Evelyn’s chin quivers and her eyes glisten. She’s trying not to cry, but I’m not sure how long she’ll last. The guys embrace Wes, thumping him on the back.
With a last look, we take our positions around the perimeter of the stage, heads held high for this final goodbye.
I think music is the closest we get to magic. Because when I blink, I’m seventeen, singing this song for the first time, buzzing from too much caffeine, the sound of my boots hitting the floor muffled by layers of sound absorbing foam and rugs in the studio.
All around me, I’m joined by the people who have become my closest friends, as we forget we’re supposed to be recording and let the music carry us wherever it wishes us to go. I’m the happiest I think I’m ever capable of being.
One more blink and I’m back on stage, completely in my body as my foot pounds a beat against the floor. The same people are with me now. And I’m impossibly happier because the moment has come, despite loss and loneliness. Because we found each other all over again. It’s a contrast as stark as the lights slashing through the shadow shrouded crowd of fans, their screams clashing with the music while somehow lifting it higher.
Glitter sticks to the black stage floor. Confetti and debris litter the stadium. Everyone is gone, back to reality. Everyone but Wes and I, as we sit on the edge of the stage overlooking the evidence of a perfect evening.
“This is really it isn’t it? The end.” Wes asks, breaking the veil of silence we’ve allowed to fall over us.
“Feels more like a beginning to me.” The moment we leave, everything will change. The next time we’re at a concert; we’ll be in the audience. And yes, I know there will be concerts. Concerts and long nights listening to music and burnt garlic bread and so many beautiful normal things. A future stuffed full of as many as we can fit.
“Somehow that’s even scarier.”
“We’ve done a lot of scary things together and seem to have come out on the other end all right. You know, I was checking that list of yours and there’s one thing we forgot to do.” The paper is practically burning a hole in my pocket.
“I know we checked everything off.”
“Nope.” I tip my hips and pull it free from my pants. “I think you should take a closer look.”
He quickly unfolds the paper the moment I hand it over.
“See,” I say, tapping the bottom of the page where I’ve added one final task for us to complete. I know his answer already, but there’s a hum over nerves that zips through me.
Get married, for real.
Awe takes over his face as he looks from me to the page and back again. “You’re serious?”
“There’s nothing else I want more than to marry you, Gaflin. And you’re not talking me out of this. I forgot a few important things the first time.”
“Is that so?” He quirks a brow as he unleashes one of his best smiles on me, dimple on full display.
“Our friends. George…” I pause. “Well, you forgot to give me your last name, Gaflin. I want it to be a celebration this time. Not a necessity.” One final moment to reclaim and make our own.
“Avery.” He cups my cheeks and kisses me, slowly like he has all the time in the world, because finally we do. “I’ll marry the fuck out of you all over again. However many times you ask.”
35
Avery
Epilogue - Two Years Later
Today marks the one-year anniversary of the five-part documentary series, Out of Tune: The Truth According to Wesley Hart and Avery Sloane, directed by Kendal Hoffman.Following the rise, and eventual end, of the careers of Avery Sloane and Wesley Hart. It’s been two years since their final performance where they were joined by the members of Fool’s Gambit and Evelyn Mariano. Over this time, fans were certain that the couple were only taking a break and would eventually return to music. But as time drags on, this possibility becomes increasingly doubtful as they have all but disappeared, leading to much speculation about where they are now as their many New York homes have remained empty during this time. Some say they have returned to their roots in Tennessee. More farfetched theories speculate they bought an island and removed themselves from society entirely.
No matter where they are, they have left their mark on a generation and will not be forgotten.
“An island does sound nice,” Wes says as he rests his chin on my shoulder to read the magazine splayed open on my lap.We sway lazily on our new porch swing, one of many projects he’s been busying himself with these days, though mostly he has been helping George fix up her stables. We eat dinner with her most nights.
I’ve continued to read Dad’s books, borrowing them from George’s shelves one by one. Whenever I finish one, we sit and talk about the stories and the man who created them. I’d be finished with all of them by now if it weren’t for the unfinished manuscript we found on his computer. Plot lines mapped out and characters detailed vividly. I spend my days trying to do it justice. It’s vastly different from writing music, and I doubt my attempts will ever make it into the world, but it doesn’t have to. For now, it’s just a way to feel close to him.
“It would be warmer than this.” I nuzzle closer to Wes. We’re bundled up against the cold as we wait for the others to arrive. Unlike how we used to climb on top of his roof with just a blanket, we’re in thick layers.
In the years since our retirement, we rarely leave Caper, but everyone has no problem coming to us.
Wes leans down and talks to my stomach the same way he has for the last three weeks. “What do you think, Hudson? Should we get an island? You can track sand everywhere and we can build castles.”
