Page 67 of Stray for You

Tim twirls a drumstick between his fingers. He steps closer, slapping me on the chest.

“You’ve got this, man,” he says.

Of everyone in the band, he’s worked with me the most on this. He volunteered when he heard my reasons, which surprised me a little. I thought Tim was straight. Maybe he is. I’ve never actually asked or inquired, figuring it was none of my business. Maybe he’s just a really nice guy who wants to help out his bandmate, but it wasn’t until Julian was in the picture that Tim suddenly swept in hoping to help me pull this off.

“Thanks,” I say. “You really helped a lot. I don’t know if I could have done this without you.”

He smiles. “Just get out there and knock your man off his feet, okay?”

He hugs me, and I accept the gesture, drawing strength from his confidence in me, in our practices. We’ve been working on this ever since we found out the band inexplicably got into this big festival. We missed out the first year we applied, spent timeworking on our stuff, and applied again the next year. When we got in, Erin screamed so loud I thought she’d ruin her trademark voice, but after the initial wave of excitement passed, we got to work refining our music, writing new songs, ensuring we knew every note like we know our own names.

Now it’s time to perform.

I’m opening for my own band. They all insisted I go first, that I seize this moment when I have the spotlight to myself to put my plan into motion. Then they’ll join me and we’ll play out our set.

First, I have to remember how to walk.

The emcee announces us, and my legs turn to jelly. Tim has to give me a push to send me stumbling toward the stage with my guitar. I have nothing else with me. The drum kit and amps and mic are already set up and waiting for us, and I focus on plugging in my guitar and ensuring everything is set up how I like it.

Then I can’t delay any longer. I turn and face the largest crowd of my life.

The stage stands tall over a literal field of people. They chose the Gorge Amphitheatre for this festival, a massive valley in Washington that offers nearly boundless open space. The stage is just about the only structure around that isn’t the tents where festival goers are sleeping for the weekend. And those festival goers are all clusteredhere, right in front of me, a quilt of indistinguishable faces that spreads out as far as I can see. The sun washes them out, the sky overheard scuffed with a sparse scattering of clouds on a hot summer afternoon. Or maybe it feels even hotter to me because of how hard I’m sweating over this.

There at the front of the crowd, a couple faces break up the sea of anonymous spectators. I lock eyes with Julian, who stands against the railing beside our mothers. The moment his cool gaze meets mine, the liquid fear inside me hardens to steel. Iapproach the mic with my guitar slung across my chest.

“This is a song I wrote for someone I care about,” I say.

The crowd isn’t sure how to react, but I luckily I don’t need them to do anything but listen. As I pick out the first lilting notes of the song, the music swells to fill the gorge. I close my eyes and fall into the music, and there’s nothing behind my eyelids except that image of Julian staring up at me from the crowd. By the time I reach the chorus, my voice is booming out strong and sure.

You were never mine.

Always someone else’s.

Always in demand.

And I, I stayed behind.

But if fate is kind…

She’ll bring us back together.

I can’t hear myself anymore. I can’t feel my fingers on my guitar strings. My body moves automatically, every note drilled into me over months and months of practice. It’s almost an out of body experience. I drift away from myself, watch myself perform something so deeply personal before a crowd of thousands and thousands of strangers — and the three people who aren’t strangers, the three most important people in that entire valley.

Then the last note wavers off my guitar and out of my mouth, and I slowly come back to myself, like a dreamer waking after a long, restful sleep. I open my eyes, find that anonymous crowd still and breathless before me. My eyes fall to the man against the railing, and even from this distance, I can see tears shining on Julian’s cheeks. We gaze at each other for a moment, my song bridging the space between us, tethering us to each other regardless of how many other people are around. I know he heard me. I know he heard every intention behind those lyrics.

Then the crowd erupts, and a wave of sound disrupts ourconnection.

In seconds, my band is joining me on the stage, slapping my shoulders and congratulating me as they take up their places and their instruments.

It’s easy after that, almost trivial. Playing with Erin and Kelsey and Tim is as simple as breathing. With them around me, I’m not the sole point of focus, which allows me to relax and settle into the music. As we whip through our set list, I forget all about the crowd, even smiling as I do what I do best. Maybe someday music could be my life, but even if it can’t, this moment will always occupy a sacred place in my heart. We made it. The Ten Hours actually made it to a real stage and a real show. There are thousands of people listening to our music, and from the glimpses I get of the crowd, they’re feeling it. Erin’s voice seems to fill the entire gorge, so big the sky itself can’t contain her. Kelsey keeps us on pace with her bass. Tim adds a flourish with dramatic drum beats. I play my part as well, stepping up for my solos, letting my fingers fly freely across the neck of my guitar.

I don’t know how long the set lasts. I know how long it was supposed to last, but the whole thing passes in a blur. My heart never stops racing. My blood is pounding in my ears the whole time. I never want it to end, but before I can blink we’re taking a bow before a screaming crowd and hauling our instruments off the stage as the crew sweeps in to switch us out for the next act.

At first, all we can do is scream and jump around and hug each other. The crew ushers us backstage, which is really just the grassy area behind the stage, but none of us care. Tim nearly tackles me to the ground from hugging me so hard.

“If you weren’t basically married, I would kiss you right now, dude,” Tim says.

Seriously, what is this guy’s deal? He never talks about his personal life or his sexuality, so I genuinely can’t tell if these are jokes or if he’s trying to relate to me as a fellow queer man.

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