Jane pushed her way through the crowd at Rockefeller Center to get a better view of the TODAY Show stage.

“What am I doing here?” she wondered to herself with a little shake of the head. She was painfully aware of how ridiculous she must look, in her Armani suit and Louboutin heels, with a crowd full of teenagers waving signs that said “ADAM I WANT TO HAVE YOUR BABY!” She should just leave and get an early jump on the day at the office.

Of course she knew she wouldn’t leave. She never missed a chance to see Adam play live these days when he was in town.

Sometimes she went through phases when she tried to break the habit. She would purge her apartment of every trace of him – pack up all his albums, all the magazine articles, all the assorted detritus of his ascent to superstardom. She would put it all away in her storage locker in the basement for a while – until her next truly horrible date. And then it was all there for her to sift through yet again.

It had started with the first album, Songs About Jane. It was released just over a year after she left him, and she’d resisted buying it for a full 48 hours after it dropped.  It had been a shock when she finally picked it up at Tower Records and started reading down the track list. So many new titles. There was only one that she even recognized from his former set list. “I don’t know, Adam. Maybe you should write a song about it.” He’d been a busy boy.

The crowd was starting to get restless and surge toward the stage, pushing her along with it. She ended up in the front of a section, pressed up against one of the barricades. It was closer than she would normally dare to stand, but there was no way to work her way back now. In any case, who was she kidding? It had been 11 years.  She could pass him on the street and he wouldn’t turn his head.

She may have been watching him all these years, but he certainly hadn’t been watching her.

***

Adam was midway through the first of the two song set he would perform for the early morning crowd at Rockefeller Center. Give a Little More was always a fun song to do live. He was just hitting the second chorus, “I'm waiting for something, always waiting, feeling nothing, wondering if it'll ever change,” when he caught sight of a woman in the crowd out of the corner of his eye.

It used to happen to him a lot. He would be playing a show and swear he saw Jane’s face in the audience. It was never actually her, of course – just someone else who looked like her. Just another cute little brown-haired girl with a tight body.

In the early days on the road, he used to see some look-alike at nearly every show – a guaranteed punch in the gut at some point during the set. Sometimes he used to sleep with them too, when he got the chance. One little girl was as good as another, he would tell himself. That worked as long as he didn’t think about it too hard, or think at all really. But sometimes thought was unavoidable. Then he’d have to bolt afterward, so they wouldn’t see him retching over the toilet.

He’d cleaned up his act after a while of that. It wasn’t healthy. He’d made himself a vow – no more petite brunettes. That particular type was retired. Only tall leggy blondes for Adam Levine from now on.

Now he caught a glimpse of the face in the crowd again, but there was someone waving a sign, blocking his view. He pulled the mic out of the stand and walked down stage to get a better look.

“Why am I doing this?” he wondered, as he strained to see the details of her face.  “Why am I still doing this?”

I'm not falling in love with ya, I'm not falling in love.

I'm not falling in love with ya, I'm not falling in love.

There, he had a clear view at last. It was her. It was Jane.

He was supposed to pick up his guitar at this point and play a solo. Instead, he made eye contact with his lead guitarist for a moment, then turned back to face the crowd and said into the mic, “Mr. James Valentine, everyone!”

He didn’t look back to see the confused expression on Jimmy’s face. He put the mic back into the stand and slid down off the stage, into the crowd.

***

“Throw to commercial! Throw to commercial!”

“What the fuck is he doing?”

“Does he have his earbud in?”

“Adam, we need you on stage. Adam, we need you back on stage.”

“I’ve got him on camera 3!”

“What the fuck is he doing?”

“Adam, we’re back from commercial in 30 seconds. We need you back on stage.”

“It looks like he’s talking to a woman.”

“He’s hitting on someone on live TV. Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Shit, someone just tore his shirt.”

“Cue camera 1. We’re back in 5- 4- 3- 2…”

***

“Hello New York City!”

Adam’s mind was racing as he peeled off the torn shirt and threw it toward a group of screaming fans. Did that just happen? Was she still there? He looked back out into the crowd and caught sight of her again. What had he even said to her? Did it even make sense? He thought back to the look on her face when she saw him making his way toward her through the crowd. Sheer panic. God, her eyes were so big. What had she said? “I don’t want to be on TV.” Eleven years of silence, and that’s what she had to say.

“We’re in commercial. Will you stick around after the show?”

The impossibly big eyes got even bigger. “I have to go to work!”

“Come by tonight then. I’m at the Soho Grand.”

“I don’t know—“

He put his mouth by her ear and hoped no one else could hear over the screaming. “Ask to see the broom closet.”

“What?” she shouted back.

He was running out of time. “The broom closet! Will you come?”

She shook her head. Was that her answer, or just confusion? What had she said? He could only read her lips at that point. “I’ll think about it…”

Now he was back on stage with one song left in his set. It was supposed to be Moves Like Jagger. Like hell was he playing that now. PJ started the opening hook, but Adam turned and waved it off. He picked up his guitar as the guys all looked at him expectantly, ready to follow his lead.

Beauty queen of only eighteen,

She had some trouble with herself.

The producer was squawking in his ear again. He yanked out the bud and leaned in to the mic stand as he strummed, straining to make eye contact with her in the crowd.

And she will be loved, she will be loved.

He lost sight of her for a moment as the crowd swayed with the chorus. Fifteen thousand people in the middle of Midtown Manhattan, singing those words along with him. It never failed to raise the hair on the back of his neck. Was she still listening? Did she understand? He got a clear line of sight again as he hit the second verse. He let go of the guitar and reached out one arm toward her, pounding his other hand in a fist against his chest.

My heart is full and my door’s always open.

You come any time you want.

Her eyes were locked with his. He saw her bring up her hand and rest her palm flat against her chest, against her heart.

It was a response from her at last. It was enough.

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