After maneuvering my way through the crowded parking lot on the hunt for a spot, I find one in the back row of the lot, then grimace at the heeled, bedazzled pink cowgirl boots my feet are strutting. While adorable, they’re not practical. Yet, I chose to wear them to stand for hours on end along with a matching pink halter top dress with tassels.
The things women do for fashion…
And to satisfy their toxic desires.
Groups of women who are showing up late like me flock towards the coliseum in a variety of attire. Some are chic country like me while others are redneck country in jeans and a t-shirt. I even see a few women sporting “I heart Mason” shirts.
I want to punch them.
Only to knock sense into them, not because I’m jealous or anything.
“Why are you even here, Karoline?” I ask under my breath. My brain searches for a valid answer, a perfect excuse. A justifiable reason to walk through those coliseum gates up ahead.
But I have none.
The sad, sick reality is that I miss the man who said he has better things than me in his future. He wasn’t wrong; I’m shamefully walking into a sold-out show of his.
Why can’t I let him go? Why am I taking a knife to my own throat?
If I could just get his attention… if I could make him see me. Maybe he’d regret not choosing me. Maybe, just maybe, he’d come running back to me.
If he saw me, would he say the one thing I’ve been waiting a lifetime for him to say? If he told me he loved me, would I say it back?
The coastal Mississippi July air is stifling and wet, like I’m standing in a sauna. A slight breeze bristles through the palm trees, picking up strands of my hair and disposing of them right into my newly applied pink gloss coating my lips. After spitting the hair out of my mouth and tugging the fine threads off my lips, my gaze latches onto the front gates.
Next step…
Walk through the gates.
Stepping over the threshold, handing my ticket over, and going through security feels like selling my soul to the devil. The music that was playing stops and applause erupts through the crowds inside the building. The opening act must be taking the stage. I purposefully timed my arrival so that I would get here after the masses had stormed the building, though there are other stragglers like me finding their way to their seats.
The opening act performs while I climb my way into the first row of seats, directly in front of the stage. Mason wouldn’t be able to pick me out in the crowd here as there is a sea of super fans flooding the floor between me and the stage.
But I would be able to see him.
The opener continues his setlist, and I sit in my seat, enjoying the atmosphere around me. But then he finishes, and before I know it, Mason is strutting onto the stage with his cherry-red guitar strapped around his back. Man, oh man… he looksgood.
He is wearing ripped jeans and a tight white t-shirt, and with his thick, chocolate hair styled back, he’s got a James Dean vibe going on. He’s just missing the leather jacket, but I can’t blame him for choosing to ditch that in this heat.
What am I doing?
The crowd thunders around me, everyone jumping to their feet as he swings his guitar around and begins strumming chords, crafting a sweet melody with a twinge of rock blended seamlessly into country. As his voice carries through the speakers and the sound waves tickle my ears, I’m transported to days spent under the shade tree and nights in his room, painting while he strummed and wrote music.
An ache blossoms in my chest, spreading its poison throughout my veins, rendering me immobile and unable to take my eyes off the human I once considered my closest friend and love of my life.
He dominates the stage and captivates the audience. A natural. He was born to do this.
Maybe he was right two years ago when he said he had better things ahead than me. If he would have returned my feelings in a proper manner and never uttered the words aimed to kill, would he be on this stage tonight?
I guess we will never know because at the end of the day, he said what he said.
Why am I here?
Mason’s song ends and it blends into another upbeat tune. He tantalizes the crowd by tugging at the hem of his shirt and lifting it to wipe sweat from his brow. The camera zooms in on his bare skin, and his abs are projected onto the screen behind him for all the world to see…
Friends, there’s a whole set of eight abs present. Turns out God was just waiting for the right time to make Mason Kane physically perfect.
Karoline, stop ogling him. Remember what he did!
