"Hendrix!" Addy calls. She's walking toward me, her dress billowing behind her, the stage manager assigned to her taking short brisk steps to keep up while simultaneously talking rapidly into a headset and texting on his phone, his clipboard tucked under his arm. "Wait, please."

When she catches up to me, she takes my arm, and I shake her away, even though part of me wants to take her in my arms and kiss her right there. I want to press my lips against hers, inhale her scent. More than that, I want to forget the shit my father just said, the thing that has me practically crawling out of my skin, wanting to get the fuck out of here. "Addy, go out there," I say. "I'll see you when you get done."

"Wait, Hendrix," she says, her cheeks flushed. "What your father said about your squad – "

I swallow hard. "Leave it alone, Addy-girl," I say. "Are you okay?"

Addy smiles, her cheeks flushed. "Yeah," she says. "I think I am."

"Where are they?" I start.

"They're leaving," she says. "They'll be escorted out. They were my guests, and they're no longer welcome."

"Security is probably going to come pick me up too, you know," I say, looking behind her. I expect men in suits to show up to escort me out at any moment.

Addy shakes her head. "I don't think the Colonel will say anything," she says. "He's too arrogant to let anyone know you hit him and not the other way around."

The stage manager interrupts. "This is really quite unprecedented, Ms. Stone."

"What's unprecedented?"

"We're on the move," the stage manager says, taking Addy's arm.

"I'll be back in a few," Addy calls. "Wait here for me? And watch the show!"

She disappears, and I'm left standing there backstage, surrounded by people I don't know but that I recognize from magazines, in their tuxedos and evening gowns, milling about like it's a cocktail party. I'm left standing there thinking about what my father said. You couldn't bring your squad back alive.

The words play over and over in my head on a loop, and I'm not sure I can stand here watching an awards show when I'm so agitated that I just want to go run until I can't think anymore. I breathe in, trying to focus on now, instead of the images that begin to flash in my head, the images I can't erase.

And then I hear Addy's voice on one of the many televisions scattered about the walls backstage, and I walk closer to it, ignoring the inane chatter and stupid conversations of the people around me, talking about their designer dresses and after parties later. Everything fades away into the background, the voices blending together and becoming a dull roar as I look at her.

"I'm going off-script," she says, looking into the camera. "I was supposed to sing something from my most upcoming album, but I'm not going to do that. I'm going to sing something I wrote. It's not flashy, and the band isn't prepared for this, so it's just going to be me and a guitar. I hope you like it. And Hendrix, if you're watching, it's all for you. It always has been."

My heart in my throat, I watch while Addy picks up the guitar and puts the strap around her neck. A few people standing behind me titter, and I turn around and shut them up with a look. Addy standing there in her shimmery white evening gown with a guitar around her neck is going to be one of those shots plastered all over every magazine and gossip website around.

I stand there, holding my breath, while she plays the first few chords of a song I've never heard, her eyes closed. And then she starts to sing, and it's hypnotic, watching her. She sings about heartbreak and loss. And love.

And, just like that, the night makes a hundred eighty degree turn. Just like that, it's Addy's image in my mind, instead of the horror from the past. I know it doesn't replace it permanently, but it does now. And that's enough.

When Addy comes backstage, she's practically accosted by people – other celebrities, a few reporters – but the bodies part, and she stands there, a few feet away, looking at me. "And?" she asks.

"Oh, did you perform already?" I ask. "I was taking a leak, so I think I missed it."

Addy grins, walking up to me and putting her hand on my chest. I'm aware of eyes on us, the fact that this moment, what's happening between us, is the center of attention in this room, but I don't care. "Don't be a dick," she says.

"You sure about this?" I ask, reminding her of all of the potential consequences for her, the possibility of her losing her contract. Being sued by the label.

Addy shrugs. "Fuck it."

"You know I love you," I tell her. I realize I've thought it a thousand times, and it feels so much like I've already said it. The words leave my mouth, sounding so familiar when I speak them to her, but I haven’t said it. Not yet. Not until now.

"Oh, do I?" she asks. Her head is tilted up toward me, her lips parted, and I want to kiss her, but I wait, because there are things that need to be said.

"I love you," I say. "Absolutely and completely. I've loved you since day one, Addy-girl. For seven years I've loved you."

"Okay," she says.

"Okay?" I ask. "That's it? I tell you I love you and you say okay?"

A broad grin spreads across her face. "I love you, too, but you already heard me say that on stage," she says. "Now, stop giving me grief and kiss me already. You know the tabloids are going to need a good image to go with their scandal. So let's give them one."

So I kiss her – one of those slow-motion, hands-in-the-hair, straight-out-of-the-movies kisses where everything in the world stops.

And then I bend down, and pick her up in my arms, and I carry her the fuck out of there, grinning like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet, because I am. Right in front of the reporters and everything.