And somewhere in my peripheral vision, a pair of bright-pink underwear sails through the air and lands approximately three feet from my left boot.
I always finish my concerts with “Complete” now. It’s a song I wrote six months after Nick and I met, scribbled out one-handed after Nick fell asleep on the couch with his head on my lap, me trying desperately to put into words the feelings inside me as I watched Nick sleep and tried to sum up the impact he’d had on my life.
It won a Grammy, but that isn’t why it’s my favorite song.
“Thank you, Chicago!” I shout into the mic, stepping carefully around the underwear because the last thing I need is to slip on intimate apparel and create a viral moment for all the wrong reasons. “You’ve been incredible!”
The stage lights dim and I’m backing toward the wings, waving, blowing kisses, doing the whole performance-mode thing that’s become second nature after all these years.
But my mind is already somewhere else.
Specifically, on my phone.
“Great show!” Brad claps me on the shoulder as I pass him. “The new arrangement of ‘Different Cages’ was fire.”
“Thanks, man.”
I’m barely listening. My hands are already reaching for my phone before I’ve even made it to the dressing room. It may be pathetic, but I’ve stopped pretending I’m not this person.
Three years together, and I still get a little thrill when I see Nick’s name on my screen.
Two messages are waiting for me.
The first is a photo that makes me laugh out loud, earning a weird look from the sound tech I’m passing.
It’s our dogs—Bowie, the golden retriever we adopted last year, and Figgy—named after Nick’s long-deceased plant, because apparently my husband has a theme—the scrappy little terrier mix Nick saw at the animal shelter he manages the social media for and couldn’t resist.
In the photo, Bowie is sprawled across our couch like he owns the place, wearing what appears to be one of my tour T-shirts. Figgy is perched on top of him, tiny and dignified, sporting a pair of my sunglasses.
The caption reads:
They wanted to watch the livestream in style. Figgy says your high note in the second verse of “Right in Front of Me” was pitchy. Bowie disagrees. There’s been drama. Also, the shelter’s adoption drive social media campaign went viral today—twelve dogs rehomed! Your husband is a marketing genius and deserves a raise (from life, not from the shelter, because they definitely can’t afford one).
The second message is just three words.
Come home soon.
My chest tightens in that way it always does when Nick reminds me I have someone at home, waiting for me to come back.
I type back quickly, still walking toward my dressing room.
Tell Figgy my high note was perfect, and he’s just jealous he can’t sing. Tell Bowie he’s a good boy and gets extra treats. Twelve dogs rehomed is incredible—you’re amazing. Tell yourself I’ll be home in eighteen hours, and I’m counting every single one.
The reply comes almost instantly.
That’s remarkably sappy, but I’ll take it. Love you.
I’m grinning at my phone like an idiot when Gloria appears beside me.
“You’re doing the face again,” she says.
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m texting my husband and have temporarily forgotten I’m a functioning adult’ face.” She shoves a water bottle into my free hand, then pushes me toward my dressing room door. “You have fifteen minutes before the meet-and-greet.”
“I know, I know.”
But as soon as I’m inside, despite the fact that I’m still hot and sweaty and really should be focusing on looking more presentable for my fans, I can’t help but quickly hit the FaceTime call button.
