Total pages in book: 196
Estimated words: 188002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 940(@200wpm)___ 752(@250wpm)___ 627(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 188002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 940(@200wpm)___ 752(@250wpm)___ 627(@300wpm)
He’s my first and only love. The legend of my very best memories.
This is the fourth concert I’ve ever been to, and my first unplugged or acoustic performance. In a venue with other musicians and a huge crowd, that is. I watched Blue play unplugged, unhinged, unshowered, unhappily, uninhibited, and a million other un-things many times in the park and in the shed years ago. Back then it didn’t have a fancy name, though. It was just what he did.
And now, as Ditra and I settle into our seats to the left of the stage, I’m shocked by the number of people filing into the hazy room all the while speaking to each other in hushed voices as if this is a library or they’re in the graces of royalty.
I chomp my gum in fascination and watch all the fans, many wearing No Tomorrow T-shirts.
Leaning closer to Ditra, I whisper, “There are T-shirts.”
“Do you want one? There’s a guy out in the lobby selling them. We walked right by him.”
I do want one, but how bad will that look when I talk to Blue later? Standing there wearing a band shirt like a starry-eyed fan? Which I’m not. I mean, I love his music and his voice and I’ve been listening to it all non-stop... but I’m not a fan in the traditional sense of the word.
I’m a fan of him. Of his mind and his heart.
This is so very complicated.
The overhead theater lights dim and people scurry like mice to take their seats as the stage curtain separates.
I’m disappointed when members of a band I don’t recognize take the stage. I had completely forgotten about the opening act. My leg bounces with anxiety as they play songs I’ve never heard of, and I’m relieved when they finish and the curtain hides the stage again.
My teeth mash together in frustration. Does this really need to be so torturous?
After a few minutes, the heavy black curtain, deliberately torn, faded, and tattered, slowly pulls away to reveal the stage set up once again—still devoid of No Tomorrow.
The drummer, whose name I’ve forgotten, appears from the shadows and all but disappears when he sits behind his set. One by one, each band member enters the stage, and my heart pounds harder and faster, my eyes riveted to that shadowy, elusive entry point.
Waiting.
And there he is. Slowly sauntering, guitar in hand, to the stool and mic at the center of the stage, sandwiched between the other two guitarists. The crowd cheers and whoops, and he gives them the same humble, grateful nod he used to give the listeners in the park.
He looks so much the same, so much still in the world of his own head, that I almost expect to see Acorn sitting beside him up there on the stage. My chest heaves with deep breaths as a mix of anger and intense yearning clash inside me. How dare he sit there looking so normal—so untouched. For years I’ve felt that the scars I bear from his massacre of my heart must be visible to others in some way. Surely I don’t smile nearly as much, or as brightly, as I once did. I no longer giggle at silly jokes. I can’t read romance books or watch movies based on love stories anymore.
I’m changed.
But he looks the same. He’s still insanely good-looking. Maybe even more so now as his hair is longer and fluffier and he’s not quite as thin as I remember. His sparkling blue eyes are just as striking from my tenth-row seat as they were the last time I looked into them up close, when he kissed me goodbye, winked at me, and walked away.
The all-too-familiar lump of emotion forms in my throat.
He may have walked out of my apartment and my life, but he definitely has not walked out of my heart. Not by a long shot.
And as much as he’s hurt me, and shredded my heart to bits, just the sight of him still draws me in, possessing me like the words of a favorite song that I can’t not sing.
I feel like I’m about to combust in my seat as I grip the arm rests. I ache to walk up to him on that stage, see that beautiful smile he used to flash at me, and throw my arms around him. I want to grab his hand and run from this building with him. To the shed. To the place where we murmured undying love to each other over and over again and slept wrapped around each other, shivering from the icy drafts.
These people surrounding me don’t know him. They know his voice and the sound of his guitar, but they don’t know what his lips feel like, what his whispers sound like, what his body feels like.