Epilogue
ONE MONTH LATER
LOU
“ Y ou getting tired, Queenie? You’re stumbling around out there like you stayed up too late makin’ out with your boyfriend,” Patty says in my ear as I do a quick wardrobe change at side-stage.
“Wishful thinking,” I tell him. “I stayed up too late trying to convince my boyfriend to make out while he was too busy watching Sean’s game.”
“Like you weren’t?”
I smirk. “Only under protest.”
“Whatever you have to tell yourself. You know you love hockey now.”
I grin as I rush past him. “I prefer the commercial breaks.”
“Me too,” he says in a voice so intense it sets my nerves on fire.
I’m playing at the famous Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado—a bucket-list venue if there ever was one—and the view steals my breath. Also, the altitude.
The acoustics are insane. Even with my in-ears, I can tell the difference. The rock walls create an incredible acoustic environment, and the unique seating makes it feel so much more intimate than it should with 9,500 people in the audience. I’m used to looking down and out, straining to see faces. But here, the seats rise up from the stage, and I can see them—the eyes, the smiles, the energy—all of it.
I love it.
I feel connected to the crowd, connected to my band, too. The girls are finishing their instrumental, and we’re about to transition into my last song before the encore. We smile at each other, both because of the sheer electric thrill that comes from performing in one of the most iconic venues in the world and because we’ve become close in the past month. I know we’ll only grow closer in the months ahead on tour—and in the years of touring after that.
Patty was right to ask me to open up, to let more people in. I thought relationships would create risk, but they’ve only made me stronger.
Manny, Alicia, my band—heck, every crew member I know—they’ve proven themselves again and again.
For so long, I thought the way to stay safe from being hurt was to hide. But being known isn’t a liability—it’s a strength. My isolation and fear hurt worse than being seen and loved ever has. And yes, love comes with risks, but loving Patty is worth it. Every time.
Our families and friends are in the crowd, and I can feel their support as I sit at the piano, letting my joy and love and heart open for everyone to feel.
“Gorgeous,” Patty whispers in my ear, and I know he’s talking about the song.
Okay, me too.
But the compliment means so much more when it’s about the music.
All I can do is smile and let my fingers glide across the piano. And when I finish the song, I bow and bring my band out to rapturous applause, my lips stretched into such a wide, aching smile it almost hurts.
And then we leave the stage to drink water before the encore.
I love the break before an encore—the way anticipation builds, how the fans grow louder and wilder with each second we’re gone. The energy churns, a fever-pitch wave, as we catch our breath.
Our stage manager gives us a nod, and the band and I rush back out.
“Well, Red Rocks, are you ready for a little more magic?”
The crowd roars their answer, and we launch into a couple of upbeat songs, including It’s Always Sonny —the anthem my label used to insist I end my shows on. The audience sings along with so much energy, I almost give in. I’m tempted to let this be the ending, this high.
But since that night at Hot Strings Hall, I’ve always ended my set with Last Train to Midnight .
It feels like a love letter to my fans, a way to bare my soul one last time before the curtain falls.
I’m about to set down my guitar and turn for the piano when I notice a shift in the audience—a murmur, pointing, gasps, and then roaring applause.
I whip around.
And my jaw drops.
Someone is sitting at my piano bench.
Someone in a white T-shirt and jeans, with shaggy hair and scruff, whose mere presence has made the entire amphitheater lose their ever-loving minds.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered that my boyfriend agreed to join me on stage tonight or offended,” I say into my headset mic.
Patty laughs and leans into the stand mic near the piano. “Flattered. Your boyfriend has wanted to work up the nerve to play on stage with you for a long time. But you’re a tough act to follow, Lucy Jane.”
“So are you, Patrick O’Shannan.” I turn to the audience. “’Course, y’all know him better as Duncan, don’t you?”
The chorus of We love you’s nearly knocks me over, but I laugh.
We all do.
Then Patty plays the first few notes. I strap my guitar back on and let my fingers fall into place—sure, steady—as we dive into Last Train to Midnight.
When the final chord fades, we don’t need to speak. We just know.
Seamlessly, effortlessly, we move into First Light .
The song we wrote together.
It was meant to be a duet, but I haven’t had the chance to perform it live or even record it yet. But I know, beyond doubt, that it will never sound better than it does right now.
Unrehearsed. Unexpected.
But inevitable.
Star light, star bright, hung like hope across the midnight sky
I close my eyes and wonder—will its warmth just pass me by
I've traced constellations, searched for love in faded light
Listened close for whispers, longing for a spark so bright
Then you appear, burning—soft and slow, afraid to shine
And suddenly, I’m yearning—praying that our stars will align
As we move into the chorus, I can’t help it—I drop my guitar and join Patty at the piano.
I stand next to him, facing the crowd, but with my hand on his shoulder, craving his presence.
He’s been in my ear for every show on this tour.
And now, he’s on my stage.
In my heart.
Forever.
When the sun sinks for the last time
When the final star fades away
I won’t fear the darkness
You’ll be my first light, always
He plays the final chords, the music a tether between us.
And at the end, Patty stops playing, leaving only our voices—a perfect duet—repeating the final chorus, the melody hanging in the crisp Colorado air.
When the last note dies on our lips, the applause hits us like a tidal wave. Patty pushes back from the piano, stands, and looks at the crowd in total awe, like he never thought he’d be here again.
But then his eyes turn to me like I’m the only person in the world.
And he’s moving—erasing the space between us as he pulls me into him, lifts me off my feet, and spins me around, laughing. When he sets me down, he cups my face and presses his forehead to mine, panting and holding my gaze. Then he moves his lips to my ear.
“You’re the only song I want to sing,” he whispers.
I laugh and hold him close. “What a line.”
The crowd becomes distant, like the roar of the ocean when you’re sinking under.
All I hear is his breath, his heartbeat, the faintest hum of music still ringing in the air.
It’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.
Then he kisses me, and for a second, it’s just us. No lights. No crowd.
Just love.
So much love.
Soon, the world rushes back in and the cheers swell louder and wilder. Patty grins against my lips before letting me go.
We bow together, and as the lights dim, I have a feeling of nostalgia, like I never want this encore to end.
This is the final note of the show.
But our love song is just being written.
And read on for a BONUS EPILOGUE featuring Sean and Kayla Carville.