A Crazy Kind of Love by Mary Ann Marlowe (27)

Epilogue

Concert photographer. It sounds pretty cool, doesn’t it? Too cool to be an actual job, right? Think again.

A month after I lost my job, Lars Cambridge followed up with me about doing some work for his magazine. He’d also forwarded my photos to Stuart Michaels with my permission. I’d worked it out with Stuart to display the photo of Micah in one of his upcoming shows. As a settlement in the wrongful termination suit against the Daily Feed, I’d gotten all my pictures back. It thrilled Micah to become an actual work of art. Stuart said he’d be happy to consider future work. Maybe one day, I’d be able to put together a show of my own.

I’d been a professional photographer for years, but for the first time I felt legitimized—like I might finally get the blessing of my dad. But of course, I no longer needed it. I had all the approval I needed from industry professionals, my boyfriend, my best friend, and of course my oversharing mom.

Still, I sent photos and articles to Dad. I liked to think he was secretly proud of his legacy.

Lars had offered me an open-ended freelance gig. I’d have to get my own medical insurance through the state’s marketplace exchange, but it beat being unemployed. I’d already covered a couple of huge acts, wearing my credentials into the press pit and working with incredible equipment. My art degree hadn’t been a complete waste of time and money after all. Of course the pay was uneven, but good when I got the right jobs.

Tonight I had the best job.

Positioned where I stood, I could get great shots of the entire band plus the faces of the people floating on their backs, carried across the top of the crowd. They laughed as hands pushed them like a living conveyor belt to the back of the theater. Where the human surfboards went from there remained a mystery.

Micah hauled another volunteer onto the stage, and the process started over again. Photographing his shows always gave me ample material. The fans were as interesting as the band. And I’d grown to like the music.

Tonight, like every night, Micah fed the crowd energy. He looked my way and winked. I shot the picture.

He hit the last note and turned around to the band with a nod. They started playing something new to me. His repertoire was bottomless. Every night, they played fan favorites and sprinkled in some of their older songs or some new song they were trying out.

Micah said, “I’m a little nervous about this new song. Normally, I don’t have to sing to my muse.”

It took me a second to parse his meaning, and by then, he’d pulled the microphone from the stand and walked to the corner where I perched with my camera. I let it drop, and it smacked me in the gut. Everyone in the audience looked at me.

Micah threw his guitar around his back and sat down in front of me. “This song is called ‘Josie.’ ”

I flipped on the video on my camera to capture the audio. And he started to sing.

The band echoed his last words. He took my hand and broke into the chorus.

As he sang, I twined my fingers with his. But my hands flew to my face at the Malayalam for “I love you.” I hadn’t heard those words in years, and he gave them back to me in the sweetest way possible. But he didn’t need to write me a song to tell me how he felt.

He’d been a rock for me, through crazy times that might have shaken any other guy. He’d literally carried me when I was at my lowest. And right here, at his highest, he wanted me. He needed me.

He’d proved himself to me every day over the past six months. When the tabloids tried to paint me as his next groupie, he went and outfitted his tour bus to accommodate his “road wife” with a veritable pharmacy of insulin and healthy snacks. When the tabloids lost interest in me and tried to catch him with other women, he invited me to come live with him. When they ran stories about his gold-digger-hanger-on girlfriend, he brought me breakfast in bed. And when the girls flirted with him at the meet and greets, he flirted back, but he left with me.

And every day, he religiously updated his daily log with my glucose readings. And sat beside me, rubbing my back while I recovered from light-headedness. And drove me to the edge of insanity with just a touch.

And every night before I fell asleep, he whispered the same words in my ear:

“I will love you tomorrow—and every tomorrow after that.”