“Are you okay?” Dean asks me, whispering in my ear.
“I’m okay.” Even though I was crying because of the rush of emotions, I can’t help but smile now. I’ve waited so long to smile while listening to Andy’s music, and now I feel like I finally can. Something in Lily’s voice set me free from the prison I made myself. It was more than just cathartic to hear this song sung again.
The crowd is bustling now, uplifted by Andy’s song. Lily and the Symphony break into a song I don’t recognize—it must be one of their own. The crowd cheers when Lily starts to sing again, and I cheer with them. Something about live music is so healing, and I feel the tiny rips in my soul being sutured up.
For the next half hour, I’m lost in the haze of the crowd and the wall of music, and somewhere between the sixth and seventh song, or maybe the eighth, Dean pulls me close to his chest, his arms draped over my shoulders and neck.
His arms are a heavy weight across my body and we fit together almost perfectly, like two gears made for one another, as we move with the rhythm of the crowd. He does it so naturally, I don’t even notice at first, but once I’ve noticed, it’s all I can think about. I’m not even sure he’s even given a second thought because of the fact he’s contently humming along to Lily and the Symphony.
My stomach feels anxious and nervous at the realization he’s actually, truly touching me, and I can’t tell if my heart is palpitating or fluttering. What’s the damn difference, anyway?Dean doesn’t seem to have any qualms over touching me like this, so I convince myself I should try to enjoy it for what it is.
The more I think about it, the more I’m aware of where he’s touching me. This time, it’s a hand down my side, resting at the curve of my hip. His fingers graze the small of my back and send critical shocks down my spine—this man’s touch is divine. He’s being so protective of me in a way I couldn’t imagine before.
My thoughts drift away from the music and into all the ways Dean could touch me. I bet he knows exactly what to do with his hands when there’s no clothes in the way. I imagine him, me, back in our room at the Monarch Resort. I bet he’s a fucking smoke show with softly radiant skin. Purely physical, us. A tangled, twisted mess in the sheets.
He’d make me lose it with his hands, time after time.
I shiver, imagining his hands cradling me the way he cradles his phone.
What kind of sick daydream am I having?
I’m shaken out of my thoughts about Dean when another one of Andy’s songs begins. This time, it’s WHEN THE TIDE TAKES THE COAST. I think it’s one of Andy’s most romantic songs. Although I’m partial to the intimate acoustic version, I love listening to the live touring version. It starts off with a lengthy guitar crescendo, before it bursts into a lovely wall of sound with all the instruments playing at once. I can’t tell if the thumping in my chest is my heart or the bass drum, but it’s steady and rhythmic so I don’t care either way.
“If the tide takes the coast, from starboard to port, you’ll be the one on the boat,” Lily sings, cupping the microphone before raising her arms above her head. She continues, the symphony swelling behind her.
“If the tide takes the coast, you’ll be the one I miss the most,” I sing along with her. I’ve had these lyrics branded into my brain the last five years. Dean gives me a gentle squeeze, remindingme he’s still here, still holding me. “I’ll find you sometime soon, it won’t be long now, honey,”
When the song ends, Lily pauses for a drink of water. The symphony warms up to begin the next song, but Lily doesn’t quite begin. “Thank you everyone for coming out tonight,” She thanks the crowd, bringing her hands out in front of her body. “It’s an honor to be able to sing these songs in Andy’s memory. We’d like to close with one of his favorites.”
Lily takes the stage by herself, strumming an acoustic guitar. Andy often closed his shows with an acoustic set in this manner. I’m expecting another Leonard Cohen song. It’s the Talking Heads. Andy never really liked the Talking Heads, but they were one of my favorites, so he learned to play them for me. Their songs became a staple at his concerts, as a reminder that this is always, without fail, for me.
The song ends and the crowd roars, and without thinking, I reach up to hold Dean’s arms around my neck. I don’t want him to let go of me, for fear I might keel over and lose it. While the first tribute performance was purely instrumental, something about this one has proved to be utterly transformative. I feel like my brain was sucked out through one ear and crammed back in through the other.
The crowd is dissipating, and people are leaving, but I’m frozen in place, statuette. All I can focus on is the guitar, on its stand, in the lone spotlight where Lily left it. I hear guitar chords humming in my ear, and I see the ghost of Andy on the stage. He’s up there, waving at me, pleading with me, begging for me to come with him.
I blink and he’s gone.
“Madeline, are you okay?” I hear in my ear, and a weight is lifted from my shoulders. Dean’s let me go, and I’m spinning back into the universe. The theater is emptying out, and thereare a few stragglers, but Dean and I are the only ones standing at the railing now.
I take a big, shaky breath. “Yeah. I think I’m okay.” I nod to reassure myself.
“Let’s go get our coats,” Dean suggests. I follow him mindlessly, Andy’s song lyrics still floating through my head. Even though the performance was short, even though they only played three of Andy’s songs, the fact that Andy is still very much alive in this way, somehow, is all I need to take away from this. I was nervous before, unsure of how I would feel, but I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Andy is alive in his music, and the love people have for him.
Before I know it, Dean has both of our coats. I’m still hearing the music when I put my coat back on. People are flooding the exits, and we burst outside with them. I cross my arms and hug myself tightly to keep myself warm. The wind has picked up significantly and my hair is blowing around my face.
“Hey, I think I’m getting a call,” Dean tells me. “It’s Sierra. My sister.” He picks up the phone with a confusedhello.
“What’s going on?” I ask, as Dean listens to his sister on the other end of the line. After a minute, he hangs up with a frustrated frown.
“She’s drunk and stranded in Island Falls.” Island Falls is a small town, about two hours away from here. He looks around hurriedly, the exit crowd dissipating, so it’s just us and a few other stragglers hanging around. “She needs someone to go get her and she won’t call our mother.”
“She wants you to pick her up?” I ask.
“Yep.” He sighs.
“Well, let’s go get her?” I suggest.
“Fuck. I guess we have to,” Dean rubs his forehead. “I won’t get there until midnight, at least. And then I’ll have to drive herback to our hometown another two hours away, and back. Shit, I’m going to be up all night.”
