Mickey dug deep into a back pocket and whipped out a VIP backstage pass and handed it to me. “You sure don’t look like you’re from Darlington.”
“Pardon me?” My fingers reached for the pearl necklace that circled my neck, grazing the round, smooth beads slowly.
“Beau said you were an old friend of his from back home,” he said, giving me a friendly once over. “You’re fancier than I expected.”
I wanted to ask if Beau spoke of me much or what kinds of things he’d told Mickey about me, but I swallowed my curiosity and instead pretended like I didn’t care. I didn’t want him going back to Beau and telling him I cared.
“I live in New York now.” I offered a humble smile, running my hand over the length of a cocoa-colored wave that draped my left shoulder. “I haven’t lived in Darlington for ten years.”
“I see that.” Mickey’s eyes dropped to my bag before he turned to leave. “Just follow the signs to stage right. Ask around if you get lost. Plenty of people here can help you.”
The door slammed behind him, leaving me alone amongst all of Beau’s personal effects. A garment rack chock full of pressed blue jeans and button downs in every imaginable shade. A stage mirror surrounded by round lights illuminating an empty makeup chair. A red cooler full of beer and bottled water swimming in ice. A pair of boots rested underneath a counter, and lined up by the sink was a myriad of various toiletries, one of which happened to be a bottle of Yves Saint Laurent cologne. The very same kind he wore in high school.
My eyes stayed glued to the door as I walked backward toward the cologne, unable to resist the urge to give it one innocent sniff. I uncapped the bottle and quickly brought it just under my nose, inhaling a generous lungful of ginger, bergamot, and musky woods. Pure unbridled nostalgia. Closing my eyes, I was transported to that last summer we shared under the stars ten years back.
“I’m never going to love anyone the way I love you,” Beau had said as I curled up into his arms. We’d found a secluded spot just outside Darlington with a winding drive that led up the side of a small mountain. Houses would be built there eventually, but at the time, it was nothing but a cul-de-sac on top of a hill surrounded by a thicket of yet-to-be-demolished evergreens. We’d slow danced all night in front of the headlights of his blue Ford truck, whispering promises and leaving everything else unspoken. “And never is a promise. You know that, Dakota? Where we come from, never is a promise.”
Time had a way of standing still when I was young, but all the endless summers in the world couldn’t prolong the inevitable. Walking away from a full ride scholarship to Kentucky wasn’t an option for me, and Beau had just been offered a recording contract by some boutique record label in Nashville.
“Don’t change on me,” I’d said as I’d rested my ear against his chest. “Promise me you’ll never change.”
“Never,” he’d whispered.
“And promise you’ll come back for me someday.”
“Promise you’ll wait for me,” he’d replied. “Promise you’ll never love anyone else the way you love me.”
“I wish I could go with you.” Those were the last words I’d spoken to him before things got hot and heavy in the bed of his truck. With my hipbones grinding into a faded quilt as I stared into the stars above, I made love to Beau for the last time.
Everything changed after that.
* * *
I tried to blend in, though hiding between a mix of middle-aged country music loving roadies and stagehands while looking “fancy” was a bit of a challenge. Denying the fact that I stuck out like a sore thumb, my eyes scanned my surroundings as I positioned myself behind a thick black curtain. I had to see him first.
It was easy to forget what his voice sounded like. It was easy to forget the exact cadence of his Southern drawl or where exactly my head lined up with his when we stood toe to toe. But it was impossible to forget the way he made me feel. No matter how much I willed away the butterflies fluttering in my stomach, they fought back with relentless determination.
You still love him.
Inhaling a cleansing breath, I scanned the area one last time before focusing on the man in tight blue jeans and black button down with an acoustic guitar slung around his shoulders. He chatted with a bassist wearing a belt buckle the size of the Mississippi. He scratched the side of his thick chocolate hair and flashed a wide grin to whomever he was chatting with. Even from where I stood, I could see his deep dimples and the slanted scar above his upper lip.
Beau.
And just as I’d anticipated, the world got a little hazy. My knees knocked together and my mouth filled with cotton. Not having seen him for a decade, it was almost as if he were a desert mirage.
I always thought that if I didn’t Google him – if I didn’t listen to his songs on the radio and obsessively dissect them to see if they were about me – I wouldn’t care. That was my motto – once you care, you’re fucked. I didn’t want to care. I didn’t allow myself to care. At least not at the surface level.
I’d only caved twice over the years, allowing my fingers to shakily type his name into various search engines and gossip websites. Once was after a fight with Harrison, and another when I’d been having a rough week and my self-control was non-existent. I regretted it immediately both times.
My career – and my future – took a front seat the second I stepped foot in Manhattan, and my past stayed shoved in a tiny box of faded ink love letters and outdated photographs hidden behind a shoebox on the top shelf of my bedroom closet.