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As I listen, the bands that play are okay. There’s a group of teens that do a decent country set, and a lot of solo acts—mostly guys with guitars. I imagine I looked a lot like them when I played here. But nothing so far makes my jaw drop or draws me backstage to talk to the artists. That’s okay though, the day is still young and I’m going to do my best not sink into cynicism this early in the day.
Still, it’s hard. The hours drag on, and there’s still nothing. When yet another guy with a guitar steps on stage and starts off his set with an off-key version of “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk,” I have to walk away. Food would be good. My stomach is growling and it’s well after lunch. Eating something will probably let me survive until the end of the day. Please, gods of music, let there be at least one act worth signing here. Even though I came to Green Hills for personal reasons, no one at the label was excited about me attending the festival. I was hoping to prove them wrong, but I’m going to have to eat some humble pie if I can’t find anyone.
I stand in line and grab a hot dog, and eat it in way fewer bites than I probably should. Not enough. I look around, and I do a double take, because I thought that I just saw Annabelle in the crowd, red hair swirling in the way that it always used to. It can’t be, right? Adrenaline slams through me like a punch in the gut. I was hoping that I wouldn’t see her here, and yet that’s a lie because I was hoping that I would.
I don’t have a choice when I step in that direction—I need to see. It’s been eight years since I’ve seen her, even in the times that I’ve visited. I knew that she was here. Helpful friends and relatives have let me know over the years, but I’ve been careful. I never went anywhere I thought she would be, and people talk enough when I come here that she’d know how to avoid me.
I wish she wasn’t here, that she moved away from this place and moved on from me and was happier than I ever thought I could make her. I want her to be happy wherever she is, and I should stay away. She made her feelings about me very clear. But fuck that. I want to see her. See her face again and those green eyes, and that red hair that shimmers every time the sun hits it.
It’s going to hurt like hell, but I want to feel it, masochistic as that may be. Running into her has always been a possibility, but somehow it never seemed real until just now. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it on the way to Green Hills. A lot. Her being here would almost feel like I conjured her from thin air.
Abandoning my disguise, I take off my glasses so that I can get a better look. I keep walking and looking back in the direction of the stage, and I see it again out of the corner of my eye: that flash of red that I’ll never forget.
But this time I track the movement, and the breath leaves my chest because it’s her. It’s Annabelle. She’s got a beer in her hand, her head thrown back in laughter as she speaks to a friend. And I’m frozen in my tracks. I can’t stop drinking in the sight of her, from the way her hair is flowing down her back to the way the sleeveless dress she’s wearing shows a peek of the poetic tattoo that’s on the back of her shoulder. I was there when she got that tattoo—I held her hand.
Jesus, she’s beautiful, and it’s like the world has color in it again. The same way that I forgot the beauty of this festival, I forgot the way she’s delicate, one curve slipping into the next in perfect harmony. She glances in my direction and she catches me staring, point blank. There’s no point in trying to hide it. I was.
She freezes for a second before giving me a hesitant smile and a wave. I wave back. What do I do? Do I go up and talk to her? Do I run away? I haven’t felt this unsure of something since I first asked her out forever and a day ago. One thing’s for sure, I want to talk to her. Scratch that, I want to walk up and kiss her senseless and pretend like the last eight years didn’t unfold the way they did. Wishful thinking.
I start walking toward her and thank God she starts walking toward me too, meeting me in the middle.
