“I heard he hates being approached,”says Tristan.
I stick my head into their secret huddle. “Who are you guys talking about?”
Everyone looks at me. Tristan points his chin to my right. “Over there. The one with the glasses.”
I turn around, looking. “The tinted ones?” It’s the man I sat beside during Tristan’s film. “Oh, I talked to him earlier. He was really nice.”
Tristan’s eyes widen. “What do you mean youtalkedto him?”
“I sat next to him at your screening,” I say. “We chatted before it started. It wasn’t a big deal or anything. I mostly ignored him.”
“Julie… tell me you know who that is?”
“Clearly I don’t, Tristan.”
“That’s Marcus Graham,” Tristan whispers tensely. “He’s one of the former managers of the band. He’s old friends with Mark Lanegan and the Connor brothers. He’s a big part of their success. He’s sort of famous.”
“And he’s leaving!” his friend shouts.
I turn to see his arm disappear through a slit in the back of the tent. How did I not realize who he was? No wonder he was so curious about my interest in the band. As I watch him leave,a sudden thought occurs to me. I need to talk to him again. This is my only chance.
I leave Tristan with his friends and rush out of the tent to find him. It’s incredible how much sound the canvas can block from the outside. The cold shift from the night air sends a shiver through me, making my ears pop.
“Wait!” I shout from behind him.
The man stops walking. He turns around, looking for the voice. It’s only the two of us out here. He adjusts his glasses. “Something the matter?” he asks.
It takes me a second to think of what to say. “I’m sorry! For not recognizing you earlier.”
“No worries,” he says with a chuckle. “You won’t be the last.”
“My boyfriend. He would have loved to have met you. He’s a really big fan,” I say. “His name is Sam.”
“You mentioned him. Too bad he couldn’t make it,” he says, turning to leave.
I step forward. “He’s a musician, too,” I go on. “He plays the guitar, and even writes his own music. You guys really inspired him.”
“That’s nice, kid.”
I reach into my bag. “I have one of his CDs,” I say. “It would mean a lot if you listened to it.” Once I find the CD, I hold it out to him. “Some of the songs aren’t finished. But he’s really talented.”
The man puts his hands up. “Sorry, kid. But I make it a rule not to take unsolicited music. Industry policy.”
I step forward, holding the CD out closer. “Please, just listen to it. It would mean so much to him.”
He waves a hand in the air. “I said I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Please—”
“Have a good rest of your night,” he says firmly, and walks off.
I stand there with my arm hanging in the air, as a cold night chill sends a shiver through me, and I feel my entire body begin to shake.
I can’t let this chance slip away. I have to stop him. I have to do this for Sam. But the man is about to walk off forever.
“He’s dead!” I gasp. The words rip through my throat. “He’s dead!” When I realize what I’m actually saying, I can’t contain myself. “That’s why he couldn’t make it. That’s why he isn’t here. Because he died. He died few weeks ago—”
Tears form behind my eyes as my throat swells up. It’s been a long time since I heard myself say anything like this. Maybe because I stopped believing it.
