“Well, there’s a lot to plan,” Alicia replies faintly. “Flowers, entertainment. The church gets booked up months in advance... Are you sure you guys don’t want to wait?”
“Nope.” Brit looks determined. “The sooner we get this thing over with, the better.”
Hunter smirks. “Real romantic, darlin’.”
Brit grins back at him. “I mean, the sooner I get to start life as your devoted wife, the better.”
“I like the sound of that.” Hunter leans over to kiss her.
Alicia gets to her feet. “I, um, where’s the bathroom?” she asks, looking flustered.
“Out the back, to the left,” I point the way, then pause. “Are you feeling OK?”
“Sure!” she chirps. “Great! I’ll be right back.”
Alicia disappears into the crowd, but before I can call that she’s heading in the wrong direction, there’s a ringing noise. Slowly, the room hushes, and we all turn to the back of the room, where Emerson and Juliet are standing on the back stairs, looking down at us.
“Uh, hey everyone,” Emerson clears his throat, looking awkward.
“Oh boy,” Brit whispers. “He hates getting up in front of everyone.”
“I won’t take too long,” Emerson continues. “I guess we just want to welcome you to Jaybird. I hope you all are having a good time. This restaurant was always a pipe dream of mine, so I want to thank everyone who’s pitched in to make tonight possible. It really was a team effort, so thanks to each and every one of you who pulled the late nights, and overtime, to make it happen.”
There’s applause.
“And I just want to say a special thanks to my wife, Juliet.” Emerson turns to her, his dark eyes flashing with pride and devotion. “She’s the one who pushed me to make this dream a reality, and I know, none of this would be possible without her.” He leans over and kisses Juliet, a long kiss that makes the crowd cheer and whoop until finally he pulls away. “So, that’s enough with the speeches. Eat, drink, have a good time.”
“And don’t forget to make reservations!” Juliet pipes up, laughing.
There’s more applause, as they come down from the stairs and make their way back to our table.
“How was that?” Juliet asks me, sliding into a seat.
“Perfect,” I exhale happily, looking around the room at all the people I love. My family. My future. Right here, so full of love and friendship, it takes my breath away.
“Everything is perfect.”
THE END
Epilogue
I pace back and forth in the narrow back alleyway, flipping an unlit cigarette back and forth between my fingers. I’ve quit a hundred times over, but somehow I always go back to them in the end.
Old habits die hard.
I take a long breath, trying to calm the hell down. It’s just a private party, barely a couple of hundred people. I’ve sold out stadiums before; played to thousands of screaming fans without a flinch. Hell, I even played the Grammys drunk out of my mind — the only thing I remember from that night is the three blonde backup dancers I took back to the hotel for a very special after-party.
This should be a breeze.
Except I haven’t played in public since that night in London, over a year ago. The night I’d rather forget, the one that haunts me through every waking moment and sleepless night. After that, I swore, I was done with music for good. The label begged me, threatened all kinds of legal bullshit. I had a contract, I couldn’t just quit in the middle of a sold-out world tour. I didn’t care — I walked away from the band and left it all behind without a second thought. I left LA, bought a house on the beach away from the clubs and paparazzi, and turned off my cellphone for the first time since this whole whirlwind began. Ready to start a new life over, away from the madness and f**ked-up world that had become normal to me.
Until the cravings started. My urge, my own private drug.
Music.
The rush of performing. The power of the spotlight. It’s a high like no other, and hell, I would know. I’ve spent the past year trying desperately to replace it, and nothing has even come close.
Old habits die hard.
I could feel it creeping back again, the itch getting stronger. My old manager could tell: he started calling round the clock, offering new shows, a small tour, an EP on an indie label. If I didn’t want the major label scene, then we’d do it differently this time: my rules, my way.
He doesn’t understand the real reason I can’t go back to that life.
The back door of the restaurant opens. A guy poked his head out, Garrett, his name is. The bartender from the place in Beachwood. “Hey, Dex,” Garrett calls back to me. “We’ll be ready in like, ten minutes?”
“Sure, great.” I nod, jittery.
The guy pauses. “I really appreciate you doing this.”
“No problem,” I wave the thanks away. “I owe you, man.”
Garrett nods. “Whenever you’re ready.”
The door shuts. I throw the cigarette down on the ground, unlit, and grind it with my heel. I can’t bail now — I agreed to play this opening to make up for leaving them in the lurch back in the spring.
It’s what you wanted: a hit of the spotlight again. So what’s your damn problem?
The problem is, I know, just one hit can never be enough. My whole life has been a parade of reckless excess: too much booze, too many girls, too many damn regrets. I’ve clawed my way out of the viper’s nest one time, but I can tell, I’m right back on the edge again.