But mostly I worry he’ll be furious.
I’ve spent the last several days thinking and planning. When I saw that the venue had removed me from the billing, I called immediately, explained there’d been some kind of misunderstanding, and that yes, I absolutely would be there as planned.
Since Colt hasn’t posted anything online about us splitting up, I have to believe that he’s waiting for me, or more accurately, the label’s PR team, to announce it. But I have no intention of doing that. Not unless he signed those papers for a different reason than I thought.
Maybe I should’ve returned his calls, but I didn’t think he’d be willing to actually listen to me. And I wasn’t willing to get trapped into that conversation on the phone.
No, it has to be face-to-face. And since I still don’t know where he’s staying, tonight is my first and best option.
So here I am, guitar in hand, hoping that he won’t see me until we’re on stage together.
Maybe that’s shitty too. Maybe I should find him before the show and let him know I’m here. That I’m playing the show, we’re doing it as planned, and that we need to have a real conversation afterward. The conversation we should’ve had days ago, but he left before we could.
Instead, the tech dressed in black meets me at the stage door and shows me to a dressing room. I hold my breath the entire way down the hall, especially when I pass the door with Colt’s name on it. But he doesn’t appear anywhere, and then I’m safely in my own dressing room, where I can relax and prepare for the show, followed by a showdown.
Opening my case, I remove my guitar, softly strumming the strings to make sure it’s still in tune. Then I pull out the envelope of papers, laying them on the counter so they’re ready for when I need them.
Sitting quietly, I take several deep breaths, calming and centering myself. If I’m going to pull this off, I need to be on top of my game. Because there’s a good chance that me showing up will throw Colt off in a big way. He’s professional enough and we’ve played this show enough that I’m confident he’ll recover. But I need to not falter.
After gathering myself, I start playing quietly. It’s the new song that I wrote at my mom’s house. And I’m hoping that it’ll go a long way toward clearing up this misunderstanding.
Because I’m hanging on tight to the fact that’s what all this is. A big, fat, ugly misunderstanding.
I should’ve told him about Delores giving me the divorce papers the day it happened. I should’ve told him, and then I should’ve shredded them on the spot. Because that was never an option for me.
If I’d done that, none of this would’ve happened.
“Five minutes,” the stage manager calls through my dressing room door.
“Thank you, five,” I call back, setting down my guitar and wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.
I’d been calm and collected and feeling okay until receiving the five minute warning.
Now it’s make or break time. My plan is either going to work or fail spectacularly.
I pace the dressing room, waiting, waiting, waiting.
Then the one minute warning comes, and I pick up my guitar, open the door, smile and nod at the stagehand who’s come to collect me, and follow him to the stage entrance.
Settling the guitar strap across my shoulder, I take one last deep breath as the lights dim, then step out confidently, striding to the microphone standing alone in the middle of the stage.
I hear Colt in my in-ear monitor hissing at the stage manager. The audience can’t hear him. The only reason I can is because he’s wearing a lavalier mic that’s apparently on in preparation for taking the stage. Except since we’re doing our joint show, I’m taking the stage first. “What’s going on? What’s she doing here? Where’s Tom? Did he call her? Get Tom here right now. I want to know what the fuck is going on.”
A swoop of guilt plunges through my middle, but I ignore it along with Colt’s hissed questions in my ear. Maybe I should’ve told him. Or had someone tell him. But I can’t help thinking he would’ve objected, barged into my dressing room, and refused to share the stage with me.
Maybe I’m not giving him enough credit. Maybe he would’ve listened.
But then I remember his sparse note on top of a pile of signed divorce papers. No discussion. No chance for me to clear up the misunderstanding. And I can’t help thinking that this is the only way to get him to really hear me and not doubt my sincerity.
I breathe out a silent sigh of relief when the sound tech cuts off Colt’s feed in my ear, obviously realizing that this isn’t anything I need to be hearing. Not while I’m on stage and about to perform, anyway.
The lights come up and the crowd applauds while I wave. “Thank you all for coming out tonight!” More cheers and whistles, and the tilt-a-whirl in my stomach swoops and spins as I wait for them to quiet down.
“Whew! It’s been a busy week. Have you guys had a busy week?” A few claps and whistles greet the question. “I’ve been spending some time with my mom. And I just gotta say, moms are great, aren’t they?” More cheers. “Right? My mom’s the best. I hope all of you have moms as great as mine. I’ve been struggling with some decisions—and don’t worry, you guys will get all the juicy details soon enough—and hanging with my mom helped me get some perspective. On
