"Show me what you've got!" I shout, and smile.
He nods and his smile warms as he speaks into the mic. "This song is called 'Finish Me'." He tips his head back until he's staring at the ceiling and takes a deep breath and then he says something no one can hear. Then his chin drops and he starts strumming his guitar. It's just him now, and the sound is breathtaking. It's slow, passionate, and almost eerie. By the time the rest of the band joins in, I'm lost in it. And when he sings, I'm drowning. Drowning in the depths of the emotion pouring out of him. It's raw and it's pain and it's love, pure and fearless. He's drawn me in. I'm on the inside, the inside of this storm of emotions. I grab Paxton's arm and hold on with both hands as if I'm going to get pulled away in the tidal wave washing over me. And when it's only Gus strumming his guitar again and it eventually dies out, it hits me. His grief hits me. He wrote this song about Kate, that's why they haven't played this song.
He couldn't play this song.
But he just did.
And it was the most beautiful, angry, powerful thing I've ever heard.
But his eyes, his eyes are shining. There's relief in them. And pride. And love. So much love that I can't keep from smiling at him.
He smiles back at me, and when he does I know he's going to be okay. This was a step he needed to take. And he didn't just take the step ... he crushed it. He played the hell out of it.
And the best part is ... he knows it.
The crowd swells into massive applause, cheering their enthusiasm and filling the place with noise. Gus smiles, wipes his brow, and clears the stool from the stage. He exchanges guitars, and takes his place behind his mic stand again, adjusting the height. He looks lighter than I've ever seen him. He's standing taller. He looks out at the crowd and his eyes scan the entire room. As he does, a smile blooms on his face, and his eyes fill with light. Biting his bottom lip, as if to contain an even bigger grin, his eyes drift upward as he says, "That was for you, Bright Side. I hope you were watching, you little shit." The rest of the band claps and laughs with him. He turns and looks at Franco and I see his shoulders rise and fall in a deep, cleansing breath. The cheers have quieted down, and I hear him say, "Fuck, that felt good," before turning back and addressing the crowd. "We've got one last song for you tonight. And I'm gonna need all of you," he gestures to the audience with both hands, "And I mean, every last one of you, to sing with me. Let's fucking kill the sun, shall we?"
The final song causes the crowd to erupt into chaos, and I'm loving every second of it. I don't know the words to the song, but judging by the deafening volume, I'm the only one. Everyone in the room is singing. For that three minutes, I feel like I'm part of something huge. And for the first time, Gus's tattoo makes sense. Because this ... everything I see ... everything I hear ... everything I feel ... it's epic.
Gus.
Rook.
They do epic.
The show wraps up just as the clock strikes midnight and Gus calls out, "Thanks for coming out tonight. You're the best fucking crowd we've played for in ages. Now go celebrate, you badasses. Happy New Year!"
Paxton and I grab a couple of Cokes while Gus and the guys talk to their fans after the show. They sign autographs and take photos for about an hour, after which we help them break down their equipment and load it in their vehicles.
The ride home is filled with one-sided chatter. Paxton talks the entire drive. I've never seen him like this, so animated, and energized.
When we get home, the house is unusually quiet. Audrey is in Chicago celebrating New Year's Eve with Dr. Banks. Paxton hugs Gus and thanks him again for the fifth or sixth time and retreats to the basement to go to sleep. It's two o'clock in the morning. I should be tired, but my body and mind won't quiet down. If it wasn't so late I'd probably go for a run to burn it off, but instead I offer to make Gus something to eat. He wants grilled cheese. So I make four sandwiches and pour two glasses of milk while he takes a shower. He returns wearing only a pair of shorts and we sit on the stools at the island in the kitchen to eat. My ear is ringing dimly in the silence. It would probably be annoying if it wasn't a reminder of what I just experienced. The memories are all running through my mind: the sounds, the visuals, the feelings.
The silence seems to offer respite from the rowdy evening to Gus. So I give him time to reflect, or not to think at all if that's what he needs, while we eat. But as we're finishing up our sandwiches, I break our peaceful quiet time. "Thank you."
He looks at me, talking through chewing his last bite. "For what?"
"For making Paxton's year."
He's not good at taking compliments. He looks down at his plate, but a bashful smile breaks out. "He did have fun, didn't he?"
"I'm telling you, this was the best night of his entire life. Ask him in the morning, he'll tell you." It makes me smile just thinking about it.
Gus glances at me and his expression is apprehensive. "What about you? Did I meet the challenge?"
I lick my lips. "And then some." I'm nervous all of a sudden. He's sitting on my right side. I never let people sit on my right side, with a full view of my scars. I turn fully on my barstool to face him.
Before I speak, he places a hand on each knee and spins me back to my prior position facing forward.
"Why did you do that?" I ask.
"Because I never get to see this side of you." He gently touches my cheek, my scar, and a finger traces it.
Though I fight the flinch, my eyes instinctively squeeze shut and tears prick the backs of my eyelids. My chin drops and I pull my lips between my teeth and bite down trying to ward off the emotion that I know is coming. When I no longer feel his touch, I take a deep breath and open my eyes.
He's staring at me and there's no judgment, or disgust, or pity in his eyes. "I showed you a different side of me tonight. It's your turn." His voice is quiet and gentle. Gentler than I ever would've imagined he could be.
I give him a disingenuous half smile. "Our other sides are very different."
He glances down thinking for a moment before he reaches out and grips my knees and turns them toward him again so I'm facing him. When he scoots to the edge of his stool he doesn't let go of my knees. His legs are spread. A knee touching each of mine to the outside. I'm looking down at his hands on me and our tangle of legs pressing against one another, when he says my name to direct my eyes back to his, "Scout."