In her dressing area at the concert the next afternoon, Maya prepared to go onstage, and I got ready to head out to San Francisco for the next regular season game.
"I'll let you know when I land," I said to Maya.
She was in the makeup chair, focused on her reflection in the mirror, while the stylist scraped on a lot of black eyeliner.
"I'll be waiting," Maya said with a sad smile. Her voice stayed steady despite the lingering heaviness.
I texted Elliott to confirm that he'd be picking me up from the stadium to get my ass to the airport.
"Hans said I could cut the last song so I'll be able to see you off," she said, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror, reflecting a mix of emotions I couldn't quite decipher.
I should've felt guilty about her cutting the show short—but I didn't. The world got my wife most of the damn time, but this time, I got her.
With her makeup done, Maya stood up from the chair, ready to face the crowd waiting for her out in the arena. She was opening for Dimefront, but she was a superstar in her own right now.
She turned to me once more. This time, there was a softness in her eyes that made my heart ache.
"Hey," I said, pulling her toward me and hugging her carefully so I wouldn't jack with her lipstick. "I'm sorry about?—"
She lifted her fingertips against my lips. "This is a salt and pepper discussion. Not a pre-show talk."
I nodded because she was right. She was just about to head on stage, and this wasn't where her mind needed to be.
"Then I'll see you when we're in Denver next?" I asked hopefully.
She shook her head. "We've got the press thing in New York and then the concert in Baltimore."
"I'm gonna be on the West Coast." With practice between away games.
"Hans can coordinate with Elliott?" she suggested. "The two of them can figure it out for us?"
"That's why we have managers, I guess." But I didn't like the idea of Elliott being in charge of my time-with-Maya schedule.
I also couldn't get across the country and back in time to make everyone happy. Not even myself.
"There's still FaceTime," Maya said, gently. "If we find ourselves with decent Wi-Fi."
"You know I'm your biggest fan, and there isn't one thing in the world that will change that?" I asked.
She nodded as she held her arms wide so one of the guys could attach her earpiece and run it down the back of her rhinestones to the control box at her lower back.
"We're running about ten minutes late," a roadie said from the doorway. "Problem with an amp, but it's getting swapped out now."
"Do what we need to do. The show must go on," Maya said with a reassuring smile.
"I'll see you after?" she asked me as a blinged-out microphone was slipped into her palm, and the crew shuffled her to the wings of the stage.
"I hope so." But it wasn't looking promising. Even if she cut the last song, they were already starting late.
Ten minutes turned to fifteen. Then fifteen turned to twenty. By the time she took her position on stage, there was no way she'd finish in time to see me off.
I stood at the edge of the stage, just out of view of the audience, in the spot that had become mine when I got to watch Maya perform. I was out of sight, but as close as I could be to her without getting in the way.
Maya was a goddess in her bodysuit that shimmered under the bright stage lights. The music pulsed through the air, pulling all eyes to her while she sang, danced, and brought the whole stadium alive.
"She's good," a guy said from beside me.
I turned, and Bax, the lead singer for Dimefront, watched beside me in a worn leather jacket, the sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos snaking around his arms.
