Page 64 of If Not for My Baby
The climax of the song takes off running. Evocative, extraordinary, and conjuring a whimsical apocalypse and the man who would have given up already if it weren’t for me. The woman he loves. Conor’s darkly romantic bass line haunts and soars.
I’m about to drive my final melody home, when Tom does something he’s never done before. He prowls across the stage,drawing nearer as he howls the tender, reflective tune into his mic, until we are nearly face-to-face. Then he cradles my cheek in his hand.
The performer’s golden rule—be it a Cherry Grove High theater nerd or a sold-out stadium-tour vocalist—is alwaysthe show must go on. It’s our job to improvise and roll with whatever happens onstage. And I’ve known since our first show in Memphis that there’s an element of performance here—but the calluses of his palm scraping against my cheek, and the warmth that spreads across my chin and ear…
I cannot fake—cannotperform—what that does to me. Our eyes are locked as the rich, final note splits from both my lips and his. I don’t even need my own mic—our faces are so close we share his, held between us. The melancholic tune pulses through us, my chest aching as I sing directly to Tom, and him to me.
The duet ends. I close my eyes. Tom tips my chin up with his thumb, stooping to bring his head toward mine, and I think for a brief, impossible moment, that he’s going to kiss me. I lean into him like warm honey over the curve of a spoon. Our noses brush, his forehead pressed to mine, our sweat mingling. If there’s a cheering audience, I can’t hear a peep.
All I hear is the ragged, hungry exhales gulping out of Tom. His hiss of breath when I bring my hand to his wrist, where he’s still clasping my face. I swipe my tongue across my lower lip. My mouth is too dry. I’m scorching hot. I need his lips to fix me.
“Thank ye, Boston,” Tom booms into our shared mic, releasing me and sending the crowd of thousands to an otherworldly decibel.
Twenty-Two
“That was sohot,” Mollysays, tying her river of shiny black hair into a knot atop her head. “When did you guys plan that?”
But I can hardly hear her. I may look the same, walk the same, give Pete my mic and Lionel my backpack the same, but I am far from it. Tonight has changed the atoms of my makeup. Rearranged them into something hungry and wanting and new.
I need to find Tom. I cannot allow another night to go by, me in my coffin-bunk, him in his suite, separated by flimsy plastic and sheet metal. Molly says something else, but I’m already moving. My phone is dead and I can’t bring myself to ask anyone where he is after that performance of ours. Cursory glance over the greenroom complete, I hurry through the hallway. My pulse is practically going at light speed when I reach the private spot he was holed up in before the show.
I crane the door open and find the room empty. No Tom in sight.
“He’s on the bus already,” a pleasant voice rings out. Indy.
I spin, caught.
“I’m just—”
“Clementine.” She smiles. “It’s fine. Nobody’s going to care.”
She’s right, of course. “He doesn’t want anyone to know.”
“He almost mauled you in front of twenty thousand people.”
“It was just the song.”
She purses her lips. “Well, whatever it was, Jen thinks it’ll be great for the socials.”
I stand around dumbly. My feet hurt and my neck is hot beneath my loose hair. I need a scrunchie. And an ice bath.
“Go,” she encourages. “I’ll tell them you’re helping me get some content. You have an hour or so before we’re gonna leave. Everyone’s having a drink here since the drive is so short.”
Indy is honestly the coolest. “You are such a good friend,” I say. “I owe you.”
She shakes her head and her long braid sways. “All you owe me are the dirty details.”
“We’ve only kissed.”
Indy’s eyes grow wide, her mouth twisting deviously. “Holy hell. Why is that even better?”
“Tonight,” I promise her, giddiness slipping into my expression. I can’t help it. I can feel the dam waiting to break. “I’ll tell you everything.”
And then I’m off, through the halls, past security,sprinting out to the tour bus. This time, when I climb the stairs, Salvatore is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Hey there,” I greet him, breathless.
“How was the gig?” Salvatore’s voice is thick American Italian, and though he sounds like a mobster, he’s a gentle giant. A week ago, stuck on a closed-down highway, he showed Conor and me the pictures of his grandkids he keeps in his wallet. All nineteen of them.
