Life After Light

by E. S. Maria

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Is he here yet? What did Brook say? Did she send you a text yet?” I ask Patty, my nerves starting to give me cold sweats all over, from the palms of my hands and down my back.

  “Um,” I hear her unlocking her phone, “Oh! Oh yes, they’re here, and they’re just taking their seats now.”

  “Are they close? You know, will they see me?”

  “Wait, let me ask …” I hear her tapping away on the screen’s keyboard, followed by a woosh, indicating that she sent a message.

  Not long after, I hear a beep. “Yes, they’re sitting super close.”

  “Great … great … okay …” I breathe out, stammering, somewhat hyperventilating.

  Why did I think this was a good idea?

  “Babe, just breathe,” Patty says, as she tries to calm my nerves by rubbing my back in a soothing motion.

  It’s not really working. But I just let her do it anyway.

  Maybe it will help eventually.

  But obviously not right now.

  Definitely not right now.

  We both jump when we hear a knock on the door.

  “Hey, guys. Are you ready? You’re up,” a rough-sounding man asks us through the door.

  Am I? Am I? Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh sh—

  “We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable, babe,” Patty says, still trying to comfort me with her words.

  But it’s now or never.

  Time to take another leap.

  Time to live.

  “I want to do this. I’m ready,” I answer back with a steely determination I wouldn’t have thought would be in me.

  “Right. Let’s do this.” Patty gives me a firm pat on my back, jolting me up.

  “Let’s do this!” I yell back, trying to psyche myself.

  “For love!” Patty yells again.

  “For love!” I repeat, my adrenalin now released, making my heart beat like a drum doing an awesome solo.

  “For Atticus!”

  “For Atticus,” I whisper out, turning to Patty and beaming.

  I’m ready.

  No I’m not.

  I’m fucking not ready.

  We’re standing behind the curtains, and according to Patty, the material is thick enough that no one can see us through it on the other side. I’m just waiting for the guy to signal to us that we’re ready to go.

  “Okay! The wickedly hot, bearded dude just signalled that we can go. I can’t believe this plan of yours is working!” Patty holds me by the arm and starts to guide me forward. But I refuse to move, my feet suddenly feel like they’re stuck permanently on the sticky stage floor.

  “It’s not working yet until I get the outcome I want,” I exhale out aloud, then a thought hits me, “Shit! Wait. God, Patty. What if he rejects me?”

  “Atticus rejecting you is basically like Chris Hemsworth marrying me and having my litter of babies. In other words, impossible.”

  “Babe, I’m sure if Chris isn’t married to a hot actress, doesn’t have a family already, and doesn’t live in Hollywood, I’m sure he’d drop everything to be with you.”

  “And this is why I love you, Han. Now go and take back that man who actually dropped everything just to be with you,” Patty nudges me forward again and just like that, my feet feel lighter, like feathers have just replaced the lead that was weighing me down.

  I feel the brush of the curtains against my skin as Patty opens them for me, whispering for me to walk five straight steps forward. The noise beyond the curtains is louder than I expected, disorientating me and throwing me off-balance.

  I guess I’m not in Avoca anymore.

  Thankfully, Patty’s hand is back on my arm, and she guides me forward. My head is angled down, trying to ignore the not-so-whispered remarks from the crowd, like “OMG, is she blind?” or the “Aww, poor thing.” or even the “Oh shit, I hope she doesn’t fall off the stage.”

  My outstretched hand finally reaches the microphone stand, gripping it like my life depends on it.

  “I got this,” I whisper to Patty.

  “You always do, babe. Oh, and he’s seated to your right, and he looks like a stunned, but still hot, deer in headlights. Now break a leg. Or don’t. Actually, stay intact. I love you!” And with a quick peck on the cheek, Patty lets me go.

  And I’m all alone onstage.

  I’m standing still, clutching my guitar a little too tightly, as I hear people telling others to shush, until finally, terrifyingly, the room is quiet.

  Except for the muffled sound of dance music from upstairs.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  “Hi …” I manage to squeak, clearing my throat and managing to magnify the awful sound with the microphone.

  “Uh … hi, everyone. I’m uh, Hannah. This is my first time here onstage at Ruby Red’s.”

  “You can have another first time with me, sweetheart!” a heckler yells out, making me cringe.

  “Thanks, mate. But I have standards, even for a blind chick,” I answer back, surprised when the crowd actually laughs and cheers back.

  This is good.

  If Atticus doesn’t want anything to do with me after this, then at least I can probably have a career in comedy.

  Focus, Hannah.

  “I asked not be announced before going onstage like the other acts because I wanted this performance to be a surprise to someone very special to me, so … surprise!” I chuckle nervously, facing the crowd on my right, wishing that even for a second, I can see Atticus’s reaction.

  I feel my guts tightening from the nerves again. I have to get this over and done with, like waxing. It’ll be fucking painful, but at least it’s over and done with.

  “Since this is my last ditch chance to make this person change his mind about me, I wasn’t able to get a chance to write this person a song to express my true feelings. But the song I’ve chosen sums up everything I’d like to say.”

  “Who’s the lucky man?” I hear a girl yell out.

  “Uh, I think I’ll save that person, and consequently myself, from complete and utter humiliation. Therefore, I think it’s best if I leave him nameless. This is an acoustic cover of “When I Look At You” by Miley Cyrus.” I hear groaning from the crowd, but I hold off the panic trying to rear its ugly head. “Yes, I know, it’s a Miley Cyrus song, but just humour me please and keep the jeers ‘til the end of the song. My poor ego can only take so much.”

  “Sing it, girl!” I hear an all-too familiar voice yell out, before the crowd starts cheering again.

  Thanks, Brook.

  “Thank you. Okay. Well, here goes nothing.”

  And as the crowd begins to hush, I close my eyes, I take a deep breath, and then I strum.

  It always surprises me when a songwriter can create a song that people living on the other side of the world can connect to. It’s something I’m aspiring to do in the future, and hope to succeed in on my own.

  I especially connected to this song the moment I heard it, albeit by chance because it was in the playlist I was listening to. I never thought I’d be able to hear a song so perfectly aligned with my own thoughts and experiences. Word for word, verse for verse.

  Because in reflection, I know that each and every word of this song are the exact same words I want to tell Atticus.

  I may be blind now, but it’s now that I can see him more clearly.

  So I sing every line like I’m writing him a letter. I sing with my heart attached to my fingers as I pluck the strings of my guitar.

  I sing like it’s my last day on Earth.

  Because I’m singing for my life.

  And my life is literally sitting only a few metres to my right.

  Imagining him watching me while I’m possibly making a complete fool of myself makes my blood pump increasingly faster, my nerve forcing its way through until I know I won’t be able to stop it from spilling out.

  But I manage to make it to the last verse, to the final chorus, and fin
ally, to the last note.

  And then all I hear is silence.

  Silence.

  The I-wish-the-earth-can just-swallow-me-whole silence.

  And then I hear gasps and shrieks from women. Followed by loud whispers I cannot seem to hear clearly.

  By this time, a few beads of sweat are sliding down my temple, and my guts are twisting so tightly that I’m beginning to feel nauseous with the thought that he might have walked out on me.

  They all hate it. But it’s not why I want to just run off the stage.

  Atticus must’ve hated it.

  He fucking hates what I did, and he hates me.

  And just as I’m about to stand up and end the soul-crushing humiliation, I hear a pair of heavy footsteps on the stage.

  And then I smell him.

  I smell that same cologne, mixed with his very own distinct musk.

  And he’s close. Like inches from me, so close that he’s touchable if I try to reach out to him.

  Atticus.

  “So … Miley Cyrus, huh?” I knew it was Atticus. And yet my heart leaps out of my chest as soon as I hear his voice.

  God, it doesn’t matter if he’s talking or singing. All I know is that I love that voice of his.

  I can’t control my bottom lip from trembling, so I just nod, my head tipped down, unsure if I should be embarrassed or proud of my song choice to get Atticus back.

  I feel his finger under my chin, tipping my head up to face him. That single touch sears over my skin, the heat from that single contact is enough to make my trembling lip stop.

  “Was this your plan―to ambush me using your brother’s help, with a cover of a pop song like that, hoping that I’m going to change my mind and not leave Australia indefinitely?” he speaks to me in a monotone, and it kills me that I can’t tell if he’s happy or disappointed at my efforts.

  “Please … just spare me the humiliation,” I whisper, suddenly feeling exposed and unwanted. “I understand if you don’t think I deserve a chance.”

  “You shouldn’t ask me for a chance, Hannah.”

  A lump gets stuck in my throat.

  Any hope of avoiding humiliation in front of all these people has gone to zero percent.

  “If you don’t mind … I just want to leave the stage and not show my face in here again for the rest of my life. So if you just came over to tell me that I lost you forever, then—”

  Atticus interrupts, his tone laced in mirth, “I came here to kiss you, so I’m the only one asking for anything here. May I kiss you now?”

  Oh.

  Ohhhh….

  “Yes,” I answer, nodding back, grinning uncontrollably.

  Have you ever seen those cheesy romance genre movies where, before it cuts into the credits, the girl and the boy finally kiss each other regardless of who witnesses it? Because at that very moment, it’s just the two of them in the room, and everything and everyone else is inconsequential. That’s when the chorus of the movie’s theme song plays to a crescendo, and the crowd erupts into cheers and cries of encouragement, nodding to each other as if agreeing that yes, they finally find each other, they finally figure out that they love each other. It doesn’t matter if they are strangers to the couple because even the most cynical person is a sucker to a happily ever after, whether they admit it or not.

  It’s cheesy, and heart melting, and amazing, and it fills you with a warm, gooey feeling that only a satisfying end to a love story can bring.

  As you can tell, I’m a fan of cheesy.

  And as Atticus and I kiss, I can’t help but feel that spark of hope that maybe, like in those super cheesy but awesome movies, we are finally taking our first step towards our very own happily ever after.

  As anticipated, the crowd slow-claps at first for us, then they’re whistling like crazy, and pounding their hands on their tables like hungry prisoners waiting impatiently for their meals.

  But even through the deafening sound, I still focus all of my senses into the one person who has owned my heart from the very beginning.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Atticus whispers after coming up for breath. He lifts the strap of the guitar up and takes the guitar from me.

  Too giddy to answer, I only manage to nod back, biting my bottom lip to stop myself from giggling like I’ve never been kissed before.

  And before I know it, I’m being hauled off the stage floor, and I squeal as he throws me effortlessly onto his shoulder, the same way he carried me when I adamantly refused to go with him after my support group session. Only this time, there’s no place else I want to be.

  “My guitar!” I squeal once again.

  “Brodie’s got it. Let’s go, woman. We have a lot of catching up to do!” I laughingly cling onto him as he hops off the stage, and I drown in the roars of the crowd.

  For some reason, the image of one of the most classic, fictional movie couples, Zack Mayo and Paula Pokrifki, comes to mind. I can’t help but giggle. This may not be an exact ending straight out of An Officer and a Gentleman, but it sure feels close enough.

  I get caught up in the whole, sweeping me off my feet whirlwind, that before I know it, Atticus has taken me to his place, somewhere in good old Bondi.

  As soon as we make it to his bed, our lips find each other once more, then our clothes are off and probably in a heap all over the floor. We’re touching each other in places we’ve waited so long to rediscover, and I feel my hunger for him grow as I feel every sinew, every movement of his muscles.

  I don’t know how I lasted this long without his touch, how I thought that living without feeling his body against me was even living at all.

  My whole being longed for Atticus all this time, and yet, I was so damn blind to see it.

  But now, as I feel him, hear him, smell him, and taste him, everything that I have missed about Atticus is coming back to me … and yes, I see him.

  I. See. Him.

  And God … he’s beautiful. Just like he always has been, just like I used to wish he wasn’t at my angrier moments.

  We make love with complete abandon, our passionate duet building towards a feverish climax so mind-blowing that after we reach that peak, it takes us forever to catch our breaths.

  Afterwards, he gently tucks me inside the sheets and wraps me securely in his arms.

  God, I missed this.

  I nuzzle in the crook of his neck, a smile set on my face, and I let my fingers trace every muscle on his torso.

  I feel his fingertips run across my jaw, right where my scar sits. I reach for his hand, but not to stop him from going any further. I know that it will take me awhile to get used to the scar, and I know that a big part of it is not knowing exactly what it did to my face. It’s the fear of the unknown, a kind of fear that naturally comes with the inability to see. But it’s a fear that I’d hope to eventually be at peace with when the right time comes.

  I take Atticus’s hand, and I turn to leave a lingering kiss on it’s palm, hoping that the small gesture will show him that I remember every beautiful thing he said about my scar.

  “How did you do it?” I ask, finally finding my voice.

  “Did what?” Atticus asks, his forefinger drawing lazy circles on my upper arm.

  “You know, how did you manage to follow me without being caught out?”

  “It’s not hard to be around you when you know I’m in America.”

  “True. Although I did get that feeling sometimes. I can’t explain it, but it felt comforting,” I pause, trying to remember instances when I either felt goose bumps or felt enveloped in warmth. Then I continue, “How did you help me?”

  I feel Atticus’s chest rise and fall as he breathes deeply, “Hmm … I guess the most common thing I used to do was make sure that I cleared a path for you to walk through. But not always, since you were pretty capable to weave your way through a crowded sidewalk or a crossing. It was just when it got too crowded, or if there were rowdy kids who might cause trouble for you. I also made sure to catch the bus w
ith you, but I would be a couple of seats away, in case someone tried to take advantage of you. As much as this city is relatively safe, I’d be damned if I let you out alone. Sick perverts exist in even the safest towns,” he snorts. “Speaking of sickos, I remember that night you went to Ruby Red’s to go clubbing—”

  “Wait!” I lightly smack him on the chest, cutting him off, “Was that you? Were you the guy who punched that sleazebag?”

  “I’ve punched two sleazebags for you. And I’d gladly do it again. I want to be the one to keep you safe.”

  My insides tighten at his admission. I know that what he’s admitting to is practically caveman in nature, but he acted like a caveman only because he wanted to keep me safe.

  Call me crazy, but I find Atticus in caveman mode extremely desirable.

  But he has a burgeoning career that could easily be taken away by a single punch.

  “You could’ve gotten yourself hurt. Not only that, but you also have a singing career to take care of so you have to take care of yourself. Why didn’t you just get someone else to do it, if you were so adamant at steering me away from harm?”

  “I couldn’t care less if I got hurt. You know about my past. I’m used to the pain.”

  “Atticus …” I close my eyes momentarily, recalling the shit he’s been through from his father,

  “It had to be me, Han. I had to be the one to take care of you because it means I get a chance to be near you. I know how that sounds. It sounds creepy, right?” he pauses once again, and I take that chance to speak up.

  “Now that I know the whole story, no, it isn’t creepy. Not at all. And I think it’s quite chivalrous, actually.”

  I feel his lips on my temple, and he squeezes me tightly. “Don’t tell your brother this because I love him like my own brother, and I’d hate for him to be upset with me over this. But one of the reasons why I wanted Halcyon to be the front act on my first tour was because he was my connection to you. That connection meant hearing about you from Brodie. Of course I pretended to be nonchalant about it, even though it killed me like a motherfucker when he used to talk about you and Paul. But I listened to every word because hearing him talk about how happy you were, in a weird sort of way, made me feel happy as well. I was just glad that Paul gave you happiness when I so clearly couldn’t do it.”