17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Laredo
S he saw me.
She saved me.
I did what I always do: I went off the deep end. Made everything about me. A pattern I’ve repeated forever.
That’s when she came to my rescue. She provided the perfect distraction for both me and the audience. There’s not a soul on this planet who could resist Betty in those shorts, swinging those hips.
Between Everett, Ricco, and me, we’ve spent tens of thousands of hours on the stage, yet she is the one who owned it.
She beams like the goddess she’s always been, and I bow to her greatness. The midnight cheers from the crowd are so loud it disturbs the sleeping seagulls gathered on the outdoor patio. It’s loud enough to rattle Adam from his deep sleep back at the hotel a quarter of a mile away.
Ricco and Everett hug at the center of the stage, and I know I should join them, but something more powerful is calling me.
Betty.
My music reached her. Just as it did last summer. Her unique I got you swagger, which matches mine so well, is back. The strange resistance she’s been holding between us is gone.
That confident strut, those sexy hips, those dangerous legs. It’s better than I remembered. Better than anything I could dream up.
I expect her to race into my arms, leaping at the last moment, me catching her, hands on her rear, her wild hair in my face, laughter in the air. It’s what I expected when I first showed up at the bookstore. I lower the bass guitar onto the stand and look up in time to spot her hopping off the stage, pulling the hand of her best friend, Olivia, and disappearing through the crowd.
I take a step to follow when Ricco calls, “Laredo.” He points to something behind me, and I follow his sight line. He’s pointing to the speaker. It takes a moment to realize what he’s pointing at.
His jacket.
This night is about to get even better. I race to retrieve the jacket and Sharpie. I can’t believe I’m holding the infamous Ricco Hanlon jacket. I stride back to him, handing it to him with the care of an archeologist on a dig in ancient Egypt.
Ricco is chatting with Everett. The two of them share words I don’t hear, followed by Everett’s loud chuckle. I take notice of everything, knowing I’m going to repeat the story of tonight a million times in the future.
Ricco holds the jacket by the collar, lifting it high and playing to the crowd. I search for Betty. A piece of me wishes Adam and my sister, Hailey, were here to see this moment. I’ve just played onstage with Ricco Hanlon. I’m about to have my signature on his jacket next to rock legends our grandkids will study in school someday.
Ricco makes a big deal of presenting the black Sharpie to Everett, who genuinely seems overwhelmed by the moment. I finger comb my hair and prepare.
For the last five years, ever since Ricco’s career blew up, whenever someone signs the jacket, it goes viral. There are influencers who mash up the prior signature videos with the new artists, causing yet another spike in the videos. I tug the bottom of my T-shirt and prepare for my close-up.
I take a deep inhale and recall the name I want mine to appear next to. Adam and I once joked about this moment on a tour bus a few years ago. Adam is the super realist. He didn’t allow himself to dream that day. He’s the type of guy that won’t even play what would you buy if you won the lottery game.
Me? I don’t have issues dreaming big. I pontificated the merits and drawbacks of my name next to nearly every signature on the jacket, finally settling on the only one that made sense. Eddie Van Halen. He is not only a rock legend but is universally considered the best guitarist in the history of humanity. Just having my name uttered in the same breath as his is an honor.
My weight shifts from one foot to the other, and I wait for the signal from Ricco to approach.
More laughter as Everett hands the marker back to Ricco, who pushes it deep into his back pocket. I tip forward, making sure I have a line of sight of Ricco. And I wait.
Ricco takes the jacket from Everett, inspecting the signature before leaning toward the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve just witnessed history.” He points a finger at Everett’s jacket signature. “The first mother-and-son combo on my jacket.”
My smile widens, if that is even possible. This latest tidbit will most certainly make the video another viral sensation. I picture being in an interview square on the screen of Good Morning America , talking about this moment.
I wait for the applause to die down. And I wait. Every second feels like an eternity. Pinpricks spike the back of my neck, my nerves on end every second Ricco delays calling my name. When he lifts the jacket and slips his arm through the sleeve, it hits me. I’m not being asked to sign.
I hide my disappointment with a phony smile and insincere applause and plot my escape. “Everett will be performing tomorrow night at the festival. Make sure to grab your tickets if you haven’t already. And remember to drop off your food donations at the bins all week to attend a sing-along with me at the end of the weekend.”
I use the mention of the bins as a note to escape the stage. I’m not sure why I waited, as no one pays any attention to me. They never do for a bass player. The crowd barely parts to allow me to pass, eager to queue up to get their own autographs from the musical artists who matter.
My eyes scan the rest of the bar, searching for Betty, the one person who could make this sting disappear. She’s not at the bar or any of the tables by the entrance. I stride toward the door and check the outdoor patio and come up empty. I whip my phone out, anxiety building, a desperate need to pull her into my arms so I’d know everything will be ok.
That’s when I see the notification. A text message from her.
Betty: Sorry for not sticking around. Olivia and I have a lot to catch up on. I know you kind of got roped into tonight’s volunteer activity. It’s totally fine if you want to bail the rest of the sessions. I’ve got it covered. I’m sure you’re going to close down the bar with Everett and Ricco. Go, enjoy. BB.
I read the note a second and a third time. She’s gone. Have I misread everything this evening? I thought Betty and I were back on the same wavelength. I close my eyes and can still picture Betty dancing in front of me. It was going to be the start of our encore.
And now, she’s gone.
Her cryptic notes are not so hard to comprehend. She doesn’t want me to hang around with her the rest of the week. The words do not sound like Betty. They are passive-aggressive— I know you kind of got roped in… it’s totally fine if… go, enjoy. Betty and I had always been direct with one another. If she doesn’t want to see me, she can just tell me.
I torture myself with her words again. She kind of just did.
That’s when I see it. Dangling at the end of the message. The flicker of hope.
BB.
Betty Belle.
The nickname I gave her.
The one which she pushed back against time and time again until it grew on her.
It’s a purposeful choice. A signature that is worth more to me than my own on Ricco’s jacket. A signal that she doesn’t want me to give up. That despite the roller coaster we find ourselves on, the ride isn’t over.
That’s the true prize of the evening.
My Betty Belle.