Page 79 of Poetry By Dead Men
Their voices get stronger and louder as the song builds, and they get closer and closer to one another until they’re standing only a foot apart and singing directly to each other. I know it’s a performance, but it feels so intimate I almost feel the needto turn away.
Don’t be ridiculous,I remind myself.He has a ring. He loves you.Even watching them sing right now, Kelsey certainly seems more into it than he does. While he closes his eyes for most of it, occasionally looking out over the crowd, Kelsey stares right at him as if she’s trying to peer into his soul.
The song ends, and Kelsey leans in to give Bobby a hug. He wraps one arm around her from the side, thanking the audience and waving at them as they exit the stage. Bobby finds my eyes as they walk off, letting Kelsey go the second they're out of sight of the audience, and I don't miss the way her eyes flash with annoyance.
"She’s great, right?" he asks me, raising his eyebrows as he takes a swig of his water.
“You both sounded amazing," I say.
Bobby smiles at me as he wipes his face with the hem of his shirt, flashing his abs, and I get the sudden urge to lick them. To pull the shirt off completely and drag him into the ocean and let the salt on his skin mix with the salt in the ocean.
"I think so, too. And guess what? She just signed a contract to come on as my opener for the tour starting in February."
"Oh, really?" I do my best to keep the tone of my voice light and excited, but suddenly, I amveryglad I haven't accepted that internship overseas. If Kelsey is going to be there with him every night with her giant boobs and doe eyes, so will I. Well, minus the giant boobs part.
"I think the crowd will eat that song up on the road," he continues, so excited about the new song that my jealousy dims.
"I think so, too," I say, wrapping an arm around his waist as we walk side-by-side to his dressing area. "I can't wait to watch you sing it every weekend."
Bobby's silent for a second, looking back at the crowd waiting for the next act to take the stage. His forehead creases as he looks down at me, and I wonder what he's thinking about, but before I can ask, he pulls me closer, kissing the crown of my head.
"What do you say we get out of here?" he finally says.
I smile broadly. I have nothing to worry about. We've always been on the same page.
"It's like you read my mind."
NOW
September 2024: Blacksburg, VA
I won’t tie you down to metal wings
Leave you tethered to the phone
While I bare my soul for all to see
And your words stay yours alone
—An excerpt from "Little Bird," written and performed by Robert Beckett
It's only been a week, but the creativity that's unleashed itself since I made my decision is thrilling. When I feel sad, I harness it, pouring it into my words.
When I feel anxious, which, if I’m being honest, is most of the time since Harrison sent that threatening text and then blocked me, I funnel every nerve into productivity.
Even the most amateur poet would think it's cliché to say the world feels brighter now, but it’s the truth. It’s as if I've been seeing in muted tones, not letting myself experience the full joy and beauty of what life has to offer.
But now I’m seeing everything as a writer again, paying attention to the tiniest details and filing them away to make my prose stronger, and it’s working. I’m proud of this manuscript and the progress I’ve made on it. It feels shiny and new again, the plot stronger, and the love story soaring off the page.
It’s taken time to transfer the book from the old stack of papers into a document on my laptop, and only after I changed all my passwords, but I’m glad I did it this way. It’s forced me to relive the good memories I have with Bobby. A love story that, until it ended, really was beautiful.
I flip to the last chapter—the one where the rockstar performs his newest single with an upcoming female artist for a roaring crowd—and begin typing it up. I’ve been avoiding it for days, editing around it, afraid to dive into what was the beginning of the end for Bobby and me.
I try to keep emotion out of it as I slash clunky sentences and change little details, but it’s difficult when all I can focus on is the feeling of Bobby’s eyes on me—studying me from his end of the couch where he’s working on a song.
He's been doing that a lot this week, silently observing, as if I’m a little bird and he’s trying to figure out if I have a broken wing, or if I’m going to fly away.
I can’t write when he’s watching me like this. Especially notthispart of our story.
