Page 102 of A Crazy Kind of Love
Micah hauled another volunteer onto the stage, and the process started over again. Photographing his shows always gave me ample material. The fans were as interesting as the band. And I’d grown to like the music.
Tonight, like every night, Micah fed the crowd energy. He looked my way and winked. I shot the picture.
He hit the last note and turned around to the band with a nod. They started playing something new to me. His repertoire was bottomless. Every night, they played fan favorites and sprinkled in some of their older songs or some new song they were trying out.
Micah said, “I’m a little nervous about this new song. Normally, I don’t have to sing to my muse.”
It took me a second to parse his meaning, and by then, he’d pulled the microphone from the stand and walked to the corner where I perched with my camera. I let it drop, and it smacked me in the gut. Everyone in the audience looked at me.
Micah threw his guitar around his back and sat down in front of me. “This song is called ‘Josie.’ ”
I flipped on the video on my camera to capture the audio. And he started to sing.
“I’ve got a crush
on her cinnamon curls
It’s a sugar rush
And I’m high on a girl”
The band echoed his last words. He took my hand and broke into the chorus.
“Jo-Jo-Josie
Devil from Georgi-a
Can’t live without you
ñan ninne snehikkunnu”
As he sang, I twined my fingers with his. But my hands flew to my face at the Malayalam for “I love you.” I hadn’t heard those words in years, and he gave them back to me in the sweetest way possible. But he didn’t need to write me a song to tell me how he felt.
He’d been a rock for me, through crazy times that might have shaken any other guy. He’d literally carried me when I was at my lowest. And right here, at his highest, he wanted me. He needed me.
He’d proved himself to me every day over the past six months. When the tabloids tried to paint me as his next groupie, he went and outfitted his tour bus to accommodate his “road wife” with a veritable pharmacy of insulin and healthy snacks. When the tabloids lost interest in me and tried to catch him with other women, he invited me to come live with him. When they ran stories about his gold-digger-hanger-on girlfriend, he brought me breakfast in bed. And when the girls flirted with him at the meet and greets, he flirted back, but he left with me.
And every day, he religiously updated his daily log with my glucose readings. And sat beside me, rubbing my back while I recovered from light-headedness. And drove me to the edge of insanity with just a touch.
And every night before I fell asleep, he whispered the same words in my ear:
“I will love you tomorrow—and every tomorrow after that.”
