“Um, no! College.” I answer a bit tersely, sensitive to all references to rehab and my family.
“That’s right. Somewhere like Idaho.”
“Iowa.”
“Hey! So close.” He puts up a hand for me to give him a fist bump for guessing another state that starts with the letter “I.” I don’t think he’s joking here. Marigold, the friendly teen who has returned to my side, snort laughs. “Could I snag a picture with you?” he continues.
“Why not?”
After I take the photo with the drummer, I tell him again how much I enjoyed the concert.
The guy beams. “Dude! It was outrageous! Right? Hey, Freddy knows you’re here, right? He’s a total April Rain fangirl. We are always listening to your stuff in the van—like always.”
“Is that so?” I ask, trying hard not to let that little bit of news go to my head. I catch Johnny Love eyeing me curiously. I try to stay cool and calm on the outside, but inside, so much is happening—Freddy still listens to my music. I. CAN’T. EVEN. I want to jump up and down and squeal! But at the same time, I’m panicking because drummer dude (Ireally should have asked for his name) is going to fetch Freddy. I need to get out of here. Plus, Johnny Love looks far too interested in the conversation. So, Freddy likes my music, no big deal, millions of people like my music. Don’t read too much into that Johnny Love, except, of course, Iamreading everything into it.
“So, did you see Freddy?” Drummer boy asks. I can’t refer to him as little drummer boy because this guy is roughly the height and heft of a sasquatch.
Marigold answers for me. “Yeah, he’s awesome.” And I swear her pupils change into hearts.
“Cool! Cool! It’s been great meeting you,” mutters drummer dude. (That name works.) He comes in for a sweaty hug, and I really don’t mind because it means this whole nightmare is nearly over.
As he lets go and I step away, he waves and repeats my name with a bit of wonder.
“April Rain... who would have guessed.” He takes a chug of his beer. “I used to be your biggest fan.”
Used to Be.
He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill, deserted and disappointed him. —Persuasion
3
She was at my concert. It’s all over social media with fans taking selfies with April Elliot. At my concert. I stare at a photo from last night. I have not seen her face in five years. She looks good, really good. In some of the pics, she’s wearing oversized sunglasses and has this whole Jackie Kennedy vibe. There’s a seriousness to her face that wasn’t there before, probably from all those business classes. She cut off her signature long, curly black hair to a short mop of curls. I bet her publicist had a heart attack when she did that. No more artistic shots of April’s riotous mane of ringlets. With short hair, her curls frame her face sweetly. I find myself longing to touch them. In the photos without sunglasses her eyes are red-rimmed with smudges of mascara. Had she been crying? Did she hear me pour my heart out in that encore? Did that reach her at all? Does anything reach her?
Why didn’t she come backstage? I always give her name to security with the wild hope that she might see me perform. And she finally did. I try toremember every detail of the concert. Would I have sung better knowing she was there? It’s probably best I didn’t know. The crowd had great energy. It was a good set. Nothing to be ashamed of, except maybe that final encore; I got a bit emotional there. I play a song like that at nearly every show. To deter groupies and because I’m a hopeless romantic. I scan through more photos of her at the concert. It’s the first time our names have ever been publicly linked, and it gives me a pleasant buzz.
Scrolling through the pics, a photo catches my attention. She is in a photo with Mouse, my drummer, backstage. She was backstage. How did I miss her? My fingers have a mind of their own. I text Mouse before I can even think this through.
freddy
Did you meet April Rain last night?
He answers with a pic of himself with his arm wrapped around her.
freddy
Why didn’t you tell me she was there? You know I’m a fan
mouse
She said she met you
Why would she lie like that? Okay, so it’s not really a lie. Technically, we have met, but it’s been years. Why did she come backstage if not to see me? Or maybe she came to the concert with someone. That’s possible. But she only would come backstage to see me, right? Is that an egotistical conclusion? Maybe. Probably. And then an insidious thought slinks in and takes over. She might have come backstage with someone else who wanted to meet me. What if she was on a date?
I text Mouse again.
freddy
Was she with anyone?
