15. Emerson
EMERSON
I thought Crew would be wired after the concert—especially when he made that puppy-dog face when I told him we had to go.
I didn’t really want to leave either.
That’s why we stayed one song past what we were supposed to.
I’ve seen Cross My Heart in concert before, but I’ve never been backstage, seeing how it all goes down.
There’s something so special about it—watching them from an angle I’ve never gotten to see.
Without the roar of the crowd surrounding me, swallowing everything whole, I caught the quiet moments between songs—the nods, the grins, the effortless way the band moves together after years of doing this.
And of course, stupid Mateo Lane.
It really should be studied how the man can go from fumbling with a microphone stand to literal sex on stage—sweat dampening the hair curling at the nape of his neck, his forearms flexing as he grips the microphone stand, the stage lights carving sharp lines across his jaw.
He sang like the music lived somewhere beneath his skin, every lyric pulling another roar from the crowd without him having to ask for it.
I couldn’t help but stare—not even bothering to school my features or pretend I was remotely capable of acting normal.
I probably looked insane, standing there completely transfixed, my attention locked on the stage as if looking away for even a second might mean missing something.
For those first few songs, I barely moved. I just watched.
The lights swept across the crowd in waves, catching on raised hands and glowing phone screens, while the bass seemed to vibrate straight through the floor beneath my feet.
Everything was louder and bigger from back here—the music, the screaming, the energy of thousands of people packed together and singing every word.
And somehow, in the middle of all that noise and movement, I could only see one person.
Seeing your favorite band from backstage was one thing.
I’d dreamed about it, sure, but dreams had a way of making things feel distant and unreal.
This was different. This was close enough to see the way the stage lights caught on every movement, close enough to hear the raw edges in his voice between breaths, close enough to watch him command an entire room without even seeming to try.
Seeing Mateo Lane from backstage was something else entirely.
It was surreal in a way I hadn’t been prepared for.
I’d seen him on screens, in photographs, in interviews, in grainy videos that I’d replayed more times than I’d ever admit out loud.
But none of that had prepared me for what it felt like to actually be there—to watch him standing on a stage just a few yards away, completely in his element, while an entire arena seemed to hang on his every word.
Life-changing doesn’t even feel dramatic enough.
And judging by the way I was staring at him like I’d forgotten how blinking worked, I wasn’t doing a particularly convincing job of hiding it.
Laying Crew down in Mateo’s bed, I quietly shut the door, but I’m confident that he’s out for the night after such an eventful first day of tour.
Between sing check this morning and the park after lunch, before spending time with the band before the show, Crew was asleep in his car seat before the driver even left the venue parking lot, and I’m glad I brought his toothbrush and pajamas for him to change into before the show.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket as I make my way to the kitchen, but I ignore it, looking through the drawers and cabinets, but nothing is sounding good.
My appetite has been pretty nonexistent these last weeks—hard to think of food when you’re used to watching someone literally waste away before your eyes—so instead, I grab one of Mateo’s beers from the fridge and sit down on the couch.
Cross My Heart’s show has at least a good thirty minutes left, not including encores or anything else the band does before they call it a night, so I figure I have some time before I need to retire to my bedroom.
Falling into bed has been the highlight of every day lately, the one thing I've been able to look forward to. It was the first thought that crossed my mind when I woke up this morning—how many hours until I could crawl back under the covers and disappear again.
But somewhere between Crew's endless excitement and the electricity humming through the stage tonight, that feeling has faded.
His energy must be contagious, because for the first time in weeks, the heaviness that's been clinging to me is tolerable, leaving me feeling lighter than I have in what feels like forever.
Maybe it was the smile on his face while he watched his dad—or maybe it was the way his dad came alive on stage, his love for the music so contagious it was impossible not to be affected—either way, I think I want to take advantage of it.
Lifting my legs up to the coffee table just in front of the couch, I cross one leg over the other and turn on a movie as I sip my beer. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and I let out a sigh.
Reality always has a way of settling back in.
Both Rumi and Ava have been reaching out since I left Ava’s house the day I told them I was taking this nanny job. These texts are from Rumi.
Rumi
How’s it going? We miss you!
Did you meet Mateo’s son? Hope your first day went well! Love you <3
I contemplate ignoring the texts, but a little voice inside my head reminds me that if I don’t respond now, she’ll just keep reaching out, making her worry more. Or worse, she’ll tell Ava I didn’t respond, and then Ava will call me and see right through me.
Taking another sip of beer, I come up with a response that won’t worry her but also hopefully won’t spark more questions.
Hey, babe! All good here. Crew is awesome. Thanks for checking in xx
I send her a few pictures I took of Crew today and a video I took of her favorite Cross My Heart song tonight before tucking my phone under the pillow on the couch, moving to lay down as the opening credits begin.
I must have dozed off, my body flinching when I hear the door to the hotel room shut.
“Oh,” I hear as I sit up, looking to find Mateo frozen just beyond the doorway. He must not have expected to see me. I glance at the TV, seeing the movie I turned on isn’t over yet.
I sit up, tucking my hair behind my ears to hide any bedhead. “You’re home early.”
Mateo clears his throat. “Yeah, um, we finished up about fifteen minutes ago.”
I lift a brow. “And you came straight home?” I don’t even try to hide my confusion.
Mateo is a rockstar, on his final farewell tour. He just played for arguably one of the biggest venues in the country, to a sold-out crowd.
And he’s home by ten o’clock?
He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, pocketing his hands before taking them out again, opening and closing his fists like he can’t quite figure out what to do with his body.
“It’s what I usually do,” he admits, but he sounds confused.
Almost like he’s asking me rather than telling me.
His eyes go from me to the TV, all of a sudden very interested in the movie playing.
I stand up. “You don’t go out and celebrate, or at least grab a drink?”
His gaze goes to my empty beer bottle on the coffee table. “There are drinks at home.” His lips curve, and I have to school my features, surprised that Mateo might be trying to make a joke right now.
“Spoken like a true father.” I put my hands on my hips, and his eyes move to the closed bedroom door where Crew is soundly sleeping.
“But seriously, rockstar,” I continue, wondering if maybe he headed back here right away for Crew’s sake.
“Crew is sleeping, and I’m here in case he wakes up. No need to rush home.”
Mateo shakes his head. “I know he’s good with you.” He finally makes his way further into the hotel room, setting his backpack down on the kitchen counter before turning to the fridge, grabbing a beer for himself. “I would just rather drink at home.”
I walk over to the counter, leaning forward on my elbows. I watch as Mateo takes a sip of his beer, the way his throat bobs as he swallows. His tattooed fingers hold the neck of the bottle, and I can’t get myself to look away.
He’s hot, single, and it’s safe to assume that he could have his choice in whose bed he ends up in at the end of the night. His son is taken care of, his job is done for the night, yet he’s here? Alone?
“What?” Mateo asks, setting his beer down. His eyes are wide as he wipes his mouth with his palm. “Do I have something on my face?”
My lips part out of disbelief. “You’re joking.”
He looks at his palm and then back at me, opening his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
I was blatantly checking this man out, and he has no fucking idea.
My mind drifts to the night I ran into him at the bar, then to last night when I joked about picturing him naked.
Maybe it's the alcohol settling into my bloodstream on an almost empty stomach, or maybe it's the darkness of the hotel room, but I hear myself ask, "You're the lead singer of one of the biggest rock bands in the country.
People literally throw themselves at you.
And here you are, back in your hotel room, this early to drink a beer. " I pause, studying him. "All alone?"
Mateo stares at me for a moment before looking at his beer like it holds the answer to my question.
Enough silence passes for it to become uncomfortable, but it isn’t.
It’s amusing, to say the least.
I can almost see Mateo’s brain short-circuiting, and I don’t think he’s realized how almost a full minute has gone by with him not saying anything.
Reaching out, I poke him in the shoulder, and it works like a charm. Like a reset button.
Mateo coughs into his fist, setting down the beer in his other hand a little too hard, causing the liquid to slosh out of the bottle. “That’s a little,” he pauses, as if trying to come up with the right word, “personal,” he decides on. “Don’t you think?”