No Tomorrow

“Ditra and I are going to a concert, and it’s just for grownups. But you’re going to stay home with Uncle Josh and watch movies and eat popcorn and have lots of fun, okay?”

“Can I have ice cream, too?”

“You can have one scoop.” How can I say no when she’s inherited her ice cream addiction from me? I throw my mascara back into my makeup bag and plant a kiss on her nose just as Ditra appears in my bathroom doorway.

“Are you almost ready?” she asks. “We don’t want to be late. It’ll be a nightmare to find a parking spot.”

Taking a deep breath, I nod and exhale. “Yeah, I think I am.”

She picks up Lyric and settles her down on the floor, and we watch her happily skip off, most likely to find Josh downstairs.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Ditra says.

“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

Ever since Blue walked out of my apartment years ago I’ve daydreamed about seeing him again, and now that day is here. Josh pulled some strings to get VIP meet-and-greet tickets to the No Tomorrow live acoustic show in Boston tonight. With any luck, I’ll be in the same room with Blue for the first time in five years. I’ve never been backstage at a concert before, but hopefully we’ll be able to talk somewhat privately.

Unless he runs when he sees me. Or pretends he doesn’t know who I am. Or…

“Piper?”

I shake my head and re-focus on Ditra. “Hm?”

“Stop freaking out. You’re going to be fine.”

“What if he ignores me? He might be too busy to even talk to me. He has fans now and I’m just a nobody.”

She tilts her head. “Seriously? He mentioned you by name in the CD credits. He left a note in your car. The dude isn’t going to ignore you once you’re right in front of him. Plus, you look drop-dead gorgeous. There’s no way in hell he’s going to blow you off. And if he does? I’ll throat punch him.”

“What if he goes ballistic when I tell him about Lyric? There’s going to be lots of other people there, right? I don’t want to cause any kind of scene.”

“I’m sure he’ll be surprised but I don’t think he’s going to go ballistic. She’s his daughter, and it’s time for him to know she exists. You’re doing the right thing telling him, no matter how awkward it is. That secret baby bullshit some women pull isn’t cool. You’re both adults. He’ll be fine. Maybe a little shocked, but fine. She’s a little girl, not a bomb.”

I wish I felt her confidence, but I have no idea how Blue is going to react when he sees me. I don’t know what kind of person he is now, or what frame of mind he’s currently in with his life. He could be totally level-headed or off the rails.

He could be married. He could have other children. He could have a girlfriend.

Hell—he could have all of the above and Lyric and I might just be a massive inconvenience to him.

Then what?

For two months I’ve been rolling the scenario dice in my head and have come up with several outcomes, ranging from epic disaster to fairytale happy ending.

As Ditra drives us to the concert, I’m only half involved in our idle conversation. The other half of my mind is back to trying to manifest everything I’ve been dreaming of, focusing on the positives, like I did the day Blue disappeared. It didn’t work then, but that doesn’t mean it won’t work now.

There’s power in positive thinking. I’ve read about it, I’ve seen others do it and they got the results they wanted.

So can I.

I can be happy. I can have the life I’ve dreamed of. I can—

“Piper?” Ditra shoves my shoulder. “Snap out of it. No amount of driving yourself crazy is going to change anything. Please stop worrying. Let’s just enjoy the concert. Do you have any idea how lucky we are to have tickets? This shit sold out months ago.”

“I know.” I wonder if the craziness of it shocks Blue as much as it does me. How he used to play for quarters thrown into a jar and now he’s sold out.

Ditra continues to rattle on next to me. “Whatever happens after that, happens. You can’t change it. But let’s have fun and at least appreciate that this drifter dude you dated, the father of your child, went from playing on the streets to being a freakin’ musical legend.”

My stomach lurches. Blue? A legend? “I don’t know about that, Dee.”

She turns the car into the venue parking lot. “It’s true. He’s the real deal.”

Legend. Real deal. None of that means a thing to me. He’s the guy who made me a bracelet, bought me ice cream cones, snuggled with me as rain pattered against the tin roof, sang me to sleep, and ultimately stole my heart.

He’s my first and only love. The legend of my very best memories.

This is the fourth concert I’ve ever been to, and my first unplugged or acoustic performance. In a venue with other musicians and a huge crowd, that is. I watched Blue play unplugged, unhinged, unshowered, unhappily, uninhibited, and a million other un-things many times in the park and in the shed years ago. Back then it didn’t have a fancy name, though. It was just what he did.

And now, as Ditra and I settle into our seats to the left of the stage, I’m shocked by the number of people filing into the hazy room all the while speaking to each other in hushed voices as if this is a library or they’re in the graces of royalty.

I chomp my gum in fascination and watch all the fans, many wearing No Tomorrow T-shirts.

Leaning closer to Ditra, I whisper, “There are T-shirts.”

“Do you want one? There’s a guy out in the lobby selling them. We walked right by him.”

I do want one, but how bad will that look when I talk to Blue later? Standing there wearing a band shirt like a starry-eyed fan? Which I’m not. I mean, I love his music and his voice and I’ve been listening to it all non-stop... but I’m not a fan in the traditional sense of the word.

I’m a fan of him. Of his mind and his heart.

This is so very complicated.

The overhead theater lights dim and people scurry like mice to take their seats as the stage curtain separates.

I’m disappointed when members of a band I don’t recognize take the stage. I had completely forgotten about the opening act. My leg bounces with anxiety as they play songs I’ve never heard of, and I’m relieved when they finish and the curtain hides the stage again.

My teeth mash together in frustration. Does this really need to be so torturous?

After a few minutes, the heavy black curtain, deliberately torn, faded, and tattered, slowly pulls away to reveal the stage set up once again—still devoid of No Tomorrow.

The drummer, whose name I’ve forgotten, appears from the shadows and all but disappears when he sits behind his set. One by one, each band member enters the stage, and my heart pounds harder and faster, my eyes riveted to that shadowy, elusive entry point.

Waiting.

And there he is. Slowly sauntering, guitar in hand, to the stool and mic at the center of the stage, sandwiched between the other two guitarists. The crowd cheers and whoops, and he gives them the same humble, grateful nod he used to give the listeners in the park.

He looks so much the same, so much still in the world of his own head, that I almost expect to see Acorn sitting beside him up there on the stage. My chest heaves with deep breaths as a mix of anger and intense yearning clash inside me. How dare he sit there looking so normal—so untouched. For years I’ve felt that the scars I bear from his massacre of my heart must be visible to others in some way. Surely I don’t smile nearly as much, or as brightly, as I once did. I no longer giggle at silly jokes. I can’t read romance books or watch movies based on love stories anymore.

I’m changed.

But he looks the same. He’s still insanely good-looking. Maybe even more so now as his hair is longer and fluffier and he’s not quite as thin as I remember. His sparkling blue eyes are just as striking from my tenth-row seat as they were the last time I looked into them up close, when he kissed me goodbye, winked at me, and walked away.

The all-too-familiar lump of emotion forms in my throat.

He may have walked out of my apartment and my life, but he definitely has not walked out of my heart. Not by a long shot.

And as much as he’s hurt me, and shredded my heart to bits, just the sight of him still draws me in, possessing me like the words of a favorite song that I can’t not sing.

I feel like I’m about to combust in my seat as I grip the arm rests. I ache to walk up to him on that stage, see that beautiful smile he used to flash at me, and throw my arms around him. I want to grab his hand and run from this building with him. To the shed. To the place where we murmured undying love to each other over and over again and slept wrapped around each other, shivering from the icy drafts.

These people surrounding me don’t know him. They know his voice and the sound of his guitar, but they don’t know what his lips feel like, what his whispers sound like, what his body feels like.

They don’t know he agonizes over every note and every lyric. They don’t know how I listened and watched him with worry and love.

They don’t know about ladybug myths and rain.

I do.

Tears well up in my eyes and my vision of him on stage shimmies, as if he’s in an ocean of tears.