Chapter 37 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
Sarah and Jake took me out to dinner that night because they knew Logan was playing at the Superdome and didn’t want me sitting at home alone, spiraling.
When I arrived, they were already at the table, looking all lovey-dovey.
I felt happy for them. If I couldn’t be in love, at least my closest friend and my brother were.
Sarah gave me a big hug when I reached the table. With a gentle smile, she set a glass of red wine in front of me.
“We’re here for you,” she said, her voice warm and steady as she squeezed my shoulder.
Jake gave me a nod from across the table. “No pressure to talk about anything. But… you know. We’re here.”
“For emotional support,” Sarah added, “and also pasta. Mostly pasta, if I’m being honest.”
I smiled weakly and curled my fingers around the wineglass stem, more to keep my hands occupied than because I wanted a drink. I didn’t want to talk about him, but I couldn’t stop myself. I sighed, already tired from holding it all in. “So…” I glanced between them. “I saw him today.”
Sarah’s head snapped up. “Logan?”
Jake immediately leaned in. “How did that happen?”
“He came to my office,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.
Sarah blinked. “He what?”
Jake frowned. “Like… unannounced?”
I nodded. “Yup. Just showed up.”
“And?” Sarah prompted, narrowing her eyes.
“He asked me to get back together,” I said.
That shut them up. Jake froze mid-sip. Sarah’s jaw dropped. They stared at me for a long beat.
“What did you say?” they finally asked in unison.
“I said no.”
Jake exhaled and gave a firm nod. “Smart.”
“Very smart,” Sarah agreed. “Good boundaries. That’s healthy.”
Jake gestured with his beer. “You’ve been doing so well. No need to go backward.”
“Exactly,” Sarah said. “I mean, yeah, he’s a rock star, but you’re... you.”
“I know,” I said, forcing a smile. “I thought it was the right call.”
But even as I said it, something in my chest twisted. That hollow, echoey feeling that comes when you try to convince yourself of something that you don’t quite believe.
Jake leaned back, satisfied. “Well, good. I’m proud of you.”
“Me too,” Sarah said. “Seriously. That couldn’t have been easy.”
I looked at my two best friends, saying precisely what I thought I needed to hear. I should’ve felt better, but I didn’t.
I looked down at the wine glass in my hand. “He said something, though.”
Sarah tilted her head. “Like… something something?”
I hesitated. “He said he’s played to sold-out arenas. Thousands of people screaming his name. But none of it ever mattered the way I did.”
Their expressions wobbled.
Jake blinked. “Okay. That’s poetic.”
“Mhmm,” Sarah said, eyes narrowing. “Go on.”
I took a breath. “He said he’s written love songs his whole life. Made a career out of pretending he knew what love felt like.” I paused.
Jake waited. Then couldn’t wait any longer. “…And?”
I looked up. “But I’m the one who made the love songs true.”
There was silence.
Sarah slowly set her fork down. “Wait. Logan said that about you?”
I nodded.
Jake sat back, as if reprocessing the entire conversation. “That’s not nothing. That’s album dedication material.”
“And I said no.” The words felt heavier now. “I said no, and I just stood there and watched him leave.” It sounded noble earlier. Now it just sounded empty.
Sarah was still staring at me, but now she looked like she was trying to see if I was joking.
Jake blinked slowly. “I mean… in context, that’s a compelling monologue.”
Sarah murmured, “Like, if someone said that to me, I’d like it.”
I set down my wine. My heart was doing that tight, twisty thing again. “I made the wrong call, didn’t I?”
Jake opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. “Yes. Yes, you did.”
Sarah didn’t hesitate. “One hundred percent.”
I’d thought I’d stopped running when I left New York and came back to New Orleans. But the truth was, I’d only changed my zip code, not my patterns. I was still holding onto the biggest fear of all: fear of giving up my heart.
Well, no more. I wasn’t about to let fear cost me the rest of the story. I sat up slowly. “I need to go get him, right?”
They both spoke at once: “Of course.”
I shot to my feet. “I need to get to the Superdome.”
Sarah was already pulling out her phone. “I’m calling you a cab.”
Jake shoved the breadbasket toward me. “You’re going to need carbs for this mission.”
I grabbed a piece of bread as if it were battle gear. “This is insane.”
Sarah smiled. “It’s romance. Of course it’s insane.”
Five minutes later, I was in the back seat of the cab. The driver—an older man in a Saints shirt and cap—turned down the jazz station just enough to glance at me through the rearview mirror.
“You alright, darlin’?”
“I need to get to the Superdome as quickly as possible,” I said, already bouncing my leg like we were in the final round of a game show and the clock was running out. “Can you go any faster?” I asked, barely containing my desperation.
He chuckled, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “Relax, darlin’. This is New Orleans. You gotta enjoy the ride.”
“I don’t want to enjoy the ride!” I nearly shouted. “I want to get to the Superdome.”
“Now, now, don’t be in such a rush,” he said, turning away from the fastest route. “Have you ever taken the scenic way? Shows the city’s soul.”
“I live here,” I snapped, gripping the seatbelt like a lifeline. “And I need to get there now.”
“Oh, you’re one of those locals,” he teased, still driving like we were on a lazy Sunday drive.
I exhaled sharply. “I swear, I will give you a massive tip if you just drive like a maniac for the next five minutes.”
He seemed to consider it. Then he nodded and finally hit the gas.
And drove me straight into the path of a second-line parade.
I practically screamed. “Are you KIDDING me?”
The driver grinned. “Ain’t it beautiful?”
“No!” I slunk into my seat, fuming. Why had I been so blind? Why did I say no to Logan this morning? Now, I was going to miss him. I was going to miss him, and then what would I do?
He’d get on his tour bus. Or his tour plane. Or write a song called ‘The One That Said No.’
And I’d have to hear it in Walgreens for the rest of my life.
Nope. Not happening.
I was not going to be the girl who let the love of her life walk away. I threw the driver some money, jumped out of the cab, and hit the sidewalk running.
It was chaos. The street was a riot of brass instruments, parasols, sequins, and joy. The parade blocked the intersection, as if the universe had decided this was the moment to test my emotional endurance.
“Holy cannoli,” I muttered, nearly tripping over a trumpet player in a gold suit, “if I miss him because of a parade—”
But it was too late. The music was too loud, the street too packed, and the dancers too committed to not letting me pass.
A woman looped a feather boa around my neck. “DANCE YOUR WAY THROUGH, BABY!” she yelled, thrusting a tambourine into my hands.
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or turn back time and not say no to the man who wrote songs about me. What kind of idiot says no to that? Who does that?
Oh right. Me. I did that.
I was going to miss him. I was going to miss him, and I’d never get to say I was wrong. Never get to see the look on his face when I said yes.
I had to get to him.
So I did the only thing I could do.
I twirled.
Through the chaos, through the brass section, past two toddlers with maracas and a man wearing nothing but beads and a tutu, I tambourined my way across the street like a deranged Mardi Gras fairy with a broken heart and questionable decision-making skills.
Finally—breathless, glitter-streaked, and on the verge of tears—I emerged from the other side of the parade like I’d just been spit out by a sparkly hurricane.
This city was going to kill me.
But hopefully not before I found Logan.
By the time I reached the Superdome, I was breathless.
I sprinted up to the front doors, lungs burning, hair sticking to my forehead, and chest heaving.
The thump of bass pulsed through the walls as I skidded to a stop outside the Superdome, breathless and covered in parade glitter.
I could hear the crowd roaring inside. The show was already more than halfway over.
I sprinted to the nearest entrance, straight into a very unimpressed security guard.
“Whoa there, ma’am,” he said, holding out a hand. “I need to see your ticket. Do you have one?”
I hesitated. “Okay, technically… no.”
He didn’t blink. “Then technically… you’re not getting in.”
I groaned. “I need to see Logan Richards.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you and half of New Orleans. This show is sold out.”
“No, I’m not here for the concert. I don’t need a seat. I just need to talk to him. Like, immediately.”
He crossed his arms. “And why would that be?”
I took a breath, straightened my spine, and tried to channel the tiniest sliver of dignity I had left. “To stop him from leaving the city before I can tell him that I’m in love with him.”
He squinted. “You know how many women try that line on me?”
That was it. That was the moment I felt my hope start to crack.
I stood there, heart racing, glitter clinging to my hair, and realized how stupid I was. Of course, the guard wasn’t going to let me in. Of course, I’d shown up too late. The show was more than halfway over, and soon Logan would be halfway back to his hotel suite or tour bus or someone else.
I turned away from the entrance, my chest tight and my throat burning. Maybe I deserved this. Maybe that’s what happens when you say no to someone who says you make love songs true.
I wandered around the corner of the building, away from the crowds and the noise, toward the quiet loading area behind the Dome. I didn’t even know where I was going, but I just knew I couldn’t stand at that gate one second longer.
Just then, I spotted a familiar face near the backstage entrance.
“Mick!” I yelled, waving both arms like a stranded tourist flagging down a rescue boat.
He turned, took one look at me, with the boa and Mardi Gras beads, and sighed like he’d just aged a decade. “You look like Mardi Gras exploded and then filed a restraining order.”
I was too flustered to feel embarrassed. “I need to see Logan.”
Mick muttered something under his breath, possibly a prayer, then fished a press pass out of his jacket. “This belonged to someone named Rachel. She was too emotionally stable to be here tonight.”
“I love Rachel. Thank her for me.”
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said, handing it over.
“You won’t,” I promised, throwing the pass around my neck and falling into step beside him.
As we slipped through a side corridor, the roar of the crowd rolled over me: loud, electric, and thrumming with adrenaline.
Mick slowed, turning to face me. “Hey.”
I blinked. “Yeah?”
He reached out and tugged a feather out of my hair. “Go get our guy.”
I smiled, nerves bubbling up again. But then he surprised me and pulled me into a quick, gruff hug before pulling back and squeezing my shoulder. “It’s good to see you, kid.”
I leaned up on impulse and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Mick.”
He waved me off like it was no big deal, but I saw the way his jaw tightened, just slightly. As he turned to head toward the crew area, he called out over his shoulder: “Don’t screw it up.”
I didn’t plan to. Not this time.
I was tucked into a makeshift press section just off the side of the stage, close enough to feel the bass in my chest but far enough that no one would notice me hiding behind a row of folding chairs. I crouched low, scanning the massive stage through a blur of lights and nerves.
And there he was. Lit up in golden light, a guitar slung low on his hip, his voice echoing through the Superdome.
He looked beautiful. And heartbroken. And mine, if I wasn’t too late.
“This next song is very special to me,” he said into the mic, and the crowd quieted. “And this is the last time I’m going to sing it.”
A few murmurs rose.
He continued. “Some songs just aren’t meant for crowds, and this one hits a little too close to home. But tonight, I’ll give it one last go.”
And then came the first chord.
My song.
I knew it instantly. The opening note hit like muscle memory straight to the heart. My stomach flipped. My throat closed. I panicked. I had to do something.
Eyes scanning the arena like a lunatic on a mission, I spotted the tech booth.
It was positioned about a hundred feet from the stage, just behind the sound pit and elevated on a platform so the crew had a clear line of sight.
From up there, they could see everything: the lights, the screens, the band.
I took off toward it, weaving my way through the people packed into the floor section.
When I got there, a crew member glanced up from a monitor. “Hey! What are you doing?”
“I’m fixing the flux capacitor,” I said with full, fake authority, walking as if I had somewhere to be and that my badge permitted me to be there.
“The what?” He squinted. “Do you even work here?”
I approached the nearest panel of buttons and knobs as if NASA had trained me. “Yup. It’s an emergency… uh… camera patch override. I’ve got this. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”
I had no plan. And little idea what most of the buttons did.
Before the crew member could figure out that I didn’t belong there, I slammed my hand down on a red button.
There was a pause.
Then I heard someone gasp, somewhere out in the crowd.
I turned.
And saw my face.
My actual face.
Plastered across the Jumbotron.