Page 77 of Grave Misgivings
Me in LA with Kevin and my label breathing down my neck while he’s here playing shows with my sister?
I don’t have time to process my thoughts as the lights dim, and Zeb comes out on stage. I look around at the cozy atmosphere. There’s a bar in the corner with someone pouring champagne, and I vow to stay as far away from that as possible.
Apparently, I have no filter when I drink champagne.
Zeb takes the stage, slinging his acoustic over his shoulder. The lights make his dark hair shimmer with copper highlights.
He introduces himself, his expression full of light and excitement. He strums out a few chords I recognize instantly. Whitney Houston’sI Want To Dance With Somebody.
“Oh, I love it when he performs this,” my mom says, nudging my arm.
I look at her as his voice fills the air. “You’ve seen him? More than once?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“He’s quite popular,” she says with a grin. “With the girls and the boys.”
I feel frozen by her words.
Does she know?
I blink as I turn to focus on him.
My mom links her arm in mine, running her nails along my forearm.
He croons out Whitney’s words, and I can’t deny they sound good in the timbre of his deep, sexy voice.
He rolls his words, breathy and emotional as the guitar plays.
Zeb croons on about wanting to feel the heat with somebody, closing his eyes, and I feel my mother’s nails squeezing my arm.
“He’s so good,” she sighs. “Too bad he’s not in it for the fame like you are. Because, can youimagine?”
Her praise isn’t lost on me, and I can’t argue with her.
I’ve always known he was talented, that he had that “thing.”
The confidence, the sex appeal, the voice.
Not a day goes by where I don’t wonder what things would be like if he came with me to Hollywood.
Would we have just been the best of friends, writing music and selling out shows?
Would we be like we are now?
Zeb opens his eyes, staring right at me as he sings about needing a man to take a chance, and I wonder as he smirks at me, if I can be that man.
I watch in awe through every song, but the last one is the best.
Beautiful Thingsby Benson Boone.
By the end of the show, he’s traded his acoustic for an electric guitar, and his black button up is rolled up to his elbows.
He cries out, his voice the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever heard.
He closes his eyes, and the emotion in his voice, his presence, is undeniable as he sings about not wanting to lose the beautiful things he’s got.
When the song ends, the crowd applauds.
My mother wipes her thumb underneath my eye.
