Look at You

Chapter 59

59

The stage is empty of him now, I know that. Finn's easy guitar strumming and winding-down-a-dirt- road voice is meandering in some far-off, logically processing cavern in my head, but still, all I see is Simon. Bottle of Bud Light loose, hanging from two fingers, but never in danger of falling. Pants rolled up to show off his high tops, the feet wrapped in that classic canvas stepping forward, to the side, then back again. His eyelids slightly drooping because he's drunk, but his eyes finding mine at every chance he can get, every ounce of his stare so serious despite the alcohol thrumming in his veins. His fingers on the mic, the skin of them white with the force of his grip. The hair in its perfect place, the tattoo peeking at me when he turns his head to the right.

"Cameron!"

The vacuum seal has broken. I'm back in the bar, Finn's in front of me on the stage instead of Simon, and life has resumed its rightful state of moving on.

I turn toward the voice. Callie is much closer to me than I expect. Her eyes are wide—frantic—and her glossy brown lips are parted. "Huh?"

"Oh Jesus," she lets out a breath and turns toward the others. "I think he's in shock."

"I'm not in shock," I say, but my body is practically vibrating with the question where is he and all the emotions that come with it. This actually may be shock.

I quickly take stock of the table; everyone in their rightful places—all in various stages of Callie's obvious emotional turmoil—but no Simon.

"You haven't answered any of us in five minutes," she bites back. "I don't think you've blinked."

"Huh." I find the rest of the crowd with a quick survey. No one is looking over here, but I find that even if they were, I wouldn't have cared. Some of them are looking at Finn, but most of them are looking at, talking, touching, and kissing one another. I find Callie's eyes again. My heart is starting to pump faster, demand more oxygen.

"Where is he?"

"I-I don't know," Callie quickly eyes the rest of the group. "Anyone? Anyone see where he went? Trey? Anyone?"

I don't bother with an answer. I grab my phone and wallet and push passed Callie and head toward the door. I know where he is, but just in case, I scan the patrons seated on barstools before I go. I catch a glimpse of a head of gray hair and John Lennon glasses leaning on the corner of the bar close to the door. Next to him, a very pregnant, very beautiful chestnut-haired woman is sitting tall on a stool sipping a Coke, looking me dead in the eyes.

She cranes her neck toward the door. I'm just close enough to hear her lips pull away from the straw and say, "he just left."

I grab my jacket off the hook, bust one hand through the armhole and push open the door with as much force as I can.

He's less than a block ahead of me. "HEY!" I'm shouting. He turns around just as I'm shoving my other arm through the jacket. It's May, and it was 70 degrees earlier, but it's 40 now and he's in just that t-shirt. The Bud Light bottle is still dangling precariously in his hand.

He doesn't move. So I do. "What the fuck was that." I'm pointing back toward the bar. I'm suddenly so full of rage I'm talking through my teeth, stomping through the street. "What the fuck was that."

10 steps and I'd reach him. He disarms me quickly. "I love you." He looks a mess—he's clenching his jaw, one step away from slamming his eyes closed because he can't bare this confrontation—but he stays put.