassed by the attention. Watch my husband grin at the seat that has my name taped to the floor in front of it.
The third song starts.
I don’t stay for it.
The side exit is exactly where Dez said it would be. I push through the door into the concrete tunnel behind the stage, the roar of the crowd muffled now, replaced by the industrial hum of generators and the distant shouts of crew members. The show won’t end for another four minutes. Maybe five.
I find a folding chair outside the greenroom and sit down.
The wall is cold against my back. My feet hurt from the heels I wore to look good for him. I wait.
The crowd roars one final time. Then silence, then the controlled chaos of a show ending: footsteps, radio chatter, someone yelling about the pyro rig.
I hear him before I see him, his voice carrying down the corridor, laughing at something, riding the high of two hours of being adored by strangers.
He rounds the corner with his whole entourage. Techs, assistants, Abbie with her tablet, someone I don’t recognize carrying a towel. He’s grinning, still electric with it, and then he sees me and the grin flickers.
“Az!” He pushes through the crowd toward me. “You came, I knew you’d-”
“We need to talk.”
The words come out flat. Calm. I’ve had four minutes to find the calm, and I’m holding onto it with both hands.
His smile falters. “Baby, what’s-”
“Alone.”
He looks at the people behind him, the curious faces, the carefully neutral expressions, and nods. “Give us a minute.”
They file into the greenroom without us. The door clicks shut.
The corridor is suddenly very quiet.
“What’s wrong?” Eli reaches for me, and I step back. His hand falls. “Az, talk to me.”
“You gave my seat away.” My voice doesn’t waver. I’m proud of that. “On my birthday. You gave my seat to Brynn, and when I texted you about it, you sent me a black heart emoji and told me it was just a chair.”
“It was just-”
“And then you wrote a song about her.”
He goes still. “What?”
“Bakersfield. The new one. The one about someone who was always there, who never left.” I can hear my own heartbeat, steady and slow. “That’s Brynn. Everyone in that audience knows that’s Brynn.”
“It’s about home, Az. Jesus.” He runs both hands through his hair, frustration bleeding through. “It’s about where I came from, about the road, about… she’s from Bakersfield, okay? We grew up in the same town. That doesn’t mean-”
“You didn’t play Doorstep.”
He blinks. “What?”
“The song you wrote for me. Our song. You haven’t played it in months, but tonight, on my birthday, you had time for a brand new song about your childhood friend and the passenger seat of your car.”
“The label wanted… that song doesn’t test well anymore, the streaming numbers-”
“I don’t care about the streaming numbers.”
“Az.” He says my name like I’m being unreasonable. Like I’m the problem. “You’re making this into something it isn’t. Brynn needed a seat, you were late, I made a call. I’m sorry if that hurt your feelings, but I can’t… I can’t manage everyone’s emotions in the middle of a show.”
“It’s not about the chair.”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s about my place.” The words crack, just slightly, and I hate myself for it. “In your life. In this marriage. It’s about you giving away the one spot that was supposed to be mine and then writing love songs to the woman sitting in it.”
“It wasn’t a love song-”
“Then what was it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw tight, looking at me like I’m speaking a language he doesn’t understand.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” I say. “Tell me I’m being crazy and jealous and unfair. Tell me something that makes this make sense, Eli. Give me something.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is tired.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
I wait. Give him space to fill the silence with anything, an apology, an explanation, even anger would be better than this. But he just stands there, hands in his pockets, waiting for me to be done being upset so we can move on.
“Happy birthday to me,” I say.
I turn and walk back down the corridor, toward the exit, toward the car that’s still waiting because I texted the driver during the encore. My heels echo on the concrete. He doesn’t follow.
***
The house is dark when I get home.
I don’t turn on the lights. Just stand in the kitchen, still in my black dress, still in my heels that hurt, and look at the cake on the counter.
The one I bought for myself this morning because I knew, I knew, there wouldn’t be one waiting.
White frosting, no candles, “Happy Birthday” written in pink cursive by someone at the grocery store bakery who doesn’t know me.
There’s a fork in the drawer.
I don’t bother with a plate. Just stand at the sink in the dark, eating birthday cake directly from the box, while mascara I spent thirty minutes applying tracks down my cheeks.
The frosting is too sweet. I eat it anyway.