Page 79 of The Girl with No Name
Dunn and I sit outside beside the pool at the afterparty at some Airbnb, which I think belongs to Zach Bryan and his band, but I’m not sure.
We’re surrounded by members of the Red Lemons, and Zach is strumming his guitar for fun in the corner with some of his band, and some members of the Turnpike Troubadours.
It’s unreal. I feel like I’m living a modern-day, midsummer night’s Shakespearian fever dream. Is this real?
The night air is hot and breezy, carrying the scent of fresh food. The Red Lemons’ horn player, Joe “Ruby” Manzo, is flirting with some girls in his trademark red robe—adding a spark of colorful randomness to the evening.
I look over at Dunn, and he’s got a huge grin on his face.
“This is the best night of my life,” Dunn beams. “And you guys are the heroes of it. Still can’t believe you pulled that off. That made my night. Hell, that made myyear.”
“Dunn, aren’t you having a kid?”
He waves me off with a grin. “The fun years are when they get to be over five anyway, and you can teach ‘em stuff.”
I raise my glass in a toast and find myself caught up in the moment, swept away by the magic of the music and the company. Time seems to stand still as I savor the flavors of the delicious meal and the warmth and camaraderie surrounding me.
My gaze drifts over to Luna.
She remains a mysterious figure, who’s been a constant source of inspiration and fun during this trip. She sits quietly on a stoop at the edge of the group, her eyes curious as she takes everything in.
On the walk over here, I caught her humming my song ‘Blue Horses.’ When I played for her this morning, her presence seemed to infuse me with some special power, pushing me to pour my heart and soul into each chord and lyric.
As our eyes meet across the space, a silent understanding passes between us. It’s a connection that transcends words, a shared passion for music and a mutual appreciation for the wildness of this weekend. With a subtle nod, I thank her for being my muse today.
She gets up and walks toward me.
“What was that?” she asks.
“I just wanted to thank you.”
“For what?”
“For igniting a creative spark inside me. It’s burning brightly today.”
“Is that the drugs talking, or you?”
“It’s all me,” I assure her. “I feel like you’ve upped my ability to be courageous and take risks with my music. So thank you.”
“You’re amazing. So thankyou,” she says. With a mischievous grin, she claps her hands three times as the next song finishes, which is Turnpike playing with the Red Lemons.
“Hey, everyone! Can Reed here share one of his songs?” she yells, cupping her hands around her mouth to make sure everyone can hear.
My face turns beet red. “No, that’s okay.” I wave her off. In front of some of the best musicians alive?No thanks. “She’s joking.”
“Hell, yeah. Good idea,” Henry Cooney says. “Let’s hear some of your original shit.”
“Nah, nah…”
Violet holds out Johnny Blue again for me to play. “We insist.”
I bite my bottom lip and shoot Luna a look. “I’ll get you for this,” I whisper under my breath.
She smiles.
As I take Johnny Blue from Violet and replace her on the wooden barstool in the song circle, I feel my heart hammering like a bass drum. I look out at the sea of eyes on me, and suddenly it’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
“Let’s see what you got, ol’ son,” Zach says, and everyone cracks up.