Spotlight on Nobody

- 32 -

~ Sparks by Coldplay ~

I'm in D.C. The details of how I managed to get here are a bit fuzzy. I took a late train out of Philadelphia, splurging on a last-minute Amtrak ticket so I could make it to the capital before Leo's show. The Uber I took from the station to the stadium dropped me off as close to the back as he could. Now I'm standing in front of a 12-foot-high metal gate topped with barbed wire, being stared down by an armed guard, and I've suddenly run out of steam. I just want to lean against the fence, slide down the cool metal and take a nap, but the light buzz I hear makes me think that maybe it's electrified.

"Hi Logan," I say into my phone, turning my back on the security guard.

"Ms. Greene, is something wrong?" Logan's voice is deep and professional, but I swear I can hear a note of concern.

"I'm outside the gate of the back entrance – at the stadium. Can you come get me?" My voice sounds small, far away, and entirely unlike me.

"I'm on my way," he states and then promptly hangs up. I'm glad he didn't ask questions, or flat out deny me entrance, because I know that if I want to speak to Leo, I'm going to need all the energy I have.

Minutes later, Logan's warm hand on my shoulder leads me into the back entrance of the stadium. Even through the thick concrete walls, I hear the pulsating energy of the thousands of people in the crowds. It makes the walls seem closer. My breathing speeds up. Why am I here?

I'm standing in front of a metal door, coated in chipped red paint. There's a slide-in name tag at eye level, with the name LEO GRIFFITHS printed in block letters wedged into the frame. Strange, I think. I pictured the door to be gilded in gold or something fit of a superstar.

Before I even think to knock, too busy staring at the name of the man I've recently fallen in love with, it swings open.

Forest green eyes meet mine and the numbness I've felt for the past few hours dissipates entirely, pushed out by a torrent of emotions. They hit me so hard I stagger forward and Leo's arms reach out to catch me, but I steady myself and take another step back, distancing us. A look of hurt drifts over his face, like a small cloud on a windy day, blown away so quickly I forgot it even happened.

"Ruby," is the only word that comes out of my mouth.

The hurt on his face morphs into sad understanding. He runs a hand through his tousled hair and the tide of emotions swells in my chest.

"You named your album after her," I say simply. I can't say her name, her real name, the name I associate with an ice queen and beauty and jealously.

He sighs and turns away from me, facing the light-studded mirror on the far wall of the green room. His eyes meet mine again through the reflection.

"Yeah, I did." He sounds guilty. My heart wrenches. Why does he sound guilty? It's not like I knew him then. Unless...

"You really love her," I realize aloud. He's still in love with Ingrid. It feels like someone has hollowed out my stomach and stuffed it full of cotton.

He turns and strides to me in three quick steps until he's only inches from me. He reaches his hand up as if to cup my face, thinks better of it, and instead threads his hands through his own hair, pulling it in frustration.

"Loved," he corrects then his eyebrows draw together as if confused. "Maybe," he sighs in defeat. "I don't know anymore. I don't remember any good moments. It makes me wonder if they ever happened at all."

His eyes are closed as he talks, but I can see a mix of confusion and sadness on his face.

"You have to understand, I was with her for two years. She understood everything I was going through because her life was the same. I thought the similarities meant that we were compatible. She's beautiful. She wanted to be with me. We fought a lot. She wanted me to be someone I wasn't. But still, I thought it was love. I thought that's just what it was supposed to be like. I mean, I named a fucking album after her." He lets out a shaky laugh and opens his eyes into mine.

"But when I listen to the lyrics now, I realize I wasn't singing about her. I was singing about a version of her that I had created in my mind. I was in love with the person I wanted her to be. So, I promised myself that the next time I sang about love, it would come from reality, not fantasy."

He looks at me expectantly. I still haven't said a thing. The cotton in my stomach has disappeared, and my legs feel stable again, and my vision no longer has a hazy vignette. I find the strength I didn't have two minutes ago to reach out and touch his face, my fingers gently drifting over his eyebrow, down the contour of his cheekbone, skimming over his lips. He lets out a breath; it sounds relieved.

"I wrote a new song," he says, and the swell of emotions overflows out of me so strongly I could swear I'm glowing a golden yellow. He leans into me, holding my hand against his face with his own larger palm.

"About?" I ask, my voice finally returning.

"Love," he says, and kisses me.