Chapter 16
It’s just another concert and I will get over it.
Who am I kidding? It’s almost killing me that we’re playing in Richmond. Ever since we arrived at the venue, I’ve been looking out for Hunter. As if she’d come to hear us. As if she would care. I sigh. As if she had not broken up with me.
I should be paying attention to Charlie’s usual pre-concert motivational speech. They are pretty good, but tonight I don’t feel it. Every breath I take is yearning for Hunter, searching for her, hoping to find her. I know damn well that nothing would change if I indeed did run into her—we are not apart by some adverse external force, but by her choice. Charlie had suggested that I reach out to her, but how could I? She made it pretty clear that she doesn’t want me.
Still, I talk to Jamal, who is our chief lighting tech, and ask him to watch out for Hunter. I show him the photo of hers that is still the backdrop on my phone.
Jamal looks at me pityingly. “Even if she’s here—are you sure you want that?”
I pat him on the shoulder and nod. “Positive.” Actually, I am not even sure about that. But there is only so much I can do.
Soon after, the show begins. The lights go out and, after a couple of minutes, change to colorful swirls dancing across the stage and the crowd. The audience goes wild as Charlie takes his seat behind his drums for his solo. Standing next to me in the wing is Alain, who nervously clutches his horn. His stage-fright has gotten only so much better. I smile at him reassuringly, but his smile is meek. He shuffles his feet like he wants to run. But I know, and luckily so does he, that once he’s out on stage, he will be awesome.
When the background vocals set in, I give myself a shake and silently walk on stage. All I need to do is to make it through the concert. I plug in my guitar and close my eyes. The music finally gets to me. I’m counting bars to find my cue. And then there is the limelight on me, and I play the best I can. This concert is probably my best ever in terms of technique, but there is no soul in my playing. Still, I guess I’m doing a decent enough job.
Of course, we play our hits. That angry, grief-ridden song works without me feeling a lot. Or maybe that’s how I feel most of the time now.
The other though—the ballad—gets to me. This is the one song that I cannot play for perfection, but it plummets me into emotion. I put everything into it, I always do.
Thousands of cell phones light up as the crowd sways to the ballad. They feel the love in the song. Once the last notes fade away, my eyes roam the audience almost of their own accord. I don’t seem to have much say in this. Just when I convinced myself she had not come, the lights focus on a single person in the middle of the crowd. I shield my eyes against the stage lights. It’s Hunter! I must have missed a breath or two, because suddenly I gasp for air. She’s here! She’s come!
What do I do now? I stand still as if I’ve been struck by lightning. And it sure feels like it. Alain nudges me. “Go.”
“You’re sure? She might not want me to.”
Alain smirks. “That sign she’s holding might give you a hint.”
And, really, Hunter holds a hand-painted sign. I had been that happy to see her that I had not looked above her head. It reads, “Rory, can we talk?”
In my haste to get down to her, I tangle my foot in one of the cables like an effing rookie. I try to catch my fall, but I stumble into the pit. Dozens of hands catch me and heave me up, high over the crowd. A fat man, covered in sweat, beams at me happily. “Say, dude, which way do you want to go?” I crane my head in Hunter’s direction, and the fans holding me take that as a command—they pass me on to hands behind them and I surf the crowd until I am where Hunter is.
I’m gently put on the ground and stand in front of her. She asks, “Do you even want me here?”
“Do you even want to be here?”
She wraps her arms around me and nothing else matters.