I can’t make out the huddle of people setting up, not without the spotlights, but I recognise the opening notes the moment they ring out.
I’ve heard this album so many times. On the underground on the way to Kensington and back again. At night in bed while I’m thinking of him.
He squeezes my hand. “I had to pull some strings for this,” he whispers. “Just as well they call me the Puppet Master.”
I feign ignorance, but he’s not even looking at me, he’s looking at them. “The Puppet Master?”
“Yes.”
“Why do they call you that?”
“Because my dirty hands pull everyone’s strings.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I squeeze that dirty hand of his and he squeezes mine right back.
I love his dirty hands.
I love him.
He pulls out my seat for me and takes the one at my side. His thigh presses to mine under the table, and his dirty hand is on my knee.
“This is really just for us?” I ask him, and he smiles.
“For you,” he says.
“For me?”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever met who loves this band as much as I do,” he tells me, and I feel rotten inside. My belly is full of worms.
“I do love them,” I say, and it’s not actually a lie. Not anymore.
I know that for certain when they start up the set. I feel every note in my heart. I feel the sadness in the lyrics. I feel how beautiful this is.
Everything is beautiful.
But nothing is so beautiful as Alexander Henley.
I watch him as he stares at the stage, and his mouth is open just a little, his eyes wide as he takes it all in. His foot taps along to the beat and mine taps with it, and his eyes are so happy I could cry.
So I do.
I do cry.
I cry for the beautiful sadness in the music.
I cry for all the lies I’ve told.
I cry for my lost dreams and the parents I’d give my life for, just to see them one more time.
I cry for the way I love Alexander Henley.
I cry happy tears for the way I get to hold him at night.
I’m wiping them from my cheeks when I feel his eyes on mine. “What is it?” he whispers as Kings and Castles start up their next song.
“This,” I tell him. “It’s perfect.”
“Yes.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Yes, it is.”
I know Dean is waiting for my text with the venue location, but I can’t give him this one.
I know Dean is hanging around the city for my instructions to head on in to wherever we are and give Alexander the eye.
I want to text him and tell him to go home to Joe, to tell him this was all a mistake and I’m going to tell Alexander my real name before the night is out, because I’m done with all the lies and the stupid games.
I want this to be real. More than anything in the world I want this to be real.
I’m staring at Alexander’s beautiful dark eyes as the opening bars of Casual Observer ring out from the stage.
I’m smiling as he smiles, ready for his arms as he pulls me close.
And it is real.
This is real.
The way my heart beats against his is real. The love I see in his smile, that’s all real too.
I sing the words as he does, and this song is all about feeling like an outsider in a crowded world, which is funny, because the world is empty tonight. It’s just him and me, and I’ve never felt less of an outsider than I do right now.
“This was worth every penny,” he whispers as the song finishes up. “I’d have paid ten times over to see you so happy.”
And that’s why I don’t a send a cancellation text Dean after all.
That’s why I keep my shit together enough to ride this crazy train right to the end of the line.
Because as much as it scares the crap out of me to take this so insanely far, it’ll be worth every panicked heartbeat to give Alexander Henley exactly what he wants.
Even if Alexander Henley thinks he’s doing it all for me.Chapter Thirty-SixAlexanderAmy is glowing as we give our thanks to the band after the set. She tells them how much she loves them, eyes twinkling as she relays all the same stories she told me.
I love listening to them.
I love listening to her.
If I was a man who believed in mumbo jumbo, I’d say she and I stood as indisputable evidence that soulmates really do exist. That there really is fate at play behind the chaos of life. That chance encounters are sometimes nothing less than little miracles.
She feels like a miracle to me.
But I’m not, so this is simply an extraordinarily perfect set of coincidences.
It doesn’t make it any less beautiful.