Her throat felt raw as she sang the final refrain.
Jagged stitches ’cross my heart…
Jagged stitches ’cross my heart…
Jagged stitches ’cross my heart…cold sheets on your side of the bed.
She strummed the last chord with a little too much vigor and snapped a string.
“Whoops!” she cried into the mic once the applause died down. Then she laughed, lifted the strap over her shoulder, and handed the guitar to a crew member who ran onstage. “While my girl Mel restrings this for me, or finds me another guitar, I’m going to just…” Willow strolled over to the stool where three bottles of water waited for her and opened one up. She downed half of it in one breath before carrying it back to the mic. “I’m not sure ify’all heard…but I got myself tangled in a tiny little scandal a couple weeks ago.Again.” She wasn’t sure what the hell she was doing or why she’d just said what she said, but she needed to fill the dead air, and something propelled the words out of her mouth.
“We love you, Willow!” someone in the crowd called out.
“I love you too!” she replied with a laugh. Then she felt an odd pang in her gut. “You know what?” She grabbed the water stool and dragged it over to the mic stand, set the unopened bottles on the stage floor, and then parked herself on the stool. “It’s so easy to say ‘I love you’ to y’all when we’ve never officially met, so how come it’s so damned scary to say it to theoneperson I’ve loved for years? Who knows what I’m talking about?”
There were cheers and a few murmurs from the crowd, but for the most part, they’d gone silent as they stared up at her, waiting for what came next.
“Here’s the thing,” she continued, because why not go for broke now that she’d made it this far. “I loved someone once, a few years ago, but I never told him. I get a second chance…and I chicken out. Anybody else here a chicken like me?”Chicken.
Lucy might be able to spot the real deal, but she can’t do your part of the job…
Clucking and hooting and hollering from the crowd. She was baring her heart more than theyknew, and they were still entertained. God, she loved her fans. Willow let out an incredulous laugh and then glanced down at her brother and Jenna. “A wise woman and her hen once told me that I have to believe I deserve the fairy tale just as much as the rest of you do.”
“Woo-hoo!” Jenna cried. “That’s my girl!”
Willow blew her a kiss and then stared back out into the crowd.
“Hey, Wills…” A voice sounded through the speakers.
“Y’all heard that, right?” she asked.
Again, Jenna shouted, “That’s my girl!”
“It’s just you and me, Wills,” the voice said again, and Willow realized it was coming from her ear monitor, not the speakers.
“I know you blocked me, and I don’t blame you. But I need to explain, so I’m hoping you’ll read this. ‘The Annabeth thing isn’t what you think. I fucked up, but I never lied about loving you. Please call me. Let me make this right.—Ash’”
Willow’s gaze darted from side to side, but there was no one else onstage other than her and her band. She held up a finger as fans started giving her quizzical looks.
“Um… Just a second,” she said into the mic. “My…uh…stage manager is giving me an update on my guitar.”
“‘I’m gonna email every day until you respond,’”Ash’s voice continued. “‘You can hatr me, buy at leash you’ll know the trth.’” He paused. “Sorry… I was drunk when I wrote this one, but I wanted you to get the full effect.”
She let loose something between a laugh and sob while he kept going.
“‘It’s been a week, Wills. I’m a mess, which is a shitty thing to say because I’m sure it pales in comparison to what you’re going through. Just one phone call. That’s it. Please. I love you.—Ash’”
The audience started to cheer, and for a moment Willow wondered if they were actually applauding her having what looked like a very emotional reaction to news about her guitar. But then there he was.
Willow stood as she held her breath…and hoped.
She saw her guitar first, newly strung and slung across his chest. Then the setting sun shone on her favorite straw hat as Ash Murphy strode across the stage amid the crowd’s thunderous roar.
He lifted her guitar over his shoulders and set it on the stand next to the mic. His own guitar hung across his back.
“How? What?” she asked, voice shaking. And even though she was facing him, the sound carried out from the speakers.
“It’s a long story,” he replied. “The short version is I’m here, and I fired my manager and record label.” Murmurs and gasps arose from the audience. “That costs a pretty penny, let me tell you. Don’ttry this at home.” That earned him some laughs. “The long story…” he continued. “Let’s just say your inbox is full of four years’ worth of a brokenhearted man begging for forgiveness. But for now we should probably just sing these folks a song.”
