45. Brant #2
I grin when he takes my hand to spin me around. My back presses into his chest, and his arms cage my stomach.
We’re staring at the array of lights that flicker on.
…
My palms meet Brant’s forearms over my belly, a wide smile still painting my lips. The strobe bulbs flash across the thousands of people on the ground level.
Brant and I have a perfect view at the center of the first upper section. We’re protecting my tiny baby bump from the general admission crowd, but we’re first row here.
The salty breeze whisks through the beach venue, and Brad re-enters with a microphone in his hand. My nose scrunches, jaw dropping like a schoolgirl when he emerges. He looks even more handsome in person. With his short-sleeve button down and electric guitar strapped around him.
His amplified voice echoes through the enormous speakers, singing the first verse to “Beat This Summer”. My arms rise just as my hips start swaying with Brant’s.
I laugh when Brant nuzzles his lips into my cheek. I plant my hand on his cowboy hat atop my hair, and the chorus kicks in.
Our heads kick back, and we hold out the notes of the lyrics. We’re singing along with the grand crowd and Brad Paisley—an experience I couldn’t see in my wildest dreams.
My head turns to peek up at Brant, and we’re hollering the lyrics in each other’s faces. There’s chuckling amidst our singing, and my hand cups his stubbled cheek. He smirks as he tugs the end of his pink bandana I tied around my neck.
Come to think of it, most of my wardrobe is courtesy of Brant—cowboy hat, pink bandana, pink boots. But I’ll take credit for my tight dress and denim jacket.
Our lips meet, meshing together as Brad sings the next verse. We break away, Brant’s hands stationed on my little belly now. I rest my palms over the tops of them, and we knead our fingers between each other.
Brant surprised me with tickets for the August concert. Truly, nothing will ever beat this summer. The summer we reunited and healed.
I hear Brad’s electric guitar solo, instantly turning my attention. I’m framing my mouth with my hands, hollering with the roar of the crowd.
His ivory cowboy hat bobs as his head bumps to the beat. I’m unsure where to look. At him? Or the gigantic screens behind him that carve out his beautiful goatee and beads of sweat?
I can see Brad Paisley’s sweat.
It’s a wild scene to comprehend, hits of adrenaline surging through me as he finishes the song.
The crowd goes wild when he transitions into “Ticks”. I unravel from Brant’s hold, facing him as I stomp one foot to the kick drum. He follows my lead, our country roots breathing life into us before he snags my hand.
I pop a laugh as I twirl around, and then we’re facing each other once more. Arms in the air. Hips swaying. Boots stomping. We sing the lyrics we’ve known since forever—mainly because I forced Brant to listen to every song.
But even so, he looks like he might be enjoying this more than I am.
I rotate to the railing, raising my arms as I sing along with Brad. Then Brant’s beside me, cupping his mouth while he shouts, “She thought of me like you!”
I’m howling in laughter, hunched over as Brant yells wildly. He whips to the side, grinning as he carefully yanks me by the hand.
He lands another kiss on me, my arm snaking around his back. I’m on my tiptoes to crush our lips closer, and I realize the same thing.
I thought of someone like I did Brad Paisley.
My lips rest on top of her head before I plant a kiss there. Wafts of strawberry and saline linger in her damp hair, and my fingers stroke her high ponytail. “Callie?”
“Mmm,” she mumbles weakly.
“You think someday, you can ever think of me like you do Brad Paisley?”
Her lips curl up against the planes of my chest. “Why?”
“Because he doesn’t have to be close to win your heart over,” I answer. “I’d like to think that when I’m not around you as much anymore, I could still light you up like I do when I’m with you.”
Her elegant fingers graze my pec muscle, and my heart throws punches to meet her touch. “Minus the voice?” she murmurs softly.
A smile paints on my face. “Minus the voice.”
“Yes,” she finally says. “I do.”
Only…
“More, Dove,” I murmur against his lips. “Much, much more.”
Brant shines a crooked grin, the tips of our noses brushing. Then he’s steering his attention to the huge stage, pouncing his chest forward. “Yeah, Brad. And what? Huh?” he murmurs, feigning defense through narrowed eyes.
I chuckle, gripping the fabric of his shirt over his bouncing chest.
His finger jabs down between us. “But we’re putting this on the record. Right here, right now, Callie Rae Montgomery said I beat Brad Paisley.”
“Deal,” I say, lifting my pinky for his to wrap around.
I crinkle my nose on a grin before we kiss our respective fists. Then we lift our arms above our heads, cradling our palms as I dance around him. Brant’s suave, moving and twirling me about in sync with the music.
We’re kids again.
The crowd bustles, hollers and shouts rolling in waves. The venue speakers vibrate with the loud bass, but it’s never overwhelming. Because the only sound I hear is our wings fluttering.
In sync.
Just like they always did.
Just like they always will.
Everything is so grand. Extravagant. Out-of-this-world. Seems to me, the only logical reason has nothing to do with Brad Paisley standing on a stage before us.
It’s because a pair of doves have been released into the sky once again.