Page 55 of Poetry By Dead Men
“I think of it kind of like pieces of our lives, the things that pull us apart for a little while. You go off to school here," he touches an infinity sign, "and I go on tour here, but they’re still linked together, never breaking until they meet right back around where they started. No matter where our lives take us, Beth, you’re it for me." He lifts my chin, meeting my eyes and swiping a tear away with his thumb.
"I love you so much," I say, and my voice cracks. "I wish I had something for you.”
"I have your song," he says, patting his pocket. "I read it before every show, and it reminds me that some things are just meant to be." Bobby leans closer, his hand sliding through my hair, tilting my head back and brushing his lips against mine. "We’re one of those things," Bobby whispers against my lips before claiming them wholly and desperately.
And while I love the bracelet and never want to take it off, this, what Bobby and I have together, is the only gift I really need.
NOW
August 2024: Arlington, TX
Don't hide behind your pretty words
Pretend your heart’s not black and blue
But may the jealous weep, if they try to keep
All those pretty words inside you
—An excerpt from "The Application," written and performed by Robert Beckett
“How’s the article coming?” Harrison asks on FaceTime a couple days later. He’s working as we chat, looking at his computer screen rather than the phone. Even so, he’s been making an effort to call me every morning since I left. He should be, considering I’m here writing the article that’s solidifying his career.
“Great. It’s fun writing again—being creative.”
“Have you figured out why he wantedyouto write it?” His voice is playful, but I hear the meaning between his words loud and clear.
“Besides the reason he already told you?” I sigh and rub my forehead. “Because I’m a talented writer, Harrison.” I say, feeling brave. I should, seeing as there’s several states of distance between us.
“Of course you are, babe! I’m just kidding…” he trails off, typing for a few seconds. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask.
Harrison stops and finally looks at the screen. “What are you mad about now? I’m just saying he could have chosen anyone,” he says, as ifI’mthe problem here.
I sigh. “I’m not mad,” I say, because I don’t want to get into it. Not because I’m afraid of what Harrison will say, but because I’m starting to think I could tell him how I feel until I’m blue in the face, and he won’t care. It’s exhausting. “I need to get to soundcheck.”
“Right. Wouldn’t want to miss time withRobert.” He says his name like an insult. “You can’t miss one soundcheck with the guy to talk to your fiancé?” he says, and I roll my eyes.
“No. This is my job. Oneyouinsisted I take, if you’ll remember. I’ll call you later,” I say, hanging up before he can argue with me further. I turn my phone on vibrate, sliding it into my pocket as I walk out into the sweltering Texas heat.
It feels like I'm swimming in the air, the humidity so thick, I swear water droplets are sticking to my hair and making it damp. I pull my shirt away from my sweaty stomach as I walk around the stage, wondering how it seems like we’realwaysin stadiums in the hottest cities.
I walk around the corner toward the front of the stage, pulling my sunglasses down from on top of my head and my notebook from my back pocket, and pick a random seat in the front row. Bobby’s singing one of his new songs. One that he wroteafter,and it's quickly becoming one of my favorites. It's slow and sensual, full of emotion and hope, with about twenty seconds right in the middle for one of Johnny's signature guitar solos—which is what I'm listening to right now.
The solo ends and Bobby's voice bounces across the empty stadium seats, the echo somehow rough and smooth at the same time. It makes heat bloom in my stomach, and I grit my teeth in annoyance.
You’re a professional,I remind myself.This is just a job.
But then I look up, and I desperately wish I’d been a little less professional and skipped this particular soundcheck. Bobby hasn't noticed me yet, his back toward me as he sings facing his band. But that's not what makes me regret my decision to be a committed journalist.
It's the fact that apparently, even Bobby isn't immune to the Texas heat. He’s shirtless on the stage, as is much of the band. But they don't make my knees feel like rubber or my breath come in short spurts.
Get a grip.I chide myself, but I'm not sure it's possible. Not with how this man looks shirtless.
His back is nothing but stone-hard, muscular perfection, his tan shoulders broad and strong, tapering into a thin, but perfectly honed waist. It’s absurd how fit he is, and completely unfair—something I should have been made aware of so I could addno taking your shirt offto my list of demands.
The song ends, and Bobby fist pumps into the air on the last beat of the drum. There’s a flash of pink on the inside of his arm—a tattoo—and I squint to see what it is, but it’s too small to make out the details. His smile is enthralling as he turns toward the front of the stage, taking off his cap and putting it on backward.
