“Helloooo, Chicago!” I called to polite applause.
Well, this was going to be a new type of concert. Usually by this time the crowd was half-drunk and singing at the top of their lungs.
“Chicago, you are lucky to be the first city to get to meet someone very special to me,” I boomed into the mic, “My new girlfriend, thesweetestwoman I’ve ever met. . .Dolly!”
I looked over to where Rosalie had been, but now she appeared to be at one of the food carts, pointing something out on the menu to Matt. It was like she hadn’t even heard me.
Must be fucking nice for my friends to be pissing around not even supporting me.
“Finally met a woman who might be able to force me into marriage like a whipped pus--simp,” I joked, choking on the word “pussy.”
This joke was greeted with complete silence.
Oh fuck, shit, they probably were all married.
“I HAVE TO GO POOP,” I heard a child’s voice holler out loudly.
Cornelius looked like he was sweating bullets, pulling at his collar, and shifting anxiously from one foot to the other.
Meanwhile Rosalie was pouring BBQ sauce and sprinkling pickled jalapenos onto a hot dog.
I wanted to call her name out, force her to look at me, but I bit the urge back and went into my first carefully curated song.
“Bro, pull it together,” my other drummer Rick hissed. “What the fuck is wrong with your voice?”
“It’s fine.”
But everything was warbly, scratchy.
I saw a few people start to look over at each other, wonder what was happening.
I tried to laugh it off.
“Live music, right? Something’s in my fuc?—”
I choked on the words again. Damn, hell, this was supposed to be a family-friendly concert. No swearing whatsoever.
Rosalie always wrote my banter for me, tailoring it to wherever we were and who the crowd was, but since she wasn’t talking to me, we hadn’t changed it up.
And that must be why I sounded fucking awful—when she was there to bounce stuff off, I sounded better.
My eyes hastily scanned the crowd as some assistant brought me a glass of water.
But Rosalie wasn’t even in the damn crowd now.
She was over with Matt at the baby elephant cage, twisting around toward the stage, but she wasn’t even remotely looking at me, her eyes squinched shut with laughter as the baby elephant playfully twined his trunk around her leg, then sprayed her in the face with water.
“Bones in a spring bouquet,” I sang, my voice fucking cracking.
And still she didn’t even turn around, Matt with his camera out taking her picture now.
My band members attempted to compensate by playing louder but it didn’t work.
Shit, what were the words to this one? Maybe I shouldn’t have had that last shot of whiskey.
My god, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get in tune?
I took a break after a few songs, took another drink of water.
