A Song for Julia

coming back to the words my father said. If you love her, you may have to let her go.
    That was damn hard when I saw her all the time because of the band. On top of that, she and my mom had been talking. They’d even gone out to lunch—something I never would have realized until Mom accidentally spilled the beans one Saturday at dinner. Why the hell was Julia hanging out with my mother? It made no sense, except in one context. In some ways, Julia had become a bridge between my mom and Sean. I didn’t even begin to understand the dynamic behind that.
    She was flying out to San Francisco in the morning and would be back before we started recording in January. Maybe that was a good thing. I needed some freaking space, because the tension of seeing her constantly and not being able to talk to her was driving me nuts.
    Julia reappeared in the doorway. “Time!” she called, pointing toward the stage door. I looked at her, but she carefully avoided my eyes. I got up and headed out on the stage, off-balance and pissed off.
    As we walked on the stage, an announcer called out our introduction and the crowd screamed. Julia had planted rumors in the local Indie press that our single would be out this week, and our small fan base had picked it up right away. I recognized a lot of people in the crowd, including guys I used to hang out with in the Pit, but there were a lot more. This was our biggest crowd yet, easily four hundred people jammed into the club.
    We were in position. The lights weren’t up yet, and I could see Julia, standing next to the bar near the exit. Arms across her chest, watching. Then the lights came up, making it impossible to see her. The crowd started screaming, Pathin hit the drums, and we started.

    Say it again (Julia)
    The opening chords of the song Crank wrote for me rang out, and the crowd went nuts, screaming, as the spotlights found Serena and Crank. I swallowed, keeping my arms across my chest. For now, my job was done, and for the next two hours, I could watch.
    Every time I heard this song, it sent chills down my spine. And I’d heard it a lot lately, because White Dog Records had pushed it out to every radio station in the country. I’d been pitching it to blogs and local newspapers, and working with Boris’s press people to get it everywhere we could. Release was in the morning, and the buzz was building. This song—this very personal song—shook me to the core. And everyone I talked to in the industry was saying the same thing: it was going to be a hit.
    For the thousandth time, I thought I should go to him. Right after the show. Tell him I’m sorry. Tell him I love him.
    Because I’d finally admitted it to myself. I love him. With all my heart, I love Crank Wilson.
    But I’ve been so afraid.
    A drunken frat boy approached me, half spilling his beer. Before he could get to me, George got in the way and none too gently blocked him. George was the bouncer and very protective. I appreciated having him around. Some of the clubs we’d been in had been a struggle to keep the drunks off. Did I give off some kind of signal that attracted assholes? I don’t know, but I’d learned to make friends with the bouncers at every club the band played. Because I went to all the shows now.
    This one was already shaping up to be a good one. I’d sold nearly three thousand dollars worth of t-shirts and handed out flyers about the new single. We were getting the word out.
    My guard was down when I looked at Crank. Because he caught me looking, just as he launched into the chorus. Singing those words, “Julia, where did you go?”
    I couldn’t break the eye contact, and I felt my eyes water. Damn it, why did he have to affect me this way? Why couldn’t we just be friends? He sang the chorus, staring straight at me, and for this moment, ignoring the rest of the audience. I bit my lip and muttered a curse because I felt a tear roll down my cheek. Angrily, I wiped it away and hoped he couldn’t see clearly from up there.
    My phone buzzed in my pocket. Oh, for God’s sake. It was Barrett. I’d made it very clear to him that nothing was going to happen between us. But he’d called me again last night, asking me to meet him tonight. Irritated, I answered the phone, walking toward the front door of the club. “Hello?” I shouted.
    “Julia? It’s Barrett.”
    “Hey, Barrett, what’s up?”
    “I thought you were working tonight. It sounds like you’re in a club.”
    I shook my head.