Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, February 20th, 2018▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
The first cord I play brings some eyes in my direction. But the pair of eyes I came here for are already on me. Mike's making his way from a gaggle of laughing kids to the corner where I stand exposed, without the comfort of the extra meds in my bloodstream. I play the series of chords again, because what comes next means more to me than any song I've ever performed. Any I've written. Everywhere I look, the kids and adults milling around the room and chatting in groups pause and turn toward the stage. To these people, my song will be just that, but to one pair of ears, my song will be my confession and my apology.
The melody loops, and there's no going back. Mike's almost to the small circle I'm standing in. The determination in his eyes and in the purposeful way he's striding to me cannot interrupt what I've been planning for a week. What Marguerite, Neil, Poppy, and so many other people helped me with. I begin.
'Skittles' pieces all are red.
My life ceases on the bed.
Crying, dying, the regret
Of the years never spent
Living.'
I tell the story of my dream shattered in the crash. Of seeing the lifeless bodies of my friends. Of wondering if I could've done something.
I peer through, the curtain of
My silly dreams, my broken vows.
I see the light, the shadows scream
And in the world, I'm back again
Living.
Of why I was the one who was alive, and what for. I sing about the charred room of memories I've opened back up, and the progress I'm making. With lots more progress to get through if I want to get forward and into the future.
Never again, never ever again,
Will the darkness win the game.
Never again, never ever again,
I refuse to abdicate
Living.
Mike doesn't take his gaze off me. As I sing, I pay attention only to him. The rest of them don't matter. I don't listen to The Whats behind me. I watch Mike's face change. The differences are minute and unnoticeable to those who have not spent hours staring at his photos and didn't steal glances at the live version of Mike whenever possible. The tightness of his mouth morphs into sadness, then relaxes enough for the creases around the corners to disappear. He inhales when I sing about not wanting to hide from life anymore.
His eyebrows talk to me when I repeat the chorus about begin ready to live. The two vertical lines smooth, and the straight horizontal lines appear as he raises his eyebrows in a silent question. "With me?" And I repeat the chorus again, because it is with him. The future might not be easy or bright, but I can imagine it now. Nothing like what I dreamed of when I was on my way to NYC. Nothing like what I dreamed of when I dropped out of the UChicago and started singing. Nothing like what I forced myself to believe I needed when I accepted the touring offer from The Whats.
The closing chords come too soon. The waterfall of love for my parents, for the people behind me, for the man in front of me, and for my life doesn't stop with the song. Mike takes a step forward, but I turn to The Whats and whisper, "Can we do my set?" That was not the plan, but it's what I need. Poppy understands. She checks with the guys and a ripple of their nods tells me they're in. Neil and Poppy strum the chords to Latitude. Travis sets the beat, and Oliver joins on keys. Mike heard me perform this song at Thanksgiving Bash and on a giant SAP Stadium Stage before. He halts and resumes devouring me from the six feet separating us.
I go through the full catalog of my songs. The ones I wrote before Mike. The ones I composed while missing him. The ones I bled onto the keyboard when I asked him to leave. They are my request to Mike to accept me for who I am, and for who we can be together. The story of my life in a musical form I created for the world, but it really needs to be powerful enough to persuade this one person to forgive me and to live alongside my fault lines.
The magic I felt on the first day we met swirls between us. The current getting stronger with every note, the pull fiercer with every word, the longing more unbearable with every silence.
His lips curve up. His face is no longer a grimace of anger and disappointment. He's not smiling, but he's not frowning either. The resolve I've seen on his face when he started approaching me alters into a determination to keep the love strings between us, to make it stronger and more robust and impossible to cut. His eyes have their own story to tell, one I can't wait to hear. My song river calms, and it's time for me to get back onto the shore and face what I came here for. I take my hands off the keyboard and walk to Mike's side.
"Bruce Lee?" I need him to give me another chance.
Mike grins. "Bruce Lee." He opens his arms wide, wider than his smile, wider than the space I put between us, and I run into it, eradicating the distance.
His hug is a match to mine. I place my head on his shoulder and breathe in the scent of him the photos don't have the power to hold. I missed this so much. I missed the solidity of his chest and the softness of his hair under my fingers. Mike bends down to place his lips on my forehead. In his arms I want the future I've been denying him and myself for so long. The future that will have more time apart but also more time together.
"So this is Angie." A tall woman with the almost black eyes and impossibly long eyelashes identical to Mike's scrutinizes me.
I nod, my cheek sliding against the material of Mike's uniform. I must detach myself from him, because his mother will not be happy with me plastered all over her son in the middle of an important event in his life. Yet I'm unable to command my body to take a step and separate from Mike. He makes no move to step away either. We stay locked in each other's arms, and her lips stretch into a welcoming smile.
"Nice to meet you, Angie. Mikey might've forgotten his manners, but I assure you he's quite a gentleman. I'm so proud of him." Mom catches my eye and glances back at Angie. "I'm Chrisoula, Mikey's mom. But you can call me Chrissy." She extends her hand, but when Mike's grip around me tightens at her gesture, she places her fingers on my shoulder instead. "Nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you. I can't believe we've never met."
Heard how much I've hurt her son? How much of a rotten person I am? How much I've managed to screw up the good thing we had going? I've no idea what Mike shared with her.
The music behind me resumes. Oliver and Travis start the song that put The Whats on the top of the charts. Everyone who's not been living under a rock knows this song. If people were watching Mike and me and wondering what's going on, the voices that rocket from the stage recapture their attention.
"I'm going to get another package of cut up cheeses we are running low on." She rubs my shoulder with light, encouraging strokes. "You might want to take it to Mikey's office." Chrissy looks around and points to the hallway. "I'll make sure everything here goes smoothly."
"Thanks, Mom." Mike's hand slides down to take mine.
I give Chrissy a grateful smile. She must already think the worst of me, so I don't speak and follow Mike. The words that were gushing out of me on stage dried my mouth, and even saying 'thanks' to her is impossibly hard.
