Page 5 of After All
“We’re here. And don’t get any crazy ideas to go off and leave me here all alone.” I glare at her without much heat behind it. It’s Labor Day weekend in Nashville, Tennessee, and the biggest country band out right now is headlining an exclusive show for the holiday weekend.
If I had thought about it a little more, I’d have realized the place would be packed out for the holiday, but not thinking about things until they happened is kind of my shtick. “Future Amelie’s problem” are words that run through my mind far too often for a grown woman who should have it together enough to function outside of academia.
I just can’t believe I’m in a room with this many people. All my senses are on high alert.
“There’s gotta be five hundred people here, if not more.”
I look around and wave my hand at the crowd that presses ever closer to the small cordoned-off section where we sit.
“I know! Isn’t it great?” Not surprisingly, we view the sheer number of people in the room very differently. Nearly opposites. Our friendship makes absolutely zero sense to outsiders. She keeps talking like she didn’t see the look on my face. She often pushes me in social settings, and at times, I’m grateful for those nudges. I’d be a hermit if it wasn’t for Suzette.
And don’t get me wrong. I’m more than happy for Charlie and the band he’s played with for nearly two decades. “I’m happy they’re still killing it after all these years, for sure. I just don’t love it for me.”
The woman I’ve known longer than anyone else besides my family looks at me with a mixture of adoration and frustration. She’s grateful I came and brought her along, but I know she wishes I didn’t take so much work. I’m a tough friend. I know it. I just refuse to change myself to fit in — and honestly wouldn’t even know where to begin if I had the inclination to do it. Suzette loves me. I know that, too. So, even if I drive her insane. she’ll never ask me to change.
But that doesn’t mean she won’t poke and prod from time to time to make sure I don’t become a recluse outside of my practice.
“I know. And I’m sure it means that much more to Charlie that you came.”
My aversion to touch isn’t the casualty of trauma or anything sinister; I’ve just never been a fan of people touching me or getting really close — especially those I barely know. My parents didn’t know how to navigate the difference between me and my siblings, so they accommodated me the best they knew how. But when I started therapy after I left home for college to learn to cope with the proximity of roommates and classmates, I learned I had a sensory processing issue that had very likely been there since birth.
Not only is Suzette my best friend, but she’s also one of the extremely small group of people I allow to casually touch or hug me without losing my shit. Taking advantage of that, she wraps one arm around my shoulders and squeezes.
I try my very best not to flinch, because even though I allow the touch, it doesn’t mean that it’s always pleasant. The slightest tremor slips through, and the smile on her face melts a little before she can catch it. She lifts her arm from me and jerks a thumb over her shoulder.
“You gonna be good long enough for me to go grab a drink?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”
“You want anything?”
Shaking my head, I smile up at her and say, “No, thanks.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, grabbing my attention, and I see an email from a headhunter who’s been trying to get me to move all the way up the eastern seaboard to take a job in Boston. I did undergrad in New Hampshire and my graduate work in Boston, and I had enough of the cold. Matching to Vanderbilt for a fellowship gave me all four seasons without ridiculously extreme weather for months on end.
The job this headhunter offers doesn’t interest me, nor am I interested in moving away from the practice I’m building here. I’ve told her no twice already, but the lady just won’t give up. I mutter to myself as I draft a strongly-worded response.
And then I feel it.
Chapter 3
Carter
The applause and cheers from the crowd bring a smile to my face as our drummer, Nathan, rolls out the last four bars of cymbals in the encore song.
The one we’ve done three times now.
This crowd is fire.
I make my way towards the green room, and Charlie G, the bassist from Muddy Boots grabs me.
“You killed it, man. Sitting in the pocket a hell of a lot better than last year.”
“Thanks,” I say, beaming up at him.
Charlie G is a fucking legend in the country music world — hell, the music world in general — and his willingness to spend time with me over the last few years, helping me grow as a musician and writer, has skyrocketed my confidence.
“Hey, my cousin is here. She moved to town last year, but she’s super shy. Friends aren’t easy to come by for her. Stop by and say hi for me?”
