Rebel
The first note landed somewhere below my ribs and stayed there.
I’d braced for it and it didn’t matter. Reagan sat on that stool at center stage with the light finding him slowly, one leg stretched out stiff in front of him, the microphone loose in a big scarred hand, and he opened his mouth and the sound rolled out low and dark and unhurried and my whole aching body leaned toward it without my permission.
The thing in my chest that had no name and no memory attached to it woke all the way up.
I didn’t know what he was to me, but he had to be something. I knew myself well enough to know that I wasn’t the type to go fangirl over a club singer. My broken memory had never given me a single narrative fact about this man — no when, no where, no how — only this: the certainty, bone-dee
