by Mae, Amelia
“Oh, interesting.”
She smiles. “I paint, too,” she says. “I did that one hanging over my couch.”
I look at the painting in her living room. It’s a beautiful landscape with lush greens surrounding a small farmhouse.
“Is that home?” I wonder.
Jane is from Ireland. County Cork. I remember.
“Yes,” she answers.
It sounds like there’s a story there and it’s an intense one. I want to know it, but I’ve pushed her a lot.
I point to a different piece of art on the wall. It’s a world map, but it’s in black and white except for Ireland and the U.S.A., which are colored in red.
“What’s that?” I wonder.
“It’s a map of the world where you’re supposed to color in the countries you’ve been to. It was a gift from Kelvin.”
“You’ve only been to two countries.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you planning on seeing more? Someday?” I wonder.
“I was… but I don’t think it’s going to work out.”
Ah. Another touchy subject.
We keep the rest of the conversation light until the food is eaten and the coffee is drank. I try to subtly spit the mouthful of grounds back into the mug without Jane noticing.
“I know,” she says. “It’s awful I abandoned mine halfway through.”
“Next time, I’ll bring coffee with me. Or maybe we can just go out for breakfast.”
She raises an eyebrow. “There’ll be a next time?”
“Jane, I can’t promise you forever. I can’t even promise you next month,” I tell her honestly. “But I… we’re not done here. Are we?”
“I hope not.”
“This is going to sound so fucking cheesy, but I always felt like I’d find you again. I didn’t think it would be right now, and I certainly didn’t think it’d be at my cousin’s ‘meet my boyfriend’ party. But here we are.”
“Yeah,” she repeats. “Here we are.”
“The band is playing a show at the Antique Ballroom tomorrow night,” I tell her. “Will you come?”
I see the wheels turning in her mind. The noise. The crowd. The stress.
“Can I bring Kelvin?” she asks.
That wasn’t a no.
“Yes,” I say, “absolutely. I’ll invite Kelvin and Dean. I’ll introduce you to Cora and Aya. And Nikki if she’s there. You’ll have people around, Jane I won’t make you face a hoard of rabid Say Yes fans alone.”
“Thanks.”
“Eight o’clock, then.”
She nods.
9
Jane
“What are you talking about?” I demand.
“Dean has a show that night, Jane,” Kelvin says slowly. “His dance company is performing somewhere downtown, and they’re debuting some of his original choreography.”
I sigh.
“I’m sorry but I have to do the boyfriend thing sometimes too. I can’t be Jane’s full time emotional support human anymore.”
I want to groan because I hate, hate, hate that term.
I hate that Kelvin sometimes feels that he has to babysit me to prevent me from succumbing to my anxiety and standing there like a piece of furniture. But it’s true. I’m less likely to be weird, creepily quiet Jane if he’s there.
“You’re still going to the show though, right?” he asks. “Dylan invited you. He wants you there.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you want to go?”
“I… want to see Dylan again.”
“Babycakes, at some point, you’ve got to come out of your cocoon and spread your wings. You have to meet him at places other than your apartment.”
I know he’s right. But the idea of going to a concert alone makes my blood pressure rise.
“Take a chance, Jane. You can’t hide from your life forever.”
“I’m not hiding from anything,” I insist. “I broke my four year dry spell.”
“Shady Jane, you told me that you didn’t fuck him.”
“I mean… we didn’t… you know,” I fumble to explain. “But we did other things.”
Kelvin winces. “Ew. That sounds like tongue in vagina things. No thank you.”
I laugh. I don’t bother telling Kelvin that Dylan’s tongue was everywhere and it felt amazing. So did waking up with him that morning. And having him in my apartment, at my table, drinking my terrible coffee and talking about our lives. It was almost like he wasn’t a famous rock god and I wasn’t an underachieving bartender with a panic disorder, and we weren’t reconnecting after sleeping together once seven years ago and never hearing from one another again.
Geez, Jane, when you say it that way it almost sounds unbelievable.
“Jane. Earth to Jane.”
I shake some sense into myself. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he chuckles. “Usually when you wander off like that it’s to somewhere dark and dreary. At least this time, you looked like you were thinking about something happy.”
“Well… I was.”
“You like him.”
It’s not a question. And I don’t refute. I mean, I do like Dylan. He’s a likable person.
“Which is interesting seeing as a week ago, you hated him,” Kelvin teases. “Funny how a few orgasms changed your mind.”
“Yes, it’s hilarious,” I say flatly. “Now back to the matter at hand. I really don’t want to go to the show alone.”
“Well, I’m not missing Dean’s dance performance. He’s already gone on about how important it is to him. Didn’t Dylan say that he could introduce you to some people while you were there?”
“Yeah Some of the guys have girlfriends and whatnot.”
“Great. Problem solved,” Kelvin says.
“Maybe.”
It’s only a few hours before I have to decide whether or not I’m going to show up.
I want to go.
Well, I want to want to go.
I leave Kelvin and head home to find a strange package at my door. I didn’t order anything. And it’s not like anyone back home would send me care packages.
I check the address. There isn’t one. Just a note on the box that says: To Jane.
Okay, so… It’s definitely for me.
This is weird. I mean, it could be a bomb or something.
Jane, that’s ludicrous. You’re not important enough to bomb.
So I take it inside anyway and open it up.
It’s a coffee maker. And there’s a note.
For next time. Dylan.
I sigh and head to my bedroom to go through my closet. I’m going to the concert. It’s decided.
When the Lyft drops me off at the venue, I’m not completely where I’m supposed to be. I kind of wander around the ticketing section wondering if there’s some sort of list I’m supposed to be on.
Then, suddenly I hear a woman calling my name as she approaches.
“Jane?” she asks, tapping my shoulder and sounding more than a little frustrated. “Please tell me you’re Jane.”
“Um… yeah. My name is Jane.”
She lowers her voice. “Dylan’s Jane?”
“I mean… Dylan invited me here.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” she says. “Julia! I found her.”
“I’m sorry. Who are you?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m Nikki,” she says, offering me her hand. “I work with the management team.”
Nikki is pale with light blonde hair that if I’m not mistaken, has a pinkish tint to it. She’s wearing a lacy blouse with a short black skirt and motorcycle boots. She looks edgy and cool. Like she belongs at a place like this.
I glance down at my own outfit. Black halter top. Denim shorts because it’s summer in Los Angeles and it’s hot as balls outside. And pink Converse sneakers. I look like a kid at summer camp compared to Nikki.
“Oh, thank fuck,” another woman echoes, joining us. She’s got dark skin and long braids, deep brown eyes, and is wear
ing torn jeans with fishnet tights underneath, a crop top, and stiletto heels. She gives me the impression that she was a punk in high school, but now sports a more grown up version of the look.
Both of these women are gorgeous. Like, intimidatingly gorgeous.
“Julia, I presume,” I say, offering my hand. “Whoa, sorry, that was terribly formal.”
“Don’t apologize,” she says. “I’m relieved. I love not being the only person with an accent.”
I hear hers. It’s round and regal, and I like it immediately.
“Where are you from?” I ask, grateful for a chance to bond with someone.
“Jamaica,” she answers. “But I grew up in…”
“Ladies, can we do this backstage please?” Nikki asks, again sounding a little snippy. She leads us though what must be some kind of VIP entrance that takes us backstage to the dressing rooms.
I notice that she and Julia both have badges hanging around their necks.
“I can’t believe Dylan invites a woman to a show, first time ever, mind you, and doesn’t know her fucking last name,” she gripes. “He just sends us out here looking for a redhead named Jane.”
“Seriously, we’ve been bum-rushing every redhead in the lobby looking for you,” Julia adds, laughing.
I don’t know whether to laugh along with Julia or apologize again.
“Well, my last name is Dooley,” I say, weakly.
“That would have done us a lot of good twenty minutes ago,” Nikki gripes.
“Be nice, Nikki. It’s not her fault,” Julia says. “Plus, looking after these guys and dealing with their charming quirks isn’t your job anymore. It’s mine.”
“You’re right,” she concedes. “I’m sorry, Jane.”
“It’s fine.”
I follow Nikki and Julia to where some gruff looking crew members are setting up equipment, some music industry-looking people hang around sipping beers, and some beautiful onlookers are just enjoying being a part of it.
I figure I’ll lose Nikki and Julia in the crowd, but Nikki stays back.
“Jane, you’ll be sticking with us tonight,” she informs me.
“Oh. Um… okay.”
I wonder if Dylan told her to say that. If so, I’m a little mortified.
“You don’t have a backstage pass thanks to Dylan, so stay with Julia or me until we get that situated, okay?”
I nod, relieved that I now have an excuse to hang around with someone. It’s terrible, thinking this way. Plotting out ways to try and convince the world that you’re not as terribly awkward and uncomfortable as you actually are.
Maybe I should start seeing my therapist again.
“Do you want a drink?” Julia asks.
“Yes please,” I answer.
Drinking is good. It takes the edge off, and it gives me something to do with my hands.
It’s why I envy smokers. They get something to do with their hands and get to excuse themselves to a trip outside every now and again. I’d take it up, but I hate the taste and the lingering smell.
“Whiskey rocks,” Nikki tells the bartender. She looks to Julia who nods. “Two.” Then she looks to me.
I don’t care for whiskey. I like the girly drinks, sweet wines and ciders. But I don’t want to be the loser who orders the vodka cranberry at a rock show.
“Three,” I say.
Nikki distributes the whiskey glasses and the three of us clink them together. I take a small sip of the amber liquid, and it burns going down. My eyes water and I try not to cough.
No sooner have I caught my breath than a dangerously hot man swoops down and wraps himself around Nikki. Fuck, where did he come from? His lips are on hers like magnets and they don’t look like they’re going to come up for air any time soon.
“So, that’s Jack,” Julia says, moving on that this is no big deal.
“The guitarist, right.”
I try and stop myself from nodding like a bobble-head doll by taking a sip of my whiskey. But then I remember that I hate whiskey and spit it back into the glass.
Unfortunately, Julia notices.
“Do you want something else?” she asks.
“Oh, this is fine.”
She leads me back to the bar, takes the glass from my hand and places it on the bar.
“Come on.”
The bartender gets rid of it no questions asked.
“What do you really want?”
“Do you have hard cider?” I ask quietly.
“Two please,” Julia says.
He nods and hands us two bottles of Angry Orchard, and I relish in the sugary sweet apple taste. I can’t forget that whiskey fast enough.
“Thank you, Julia,” I tell her.
“No worries,” she says sweetly. “These things are kind of intimidating. I know what it’s like to get here and feel like you’re about to be eaten alive. My first couple of months have been really rough.”
“You’re very kind.”
“Thank you.” She looks around. “I’d try and help you find Dylan, but he has this weird pre-show meditation thing and he likes to be alone right up until the moment he goes on stage.”
“Oh.”
“You can go with Nikki and the other girls down to the crowd if you want,” she tells me, “but I have to stay backstage.”
“Okay.”
“You’re welcome to stay with me, though.”
Relief floods through me.
“I’d rather stay with you if that’s all right,” I tell her.
“Of course,” she says. “But you know, there’s something about seeing the show from front and center in the crowd. I know Nikki usually comes back kind of…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to. I know exactly the word she’s searching for.
Horny.
“I’ll stay here. Thank you.”
She nods.
Finally, it’s showtime. The crowd has taken their seats. From my spot in the wings with Julia, I see Nikki among them. She screams along with the other fans, ready to get their Say Yes fix.
It’s thrilling really. The anticipation. The energy.
And then the guys come out on stage from the other side, one at a time.
“That’s Ian,” Julia whispers as the dark-haired drummer takes his seat followed by the tanned, sandy-haired bassist. “Shawn.” Then the guitarist with the twisted smile and the tattoos takes his place. “And you remember Jack.”
And then the applause and clamoring gets even louder.
“Every time,” Julia mutters.
Dylan walks out on that stage and the screams are deafening. It’s like he’s some kind of God. And I get it. He’s larger than life. Six feet something of muscle and ink, ocean blue eyes and a smile that seems to make panties melt off.
And he’s on.
Like, his stage persona has taken over his body.
He’s not the man who slept in my bed yesterday morning or the one who went to Target this afternoon and bought me a coffee machine.
He’s something more. Something huge.
“Dylan, we love you,” some fans cry.
Other women in the crowd shout similar sentiments. They reach out and try to touch him. One teenage girl looks like she might cry just at the sight of him.
“Julia, what did Nikki mean when she said that Dylan never invites women to his shows?” I ask.
“As far as I know, he’s never invited a date to see him play,” she answers. “I wonder why.”
I don’t. She’d be driven mad by a terrible combination of jealousy and lust.
Dylan takes the mic and bellows, “Hello, Los Angeles.”
***
The band reaches their final song of the evening. I hear that familiar intro.
Usually, I cringe when I hear this song. Tonight, I have chills.
“This is a song I wrote for someone a few years ago,” he tells the crowd. “And it’s usually kind of a sad song for me.”
The room gives him a collectiv
e awww.
Then, for the first time all evening, he looks over in the wings at me.
“But not tonight.”
The guitar and drums come in. Then the lyrics. The verse and the all-to-familiar chorus.
“I see her name,” Dylan sings. “I see her name in stars.”
Julia turns to me with her mouth open. The same look Kelvin game me the other night when he realized it.
“It’s about you,” she says.
I don’t say anything. I nod slightly.
“I can’t fucking believe it.”
Me neither.
10
Dylan
There’s this moment when the guys get offstage that I like to call the crash. It’s like they’re all battle-weary from the show, the energy, and the high of performing. And the first thing that they do is dive into the arms of their significant other. Like it’s the only place they want to be.
It’s like fucking clockwork.
We get to the backstage bar area, and I see a tiny raven-haired woman rush past me and practically jump into Shawn’s waiting arms.
Ian’s wife, Cora, is a bit more reserved, but the two of them are no less affectionate. He pulls her close and kisses her deeply. If I’m not mistaken, he’s being a little more gentle with her than normal, and I wonder if their ‘thinking about kids someday’ has become more than just thinking.
Not to pontificate too much on my bandmates’ lives. It’s great that they’re all in steady, healthy relationships. Great, but… strange. Ian fucked around a lot, but when fate intervened and offered him another chance at the girl he was crazy about in high school, we all knew that he was done for. And he’s never been happier.
Shawn is different. He was always a relationship person until he suddenly decided that he wasn’t, which just so happened to coincide with meeting Aya. Thankfully, they both pulled their heads out of their asses and realized that they should give a real relationship a chance.
The most unexpected was Jack. He was hell bent on never taking the plunge and committing to a woman. But if he was ever going to be with anyone, it was going to be his best friend, Nikki. Sure, Jack and Nikki aren’t talking about weddings and babies any time soon, but they do live together. Jack is definitely less tense and more approachable. I think he’s gotten softer, but I’d never say that out loud.