And Davis?—
Davis looks straight at me, winks, and lifts a microphone to his lips as the first strains of “America’s Sweetheart,” the quintessential Bro Code song that made them stars, come from the band.
Davis sings lead.
He always sang lead, so he’s singing lead tonight, and his voice?—
“Yes, baby, sing it!” Tillie Jean yells.
Oh my god, I forgot how much I love his voice.
Rich and smooth and perfect. I read an article once where one of the other guys said Davis had the voice of an angel, andoh my god, he does.
He does, and he’s singing.
Right there.
Right on the stage in front of me.
Not hiding. Not even hiding his shorter hair.
And the dancing—all five of them—all of them are hitting every step.
“Did you know?” Annika yells at me.
I shake my head.
And I stand there with my eyes getting hot while the five men who were never supposed to play together again move around the stage, in sync and on key, performing the song that took them to the level of superstars when I was a teenager.
When Davis was too. He’s a little older than me, but he was a teenager too.
The only one of the group who finished high school on the road instead of walking the stage.
They play the extended version while the crowd roars and Tillie Jean and Annika dance beside me, but me?—
I’m sixteen again.
With the most massive parasocial crush of crushes on a guy who doesn’t know I exist.
Except he does know I exist.
He spent last night with his body wrapped around mine and his hand resting on my cat while we slept.
Woke me with soft kisses and agotta go, I have an appointment in the city, have fun tonight,entirely too early.
So this was his appointment.
Getting ready to perform with his best friends like they used to.
We were supposed to buy the Fireballs. Be together again.
He’s getting histogether again.
My eyes blur, but I blink back the happy tears and stand there, hands clasped, bouncing on my feet while I watch my boyfriend shake his ass and sing his heart out.
I love him.
I do.
