Page 133 of The Devil We Know

“Fair warning, my wife hasn't actually heard this song.” He smirks and shrugs, and the crowd at first gasps and then joins him in his humorous moment. “And it's not just because I like to put her on the spot. In this case, I need her knack for improvisation to fill in the gaps, where either I fuck up or I just need a moment.”

I frown, glaring at him. “Well, thanks a fucking lot.”

His smile is affectionate, and again, he winks. “You know you love me.”

I make a face, bringing my hand up and wiggling it back and forth as I reply, “50/50, sliding scale.” I give everyone a few moments to laugh at our little joke, but then I ask, “So just to be clear, you're going to sing your parts, but then if you look like you're fucking up or just need a moment to collect yourself, you want me to jump in and just throw out whatever I feel like?”

“Yes,” he replies seriously. “That's exactly what I'm saying.”

I raise my eyebrows, grimacing theatrically as I mutter, “Well, this won't be awkward at all.”

“What do you all think?” he asks the audience. “Do you think she can handle it?”

The crowd's response is a whole new decibel level. I'm sure quite a few people here have seen our previous concerts, whether live or on streaming, as they're always a crowd favorite. And though this one certainly has a less excitable tone, they likely all think it'll be amazing.

I'm not quite convinced, but if nothing else, it will be something someone writes about tomorrow—good or bad.

Declan shifts on his stool, adjusting his microphone one last time before sitting back, his hands going to his guitar. He looks over at me questioningly, and when I nod, he turns back to the crowd, waiting for complete silence.

Then, his voice rings out in a rough musical whisper. “You dirty, rotten, no-good motherfuckerrrrrr.”

I frown. But then he pulls back from the microphone and laughs, almost like he's laughing at his own inside joke.

He clears his throat again, looking out of the crowd as he says, “You know the drill, folks. Just bear with me. I'll get my shit together eventually.”

The audience has their laugh and then quiets down, waiting in anticipation for Declan to get his shit together.

His expression turns serious, that sadness morphing and shifting until it's tinged in anger, love, and despair. As if thiskaleidoscope of emotions is coalescing inside of his brain in order for him to properly articulate in such a manner that even the most untouched might feel it.

You didn’t get my permission

You didn’t stop to think about

The rest of us, lost here now without you

One minute, the world spins

And in the very next instant, it stops

Because you’re just…gone

I want to pretend it didn’t happen

That maybe your existence was a

Figment of my imagination

That faking this new life is feasible

A moment of peace attainable

Where I forget you, even for a moment,

But then, the pain dulls

And the visceral fear of

Never having known you

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