“Your terms,” I say, and his gaze lifts to mine. “When you’re ready, Mads. Whether it’s tomorrow, a decade from now, or never. No one gets to take that from you. We’ll make sure of it.”
“Fuck that guy,” Reed adds. “He doesn’t get to take away who you are.”
Maddox chews on the inside of his mouth for a beat. “Fuck that guy,” he finally says.
Between sound checks, legal coming over to the house to talk to Maddox, and before show rituals, I don’t get a moment alone with Maddox for the entire afternoon. There are too many eyes on us, too many ways for us to cause an unneeded frenzy.
Maddox was so busy going over special effects and the set list upon arriving at the venue that I’d hung back in the seats with my computer and edited a few photos, along with videoing Cynda in during practice so she could see them.
And when they finally hit the stage, all thoughts of Adam, legal, and any other worry in the world are entirely forgotten.
Up until yesterday, I had forgotten what it was like to watch my brother perform.
How he steps in front of the crowd and makes commanding it look easy definitely isn’t. Though, he’s always had that talent. I don’t know where he got it from. Perhaps our dad.
Somehow, Reed gains energy through the audience. He only stays in one place for a few bars. He’s constantly moving around the stage, jumping up and down with the crowd, playing the guitar, leaping on the speakers or the railings, or even climbing the platform to jam with Bonnie.
And through all of that, he never loses his voice.
Seeing Maddox and Reed’s dreams come to fruition after they were just two teens with long hair, head banging in the garage all those years ago is surreal. I’ll never get used to seeing my little brother onstage and hearing thousands of voices chant his name.
I try to keep up with him running for a while. However, the best photos I get of him are when he spots me hanging back, and his response is to grin sideways or stick his tongue out at me.
Except for the one time he takes my camera out of my hands, brings it onstage, and then proceeds to point at me and exclaims to the entire crown, “Hey, this is my sister!”
At least the picture he takes of the crowd is a good one.
I get more photos of Maddox and Reed when they interact with each other. It’s so hard getting a read on Maddox. Nevertheless, I know my brother can tell everything he’s thinking—mask or no mask.
Every time I meet Maddox’s eyes, my heart does a little dance.
Reed stays onstage to talk to the crowd and play an acoustic bit so the rest of the band can take a few minutes off for water. He sits on the floor with his ankles crossed, the acoustic guitar in his lap, and everyone in the room pulls their phones out with flashlights on.
My own phone buzzes as I pull it out to join in. I expect it to be Cynda. However, the message across my screen makes my thighs tighten with anticipation.
Meet me in the back hallway between sets, Maddox texts me.
I glance at where he’s standing in the shadows, but he isn’t looking my way. He has his phone out, his back turned as he takes a drink of water.
I’ll be waiting, I text him back.
He sends me the name of the last song on the setlist before the break. Before I can reply again, he’s back on stage and picking up his bass.
For the next twenty minutes, I keep sneaking glances at Maddox, and at least half the time, I find his eyes on me.
Yet, even with the suspense building within me for whatever he has planned, Reed somehow gets my full attention back on the music—to the point that I nearly miss my chance to run back in time to meet Maddox.
The music is a hum backstage. The lights are dulled. I spot James heading my way. He jerks his chin toward a darkened hallway past the dressing rooms with a sign pointing to the emergency exit door.
My palms sweat as I reach the hallway and lean against the black brick. I hear the crowd scream, the music lull, and my heart picks up pace.
I don’t know what to do as I wait.
I have enough awareness to set my camera on a nearby box.
“Hey, James—”
Maddox.
