Butterfly Weeds (32 page)

             
I had to keep my promise.

             
It wasn’t like me to go bad on my wor
d – not to him – not to anyone.

             
“I’ll buy the ticket, I’ll go, and then I’ll come back home,” I confirmed aloud, as if someone el
se were in the room to hear me.

             
At the same time, I tried my best to convince myself that the trip would be uneventful – simply a quest to fulfill a vow made years ago.

             
It could be that simple – but it could also be severely complicated also, I knew. Sure, I could show up and leave without so much as any controversy, but what I could take home with me in my little carry-on could be lasting. If I did end up seeing him, how would he react? Would he be happy to see me? Would it be awkward? Would he bring up my broken engagement? Did he even know? I couldn’t help but question if I was intentionally walking into the lion’s den – a lemming in a lion’s d
en. The thought made me cringe.

             
And though I didn’t know why, the thought of hearing Will’s song again without the option to turn the station made me strangely nervous. I just wanted to be rid of my past. I moved across the country to start anew, not to rehash what-could-have-beens. I had no time to get wrapped up in my past again, and frankly, no real desire. I had treasured our time together, and it would be nice to know that he had treasured it as well, but it had ended a l
ong time ago and that was that.

             
I carefully returned the photo to the top of the stack of treasured memories, now with permanent residences in the pink shoe box, and then closed the lid and slid the box back into its place on the cluttered, closet shelf. I then shuffled back to the screened-in porch, took a seat in my cushioned loun
ge chair and grabbed my laptop.

             
Within only a couple of minutes, I had booked a round-trip ticket to
St. Louis
. I let out a deep sigh of relief mixed with hesitation and then sat back into my chair.

             
I was his friend too, in some way, shape or form. And I had just as much duty as anyone of his other friends to be there and to support him in his success. Right? And plus, I guess, whether I liked it or not, a promise is a promise.

             
A
s I edged closer to my hometown, I could feel my heart beating faster and faster as my nerves ran wild and loose throughout my body, kind of like children who had just discovered they had a snow day. And my mind was the mother, with no control of the weather, much less the children.

             
It’s a concert, for God’s sake. Get yourself together, I recited in my head over and over again, just as one of Will’s songs came pouring through my rental car’s speakers.

             
I flipped the station. Now, even my own radio taunted me. Wasn’t it enough that I was on my way – that eight hours ago I had left civilization for corn fields and cattle? Was it too much to ask not to be haunted by my past now
on my last stretch of normalcy?

             
I switched my driving hand again and sat deeper into the driver’s seat. The late afternoon had by now given way to evening, and the sun had begun its dissent into the horizon. It was my final leg of the trip, my last bit of highway, and sooner than I had wished, I would be there and in his presence for the first time in years. The thought kind of terrified me. And a big part of me wondered what I had gotten myself into, while the other part wondered what he was doing now. Was he nervous or was he sitting back and laughing with friends, soaking it all up? Would he suspect that I would be coming tonight? Would he notice me there? Would it even matter? I hadn’t really thought of that. Would it hurt me more if my coming didn’t matter at all? Had he even remembered my promise? With my mind suddenly sent spinning into overdrive, I forced m
yself to refocus on my mission.

             
It doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t know that I had been there anyway, if I could help it. I hadn’t told anyone, not even my best friend, about my last-minute, nine-hundred-mile journey. Rachel will kill me, I know, but Will would surely have found out if I had let even her in on my little secret. Nothing stays a secret in a small town; I knew that much. I only wanted to fulfill my vow and then be back on my way to civilization, back to
Charleston
, back to my own life.

             
Five minutes later and a little before eight, I arrived at a grassy field and slowly pulled onto a dirt path. The ground was uneven and made the rental tilt and shift as it maneuvered over the rough patches. I’m pretty sure off-roading wasn’t in the rental agreement. We’ll just keep this part a secret, I thought to myself, as I tapped the gas.

             
Very soon, I came to a tiny stand that temporarily housed a middle-aged man that I didn’t recognize. He was taking donations, so I handed him a bill and then continued on my way.

             
After rolling over a couple more uneven spots in the ground’s surface and thinking that I might very well have to return the rental in not just one, but several different pieces, I finally pulled into the grass and put the car into park. A row of cars had already formed a long, meandering line across the front of the field, and another several rows were beyond that row. From the cars, it looked like a lot of people for a concert in
New Milford
.

             
I threw my keys into my purse and stepped out onto the soft soil. The ground was an unused pasture that belonged to an old farmer who lived a mile up the highway. Though, it didn’t look much like a pasture now. Rows and rows of plastic, white chairs lined and spread out from a tiny, makeshift stage. I squinted my eyes. From what I could see through the fading daylight, it looked like the stage was the bed of a tractor trailer. And probably for good reason – it most likely was. I pictured Will insisting on using the tractor trailer instead of his usual stage with which he often traveled. It was less “fuss,” I could hear him saying even now. Either way, I guess, it did fit in nicely with the acres of fields and the usual dusting of trees that surrounded it.

             
I took a deep breath before taking another step. I could see that no one was on stage, but I could already hear the buzz of the crowd, the soft roar of a couple thousand people talking and laughing and carrying on. Where did all of these
people come from?

             
Strands of faces, young and old, wrapped around the base of the small stage and stretched back more than a hundred meters. Most of their backs were toward me, and most eyes seemed to be toward the stage, and by the look of things, no one seemed to notice me at all. The thought made me smile sheepishly on the inside, but it didn’t stop my heart from starting its now, all-too-familia
r pounding pattern in my chest.

             
I slowly made my way through the grassy parking lot and to a temporary shack that sat directly behind the crowd. The tiny stand had caught my attention, and it would serve to distrac
t me for the time being anyway.

             
Hanging tee shirts lined the tiny walls and a miniature cash register rested near the front of the small, six-by-
five-foot box.

             
“Hey, Miss, do you want to buy a tee shirt? All proceeds go to help support
Missouri
flood victims,” a freckled-face boy, who looked like he was still in junior high, called out to me as I neared him.

             
I smiled at the boy as I walked toward the hut.

             
“How much?” I asked.

             
“Ten dollars,” the freckled-face boy replied.

             
I rifled through my purse, pulled out my wallet and then a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to the cheery boy.

             
“You can keep the change,” I said, smiling.

             
“Thanks,” the boy replied, handing me a white tee shirt with the words
Support Flood Relief
in red letters
across its front. I looked at the top and then squeezed it on over the shirt I was already wearing. At least, I’d blend in.

             
With no visible distractions remaining, I set out again toward the throng in the middle of the pasture. Each step toward the crowd made my breathing quicken. And by the time I had reached the last row of white, plastic chairs, I noticed that my palms had grown clammy as well. I rubbed them against the hips of my jeans and stealthily slid into an isle a couple of rows up.

             
As quickly as I could and trying desperately not to bring any attention to myself, I claimed a seat as if just finding one made me safe from my own uneasiness. The plastic chair a couple of seats down the row was my temporary hiding place. Once hidden, I took a quick scan of the people around me. To my surprise, no one looked even the slightest bit familiar. I was in
New Milford
, right?

             
I situated my purse onto an open, plastic chair next to me and slid my arms into my leather jacket. The air was cooling now, though it was still fairly warm for October. I then pulled my long hair out from underneath the jacket and glanced forward toward the stage, peering in between the shifting heads and swaying bodies. I could just barely see the group of people who lined the front of the platform, but not enough to make anyone out. I rose up on tiptoes, still trying to catch a glimpse of Rachel’s head in the crowd.

             
Then, without warning, the soft background music stopped and the few lights that had subtly lit the makeshift stage grew dimmer and dimmer, until what was on the stage was no longer visible. And within seconds, several dozen beaming, bright ivory and blue lights that hung over the stage on little, metal structures illuminated four figures in the darkness – a young, tattooed drummer, a clean-cut pianist, a burly base guitarist and a tall, boyishly handsome brunette donning a cowboy hat and an acoustic six-string across his chest.

             
I hardly recognized the man holding the six-string. The lights, the crowd, the band – seeing him now made it all strangely real. And for the first time, he wasn’t the boy I had remembered him to be anymore. He wasn’t the boy who climbed old windmills for fun or even the boy I had watched grow smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror the day I had left for college. He wasn’t a boy anymore.

             
My heart fluttered as the figure holding the guitar sauntered up to the microphone stand in the center of the stage. He looked very similar to how I had remembered seeing him years ago on
Good Morning Today
, but somehow seeing him up on stage, live, and within a football-field length of me, made everything different – made me oddly breathless. He looked really good. He had on dark denim jeans and a white tee shirt that looked exactly like the one I had just bought from the freckled-face boy in the hut.