I snort. “This isn’t even peak summer. Wait until August.”
She fans herself dramatically, tugging at her neckline. “I need air conditioning before I combust.”
We grab the rental car, and I take the wheel. Oklahoma feels familiar but distant like a dream I once had and almost forgot. I drive Tish past my old neighborhood, the houses lined with pecan trees and sun-scorched lawns.
“That’s the one,” I say, slowing in front of a weathered blue house with chipped paint and a sagging porch. “My mom loved this house.”
“Do you miss them?” she asks gently.
I nod, watching the ghosts of memory flit across the lawn. “Yeah. Especially now. I keep thinking how thrilled she would’ve been about the baby. She would’ve gone overboard. Handmade booties and all.”
Tish reaches over, squeezing my hand. “They’d be so proud of you.”
“I hope so.”
We pass my old schools, the college in Norman, andfinally the news station where I once thought my future was carved in stone.
“There’s a lot of history here,” Tish says.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “But it’s not home anymore.”
We check into the hotel, the air heavy with something unresolved. I shower and hold up two tops. One sleek and black, the other bold and hot pink.
“Which one?” I ask.
Tish doesn’t hesitate. “Pink. You’re not here to hide.”
I slip into the top, pairing it with dark jeans and my favorite boots. I feel powerful. Hopeful. Until we get to the venue, and I realize our seats are directly in front of a massive black speaker. Right side of the stage. Far from center. My heart sinks.
“He’s not going to see me,” I whisper.
Tish tries to stay upbeat. “We’ll wait by the buses after. That’s our game plan, remember? This isn’t over.”
The concert is electric. Same set list, same haunting voice, same last song. It cracks something open in me all over again. My name on his lips still feels like a prayer.
When the last notes fade, we slip out fast, hurrying to the lot where the tour buses are parked. There’s already a crowd pressing against the railing, phones out, voices buzzing with anticipation.
We fight our way to the front. Someone elbows me. Another person mutters “bitch” under their breath, but I don’t care.
Tish leans over the rail and shouts, “Hey! When’s Sam coming out?”
A gruff security guy replies, “Only answering if you’re on the list. Are you?”
Tish doesn’t miss a beat. “This is Charlotte Wilson.”
He flips through a clipboard. “Not on the list.”
My stomach plummets.
I step back, my phone gripped tight in my hand. I hear the crowd erupt. He’s out there now. But I don’t try to push forward again. I just watch, somewhere between awe and heartbreak, as flashes light up the night.
Tish turns, breathless. “I yelled for you. I think he heard me.”
I give her a small, sad smile. “Maybe.”
But I know the truth. If he heard he didn’t come.
I nod toward the car. “Let’s go. Next stop’s Denver.”
