Watching for Comets

Saturday

In the morning, my sinuses were stuffy but my head was starting to clear enough so I could think straight.

I knew where to find him, too – at least for the next few weeks, while he finished his tour. I searched for the band and their tour dates. They were playing tonight, in a town several hours' drive away – but if I left now, I could make it in time. There were still tickets left. I purchased one and grabbed my keys.

By the time I arrived, my heart was pounding in my ears. The coffee I had grabbed on the way probably hadn't helped my anxiety. The waiting in line nearly killed me; I needed to talk to him as soon as possible. And yet, when I was finally let into the venue, I wasn't brave enough to march backstage and demand to see him. What if this was a mistake? What if he really didn't want to be with me after all? Was that why he hadn't made a big deal about not having sex?

I pressed myself into the corner of the room and waited for the show to start. When he got up on stage, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest at the sight of him. Like a true professional, his performance didn't let on that anything emotional had happened the night before. He commanded the violin with ease, his voice pouring out passion and energy. Part of me was tempted to force myself to the front of the crowd and shove myself in his face, but I didn't want to ruin the show. Besides, who was I kidding? I wasn't that daring.

By the end of the night, my feet hurt, my ears hurt, my heart hurt, and my whole body ached. They never did play "Julia."

Still in the corner, I watched the rest of the crowd disperse out the front doors while the staff cleaned up the stage. This was it. If I didn't do something now, I could lose him forever.

While the employees were distracted, I snuck through the back and out the rear door. Everyone was busy piling equipment onto the bus. I spotted a few band members, but Jason was nowhere to be seen. My eyesight seemed incapable of focusing, whether from the bright flood lights disrupting natural darkness, the chaotic activity after the show, or my own desperation.

"Lonny, was it?"

For a second, my heart rate spiked – but it wasn't Jason's voice. I turned and blinked to find Jen staring at me from above a drum barrel. I took a second to acknowledge her lack of surprise at seeing me there. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I choked out an affirmative response to her question.

She cocked an eyebrow, probably at how pathetic I sounded. "Are you looking for Jason?"

"Yes; is he not...?" Willing to talk to me?

"He's on the bus." I took this provision of information to mean she had forgiven me at this point. Following the nod of her head, I honed in on the door to the tour bus, making my way over without any regard for anyone whose path I may have cut through on the way. There, I paused to debate knocking first. I tried the handle just to see if it was locked – I told myself – then kept going when it opened with a click that was too loud for me to pretend it hadn't been my intention to open it in the first place.

When Jason tossed his head up, his eyes were filled with tears, eyeliner smudged across his handsome face. A short glass of amber liquid sat on the table in front of him, the whiskey bottle a short distance away.

"Why are you crying? I'm the one who's been hurt," I said. My fists opened and closed by my sides. Just briefly, his lips threatened a smile as he recognized the reference.

"It hurts me to see you in pain," he replied. "Especially when it's my fault." Averting his gaze from me, he lifted the glass to his lips and took in a solid gulp. I sat down across from him and slipped the cup from his fingers. He frowned, but didn't move to take it back. Instead, he locked onto the bandages on my fingers. Grabbing my hand, he pushed back the sleeve to find the scars the same as before. Tucking the sleeve back into place, he feigned apathy in an almost comically exaggerated gesture.