It most definitely has.
We stare at each other for what feels like forever but is merely seconds before a slow smile crawls onto his handsome face. “Jesus, it really is you,” he says before he swoops me up in a hug, picks me up off the floor as he does so, and just holds on tight with his face buried in the curve of my shoulder.
He smells of leather and soap from the shower he must have taken after the show. His hair is wet against the side of my face, and his arms are strong as they squeeze me tight.
Processing my feelings is impossible, so I shove them away and try to memorize the moment.
“Fuck, man. If you’re going to fuck her, then at least get out of the hallway,” someone says as they bump past us.
“It’s not like that.” Vince chuckles as he sets me down.
It’s now when we stare at each other that the awkwardness sets in. For the first few moments, it was like he was the guy I used to know, and now he’s the famous musician I don’t really know anything about.
When we finally talk, we both start at the same time.
“Sorry,” we say in unison.
“You go first,” I say through my laugh.
“I still can’t believe you’re standing in front of me.” He runs a hand through his hair as he shakes his head. “What are you doing here?” he asks and motions for me to get out of the way. Distractions are everywhere around us. People moving about. Black cases being moved here and there. Voices shouting out and echoing down the corridors.
There’s a harshness to it all that clearly Vince is more than used to.
“I don’t know,” I say and shrug as someone walks past him and hands him a beer.
“Want one?”
“No. I don’t think—”
“Killer show, man,” a guy says and fist-bumps him. “I love that new riff you added into Take Me Down. Talk about kicking it up a notch. No doubt kids’ll be all over the socials trying to copy it.” He laughs. “That’s how you know you’ve made it. Hey, you heading out with us?”
Vince looks to me and then back to him. “Nah. Not right now.”
The guy looks at me and his eyes widen. “Oh. Gotcha. Dude, your bus is free and clear if you need it . . .” He looks my way again and smirks. “For whatever you might need it for.”
“I—I’m not—” I start to say when I realize he thinks I’m a groupie here to sleep with Vince, but the man just holds his hands up in a no judgment motion before taking a step backward and walking away.
“Just ignore him,” Vince says with a chuckle. “He’s just . . . Jimmy.”
I stare at Vince and suddenly feel absolutely ridiculous being here. What did I expect? That we’d see each other and things would be like they were back when we were in high school? That we’d slip back into talking about how Mr. Parker sucks as a math teacher, how my mom won’t budge on my curfew . . . and I don’t even know what else.
“I’m sorry.” I laugh nervously and look around at this chaos he lives in and know I’m way out of my element. “I just showed up without warning. I’m sure you have other plans.”
“Get your ass in here, Jennings,” someone calls from an open doorway. I’m actually grateful for the interruption so I have time to calm my nerves.
“Follow me for a sec?” he asks and then moves toward the door. It’s a large room—what I would think a quintessential backstage would look like. A large oriental rug, couches everywhere, and people milling about. The band members. The women from outside. Other people trying to look the part but that stand out like a sore thumb.
The music is loud and the cigarette smoke is thick as Vince introduces me to a few people. I like his bandmates immediately. Hawkin Play, the lead singer, definitely owns the room. He’s charismatic and energetic even after running around on the stage for the past few hours. Rocket, their other guitarist, is definitely the class clown of the group, and Gizmo, their drummer, the more mellow one.
I’m sure the mellowness isn’t hindered by the woman’s throat he currently has his tongue down.
Vince is pulled in to settle a debate between Gizmo and Hawkin as I move to the edge of the room and just take it all in. This new and crazy lifestyle that he leads.
And as I stand here, it’s obvious to me from the various people vying for Vince’s attention, that everybody wants something from him. His bandmates want his mediation skills. The women who keep walking up and running a hand down his arm with huge come fuck me eyes want in his pants. The other guests wait for a snippet of his time and seem satisfied when they get it.
How silly is it for me to still love a man as untouchable as him?
And yet, I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away from him.
Because of that inability, I see the minute he realizes I’ve slinked off into the shadows of the room. He stands on his toes and scans the room to find me, his smile greeting me when he does.
He’s at my side in seconds. “Sorry. It’s habit to unwind like this after a show.”
“Don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have come. I—”
“What are you talking about?” Vince says, grin widening. “It’s a lot. I know, but you get used to it. Come on, let’s go to my dressing room. It’s quieter there.”
I follow him as he starts to walk, my mind still trying to process that Vince is in front of me. How very different his life is compared to mine.
And what now?
We pass open doors—one where another party is clearly going on. Another where someone shouts out his name and he just lifts his middle finger at him. A third where the smell of pot permeates the air. People stop him to compliment him or ask him questions, and after each time, he apologizes.
“It’ll be quieter in here,” he says and pushes open a door with his name on it. The room is medium sized. A leather couch is on one side, a table on the opposite wall with a variety of food and drinks set up on it. A rack of clothes is beside it. Jazz plays softly on a speaker in the far corner, which should surprise me most but he always did like to listen to it to unwind.
“Thank you,” I murmur, still not sure what to do or say.
“Have a seat. Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Water. Beer. A Coke?”
Right about now I could use a whole bottle of something strong to battle my nerves. “A beer is fine.”
He lifts his brow at me, almost as if he too is having a hard time remembering we aren’t in high school anymore.
I thought this would be so much easier than it is. We’ve always had an effortless friendship, so I don’t know how to be any other way with him.
No time like the present to figure it out.
“I didn’t mean to just show up. I saw you were in town and decided to drive down. I didn’t think that you might have plans with the guys . . . or other women to go out with or . . . anything. I just—”
He puts a playful hand over my mouth from behind as he hands me a beer with his other before whispering in my ear. “You always did ramble when you were nervous.” He laughs. “Why you nervous, Shug?”
He lets go and circles around me to take a seat on the arm of the couch with one combat boot on the cushion beside me and the other on the floor so he can face me.
“I’m not nervous.” I take a sip of beer and cringe at the taste.
He just stares at me, his head angled to the side, his hand reaching up to scratch the side of his neck. He has a couple of leather bracelets on his wrist. It’s so much easier to focus on them than him, but there is one in particular that catches my eye.
It’s a thin, black, faded braid of a bracelet. I remember giving him that on his eighteenth birthday, because it was all I could afford but thought he would like.
My eyes flash to his and one corner of his lips turn up, his eyes soft. “What can I say? It’s my good luck charm.”
“You’ve kept it all this time?”
“Something like that.” He takes a long drink of his beer and ignores a knock on the door. A little part of me melts knowing he’s kept it all these years. “What’d you think of the show?”