Page 50 of Poetry By Dead Men
I can’t watch your words wither away in your mind
While mine ring out clear and loud
I’d rather let my own words die
Than let yours disappear into the clouds
—An excerpt from "Little Bird," written and performed by Robert Beckett
"Holy shit! Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!" Molly seems to have malfunctioned, because that’s essentially all she’s been saying for the past hour. "Holy—"
"Shit?" I tilt my head and grin, and Molly bites her tongue.
“Mom says that’s a bad word,” Michael’s little voice pipes in. I peer around Molly to look at him for the hundredth time since dinner. He’s wearingallthe freaking merch, and it’s oddly hilarious to see my boyfriend's face on his way-too-big shirt.
It took quite a bit of convincing for Molly’s parents to let him tag along tonight, and his mom’s picking him up as soon as Bobby’s set is over, but she couldn’t say no.
Not when Michael is officially a Robert Beckett super fan.
"Sorry. You’re right, buddy. It’s just so cool, right?" Molly says, patting his head.
“Right! Holy shit!” He jumps up, his eyes darting between Molly and me. “Don’t tell Mom.”
“I’d never,” I say, ruffling his hair.
We’re standing in the very front of the arena. There’s a suite somewhere above us with some of Bobby’s friends and his mom, and while I got an invitation to watch the show with them, I immediately, and politely, declined. There’s no way in hell I'm going to watch Bobby's first show on tour from anywhere other than the front row.
I bounce on my toes, so nervous I feel like I could throw up. Bobby’s been practicing around the clock for the past few weeks with a full band. Most of the guys played with him in New York, but they've added a few more to fill out the sound. He has roadies and a bus driver and even a guy, Wes, who’s entire job is to hand him different guitars throughout his set. It’s incredible, and it’s well-deserved.
I look at my phone—6:55. Five minutes until Bobby is officially a touring musician. And not just a touring musician, but one opening arena shows.
Giant arenas, with thousands of full seats.
My stomach flips again.
"I think I’m going to vomit," I say, sitting down and putting my head in my hands.
“Don’t do that. They’ll kick us out,” Michael says.
“No one’s kicking us out.” Molly rolls her eyes. "Excuse me. Can I have this?" Molly asks the girl next to her, grabbing the beer out of her hand without waiting for a reply.
"Hey!" The girl protests, but Molly stops her.
"This is Robert Beckett’s girlfriend, and she’s about to have a panic attack. Here." Molly hands me the beer, then pulls a twenty out of her purse. "Thank you so much," she says to the girl as she smiles broadly and hands her the cash, her voice as sweet as sugar.
Molly’s good at that. At getting what she wants with confidence. I take a sip of the frothy beer. It’s disgusting, but it makes my belly warm and distracts me from my nerves, so I tilt my head back and take a few deep gulps.
Molly blocks me from Michael’s view so he doesn’t see.
"He’s going to crush it, okay? Your job isn't to worry about him. Your job is to be his biggest fan," Molly reminds me.
"Right. Got it. Biggest fan." It shouldn’t be a problem, because I genuinelyamhis biggest fan. In every way possible.
Well, maybe other than Michael.
The lights dim, and I take another gulp, my heart fluttering in anticipation, and I stand back up. A soulful note rings out—a guitar solo by Johnny. I’d heard all about it on the bus last night—that he was getting the opening notes of the show, so technically, it was his show, too. Bobby had laughed his good-natured laugh and reminded him that there were two other guitar players he could give the solo to if it was going to inflate his ego.
The band walks on stage, beginning to play alongside Johnny. It’s one of Bobby's older songs, “Roots,” but it’s one of my favorites. A guitar-heavy banger about where he came from and where he plans to go—the perfect introduction song. Bobby finally walks into the spotlight, his guitar slung around his shoulder and an enormous grin plastered on his face. My whole body heats, just like it does every time he takes the stage.
