Page 56 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Then I remembered that he didn’t even know I was here, so I went back to glaring at the blonde and hoping like hell she wasn’t his new muse.

“Is this your first time?”

I looked at the man standing next to me, not entirely sure what he was asking. I sized him up. Late thirties, early forties, with sandy-brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was dressed in a dark button-up, jeans, and loafers, and looked vaguely familiar.

He jerked his chin toward the stage area.

“Oh. No. I’ve seen him perform before.” In a flash, it came to me how I knew him. “But he’s something special, isn’t he?”

“It’s my first time and I’ve gotta say he’s living up to the hype. I thought for sure he wouldn’t be able to hit some of those notes, especially with all that wine he’s been drinking but he proved me wrong. Boy, did he ever.”

I smiled. “So are you going to write a glowing review?”

His brows shot up. “How did you know I’m a journalist?”

I’d been reading Jonathan Mayes’ music reviews for years, both the scathing ones and the glowing ones, and watched his rock documentaries. But on a more personal level, my momdated him, albeit briefly, when she was trying but failing to move on.

The summer I was sixteen, Jonathan got us backstage passes to a David Bowie concert. I could tell by the way he looked at my mom that he was in love with her. She’d either pretended not to notice or she really hadn’t noticed, but I remember feeling bad for him. He couldn’t compete with a ghost.

“Just a good guess,” I said. “Please be kind to him. Gabriel Francis is incredibly talented and so passionate about music and perfecting his craft. He deserves the world.”

“Sounds like you have a vested interest,” Jonathan said.

“Nope. I’m just a fan.”

I faced forward again and tried to focus on the music, but my thoughts raced.

A positive review from Jonathan Mayes, who had cut his teeth in journalism discovering emerging artists, could launch Gabriel’s career.

And then it would only be a matter of time before the A&R guys showed up offering record deals.

Pretty soon, the whole world would know who Gabriel Francis was.

But Gabriel needed to be protected at all costs. The music industry was a tough business. It could chew you up and spit you out, not to mention fuck you up, and critics could be harsh.

Gabriel was a sensitive guy with very few boundaries.

In a society where men are taught that they’re not supposed to express their emotions so openly and honestly, it was rare to meet a guy like him. Someone who didn’t buy into the whole macho man act and wasn’t afraid to show his vulnerability.

Someone who would jump off a cliff without a parachute.

Gabriel played for another hour and ended the set with the song he wrote about me.

Tonight’s version bled with longing and heartache with an undercurrent of anger and frustration and finished on a sigh of resignation.

It sounded as if he had given up waiting for the girl who got away. The girl he’d kissed on a frigid March night six weeks ago.

“That’s it, folks. Thanks for coming out tonight and being a part of the journey. If you got ‘em, smoke ‘em. If you love someone, be sure to tell them. Stay cool and I’ll see you all next week.”

The room erupted into applause, and he tipped his chin in thanks.

While he packed up his guitar, Nose Ring Girl passed a coffee can around, collecting tips, and that did it.

I squared my shoulders, preparing to go after my man, but Jonathan Mayes tapped me on the shoulder, so I reluctantly turned to face him.

“You look so familiar and I’ve been trying to place it all night,” he said. “Are you by any chance, Alice Babington’s daughter?”

“That depends.” I smiled. “Will my answer change your review?”