Page 153 of Again, In Autumn

“Call us later,” Francesca says. “We’ll go find a cowboy bar to hang out in. This is still the south, I’m sure most places let kids in.”

I take the poster board, nervous and giddy, and tell them all goodbye.

At the entrance door, I’m allowed inside to the dark open room with a long, busy bar all along the side. It’s hazy and crowded. Loud. I bump into people right and left, following the sound of cheering and guitar music. The crowd appears to be a mix of college aged and mid-thirties, cowboy boots and Adidas, red wine and Bud Light.

I stand on a second tier of the venue, bunched up against a man with an unsteady grasp on his beer.

A square, low to the ground stage is lit up with lights. A small band plays behind a standing microphone. Adam strings his guitar, and his vocal cords press into the side of his neck. He’s smiling, sweaty and broad. My vision tunnels to him, as does everyone else in this room, but he’s something to them and something else to me entirely.

Glancing down at the poster board, I decide it’s not a bad gesture to get his attention.

I push my way to the bottom floor. The sea of bodies does not part easily, but I search for some spot where I might be noticeable. With the bright lights in his eyes, everyone else must be dark to him.

Adam finishes a song and the crows cheers. He raises his white t-shirt to wipe sweat from his brow, taking a few whistles of appreciation.

“All right, ya’ll we’re getting off to a good start!” He laughs as the crowd cheers again.

He exhales into the microphone. “This place is pretty special to me. This is the first venue I ever played and, when the time comes, it’ll be the last place I ever play.”

He looks around at the congregation of fans.

“Coming back here every year, especially during the holidays, means a lot. It means a lot to Kai, too, check him out.” He points to the drummer who is bathed in a lit-up Christmas lightbulb necklace.

Kai dangles the bells of his elf hat and rumbles on a drum.

Adam throws his head back and laughs. “Okay, let’s keep this train moving. This next song is a new one I wrote, it’ll hopefully make it onto my next album. It’s called, He Is Me.”

I stand on a stair. People pass me to get to the bathroom or the bar or to move down to the bottom floor. It’s shoulder-to-shoulder now.

Adam sings, “I stared down the tunnel of my empty, wounded, tired heart. I gave it all the bandage needed, took acceptance for my part, in the pain and suffering I have caused the reachable, the bruised. I find forgiveness. For me. For you.”

Screw it.

I unfold Grayson’s poster and hold it up over my head. It’s not a boombox, but the sentiment is the same.

“Sorry,” I mutter as I slide out of the way.

Everyone passing throws me wide eyes, embarrassed for me and confused, reading the scribbles of a five-year-old with a black Sharpie marker.

He wrote in all capital letters: ADAM! I KLIMD UP THE CHREEHAWS!

Adam continues, “I am letting go of all I’ve thought but never really felt. Shedding layers of ancient skin, long grievances I’ve held. I am tired of pretending that I could’ve been someone new by holding on to this overwhelming sentiment of blue.”

My arms begin to get tired. Someone around me is bound to snap and tell me to put it down.

Adam’s eyes cast around the room. “I was the idiot, and you were the cautionary tale. I threw myself into it and you were there to watch me fail. We laughed, we cried, got ourselves in a bind, that I can’t entangle, not then or now –”

He stops. In the middle of his song, the middle of his verse, our eyes meet. Adam is frozen, his band confused. They eventually go silent too. His eyelids flutter, his mouth cocks into a crooked smile as he reads the sign. After a moment of furrowed brows and mouthing to himself, he finally drops his chest in a heavy exhale.

The crowd whispers to each other. Some follow his eyes to me.

Adam breathes through pinched red cheeks and pulls the guitar strap from his head.

“I know this is unprofessional,” he says into the microphone. “But can you guys give me a minute?”

He hands the guitar to another guitar player on the stage and jumps down from the platform.

I drop the sign on the floor next to me. My ears ring, my stomach flutters, but all I see is Adam, coming towards me. He’s not Adam Kent right now. He’s my Adam, and we’re the only two people in the world.

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