Page 109 of Poetry By Dead Men
"I could say the same to you, Bobby Beckett."
ONE YEAR LATER
2025, New York City, NY
Will you sing along with me,
A second chance melody?
—An excerpt from "Second Chance Melody," written and performed by Robert Beckett
An usher escorts me to the front row of Madison Square Garden, where an empty seat waits for me. It's completely ridiculous. This is Bobby's first performance since his transplant, and I've told him a hundred times I want to watch from the side stage, but he wouldn't hear of it.
"Your leg might get tired," he'd said again and again, as if I haven’t been walking on it for nine months and going to physical therapy three times a week for a good portion of that. I still have a slight limp, but aside from a little soreness at the end of the day, I've made a full recovery.
Today is a big day. Bobby and I closed on an apartment. A penthouse, actually, with views of New York that inspire me to write in ways I never have before. But that's not the only reason it feels so monumental. No—the other reason is that I turned in the final copy of my manuscript this morning.
Mine and Bobby’s love story.
Filled with poems inspired by love and loss, of missed time, and finding it again.
While Bobby recovered, I wrote an ending. A clean, uncomplicated one, where Bobby received a stranger’s heart, and we lived happily ever after.
It took some time, and a lot of therapy, to finally get to a place where I wanted to replace my fictional ending with what feels like the truth.
We still don't know if Bobby's new heart used to beat in Harrison's chest, and we’ve made peace with that.
It’s one of the many things I’ve had to make peace with. Getting past the guilt has been an equally hard challenge. There was a time when self-blame followed me like a shadow. Maybe if I hadn't lied to Harrison, he wouldn’t have snapped. Maybe if I’d recognized that something was going on at work, or I’d been better at communicating, things would have been different. But I've learned to let that mindset go.
No matter what my mind tries to tell me, I know now that it’s not my fault. We all make choices, and they are ours alone to own.
Years ago, Bobby chose to set me free to pursue my dreams. I chose not to go to Europe and study abroad. I chose to ignore all of Bobby's attempts to reach out to me. Harrison chose to try to love me, and then he chose violence.
None of it changes the end result.
We’re here.
We're alive.
And as I watch Bobby walk confidently on stage, I’ve never been more in love.
He looks healthy, vibrant. His blue eyes are bright as they fall directly on me, and my skin heats.
I stand up and cup my mouth with my hands, shouting like his number one fan.
He smiles, but points at me, then the chair, raising his eyebrows. I roll my eyes but oblige him. Just for tonight. We've both been through a lot, and if I'm honest, it's nice to have someone care about me enough to over-worry about my needs.
I sit for the majority of the show, mostly so Bobby will be able to focus on his performance.
Johnny starts playing, and the crowd loses their minds, screaming for so long, he has to loop through the intro to The Application three times before they quiet down enough to let him start singing.
Every moment is magical, but when Bobby sings the last note of “Someone Who Loves You,” patting his pocket where my poem still acts as his good luck charm, my heart feels so full, it’s like the sun is shining directly into it.
It’s not just me wiping away tears. I don't think there's a dry eye in the house. Thanks to theRolling Stonearticle and the excessive news coverage about the crash, everyone knows the story of Beth and Bobby, and while it's taken some adjusting to get used to the cameras and the tabloids, I think most people are genuinely happy for us.
The house lights come up, and Bobby hands over his guitar. "Thank you, everyone," he says, taking a seat on the stool behind him.
I'm confused, and I strain my neck to peek at the floor where Bobby's set list is taped to the stage. I thought he was going straight into “Roots” next, which is far too up-tempo to sit down to perform, but maybe there was a last-minute change.
