Chapter Forty
Thundercat Hoes
That night, without the benefit of Darius’s VIP status, I ordered a car and headed to Dax’s concert, which was in some neighborhood I hadn’t been to since my twenties, Kelly’s mosh pit comment ringing in my ears. Well, she could suck it up. I, Dr. Annie Kyle, was going to a concert to watch my hot young boyfriend play keyboard in his band, and I was proud of it.
And I was so not in this with Dax because I was scared of being alone. If that were the case, I would’ve already married Rob at City Hall or something. She had no idea what she was talking about.
I showed my ticket at the door and went in to try and find a good seat. But there were no seats. This venue was standing room only.
Fine. No big deal. I didn’t mind standing. I stood practically all day at work. I was here to see Dax perform in the biggest concert of his life—so far. There would be many big concerts in his future, I was sure. And I was here to enjoy myself.
I went up to the bar to order a drink, and I smiled at the woman next to me—who was much closer to Dax’s age than mine. “You like Farouche?” I asked.
“They’re hot.” She turned her attention to her phone.
Okay then. I grabbed my drink and made my way through the crowd of people all dressed up like they were going to, well, a show. I’d put on jeans, my black Converse, and a Lilith Fair T-shirt I still had from my freshman year of high school. The way I looked, I could be going to the grocery store.
One of those sinking feelings started to creep in. Dax would someday realize—possibly sooner rather than later—that I didn’t fit in here. No, I couldn’t think that way. Dax and I were doing great. We were very happy together, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t already know what a huge old nerd I was. Sipping my drink, I tried to blend in near a pole and watched the stage as some guys in black tested the sound.
I texted Dax. I sent him a smiley face to show him how excited I was. And I was excited for him and to see his band play again.
He wrote back, .
He’d told me right from the start that I should come with him, to hang out with him and the band before the concert, but I didn’t want to get in the way. This was their night—their big moment—and I wanted Dax to enjoy it with the people who got him here. We’d celebrate in our own way later.
all
He clicked the love button on that text.
Next to me, a group of fans was talking about the band. I, pretending to find an article about the mating rituals of gophers fascinating, listened in.
“The lead singer is hot, but the keyboardist is hotter.”
This guy and I were in agreement on that.
“I don’t think any of them are hot,” said another. Boo! Hiss! “But Farouche are, like, serious musicians. I have to respect that.” Okay, this girl wasn’t so bad.
Maybe dating a musician would be fun. Yes, it was something totally out of my comfort zone, but that was a good thing. I was thirty-nine, not dead, and should be willing to give new things a try. I just had to relax into it, enjoy the show, tolerate the crowds, and be a little less forty.
Easier said than done, my brain was helpful to remind me. I had a good decade on everyone in this club.
Still, I would fake it till I made it. For Dax. For us.
One patient text and two articles about this annoying new virus later, Farouche finally came out onstage. The crowd went wild. I shoved my phone into my back pocket and cheered along with them. “Woo!” I yelled. “Woo!” When in Rome, woo.
Like the last Farouche concert I attended, the drummer counted the band off, and they launched into a song that had since become familiar. I sang along and shimmied in time to the tune. Okay, maybe this would be fun. The group next to me, the ones who’d been talking about Farouche earlier, beckoned me to join them.
“You know all the songs!” one of them shouted.
“I think they sunk in!” I pointed to the stage. “The keyboardist lives in my basement.”
The guy’s eyes lit up. “What? Really?”
“Yeah!” I bit my lip and scrunched up my nose. “He’s my boyfriend.” My cheeks pulled into a big smile. If I looked in a mirror, I knew I’d see an image like Darius when he was with Monica Feathers. I probably looked like a dork.
The guy appraised me, hands on hips. “I love that he’s dating an older woman,” he said finally.
I shot him a thumbs-up. I’d take that at face value. I was, in fact, an older woman. We were all here having fun tonight, celebrating our mutual admiration for a very talented band. The guy hadn’t meant anything by it.
A few songs in, the band slowed things down, and Dax leaned into the microphone. “Tonight, someone’s here who’s really special to me.”
“Ooh!” My new Farouche friends nudged me in the side, and I giggled.
Dax squinted out at the crowd. “Annie, this one’s for you.”
My phone buzzed in my back pocket. I reached behind me and turned off the ringer. Probably just another question about that virus. I should’ve created an auto-response earlier that said, You don’t have it. Anyway, I could get back to them after the concert. I’d ruined my relationship with Kelly partially because half my attention was always on my phone, either answering it or waiting for it to ring. I wouldn’t make the same mistake with Dax. Tonight belonged to him, and I would do my part to support him.
The guitarist started playing, and then Dax came in on the keyboard and Kat on bass. Dax, his eyes lowered and dark, sang, “When you walked into the bar/I wasn’t thinking so far/ahead…”
My hands went instinctively to my chest. I could feel my heart beating, thumping. My eyes watered. I’d never had anyone write anything personal about me, and the fact that it was Dax—beautiful, talented Dax—
“You shocked me/you surprised me/you truly recognized me!” And then they launched into the pulsing, soaring chorus. “Dorothy!”
I burst out laughing as I swayed in time to the music.
“You are at the end of my rainbow! Dorothy!”
I waved my hands in the air like I just did not care.
“I thought your name was Annie,” said one of my new friends.
“Yup,” I said. “It’s also Dorothy.” Dax’s eyes met mine, and I waved.
He winked at me, and suddenly my stomach hurtled toward the floor. Instead of living in the moment, excited and moved that this gorgeous, talented man had written a song about me, my brain took it to a place of despair and fear, imagining the day, someday soon, when he’d leave me for good. Chills snaked up and down my spine as I pictured myself alone in the house without him, pacing the floor, looking for something to do, anything to distract me from the pain. The image overwhelmed me. I couldn’t bear it. Being with Dax would mean hurtling head-first toward my worst nightmare.
Shit. What was I doing?
My phone buzzed again, and I instinctively grabbed it, grateful for the diversion, ready to text the person back with advice about fever reduction and drinking fluids, to deal with some solvable problem I knew I could handle. But it wasn’t just a flu question.
Gayle Gale was unconscious.