Chapter Thirty. Mackenzie
chapter thirty
MACKENZIE
The very first time Thunder Hearts performed live, we opened for a local band at a lounge downtown on a Tuesday night.
It was so low stakes it was basement level, but just as the owner announced us, we froze.
Hannah was shaking. Serena’s cheeks were blazing red.
I was sweating enough to pit out my sparkly dress.
We circled up. Squeezed each other’s forearm’s, hard , and nearly stumbled dragging each other to the stage, where we gave all twenty random people in that happy hour crowd the best damn debut they’d ever seen.
From then on, we did that before every show, and tonight is no exception. Just before I go onstage, Serena and Hannah circle up, giving my arms a quick pulse before letting me go.
That old magic buoys me. I take a last glance down at my old glittery boots, my faded denim jeans, my white top with its flowing, billowing sleeves.
Then I hold my head high, throw my shoulders back, and blow a signature kiss out at the audience before heading toward the spotlit stool in the middle of the stage.
My heart is beating so loud between my ears that I can barely hear the applause. I’ve spent two years hiding from this place. Hiding from myself. No matter how tonight shakes out, it’s too late to go back now.
I put my hands on the mic stand, steadying myself as I pull in a breath.
“Thank you all for joining us during what has been the… chillest, most uneventful week of my life.”
The audience’s laughter is a warm ripple. Like walking inside after a long day in the cold. The tension eases out of my bones as I adjust the mic stand and take a seat on the stool.
“I’ll kick the night off with a fun fact,” I say, lifting the guitar up from its stand to settle it in my lap. “This is the first time in my career I’ve ever performed onstage by myself.”
The applause kicks up again in full force. I laugh and wave them off.
“Oh, don’t clap for that,” I say. “I haven’t done jack shit yet.”
More laughter. This is the Mackenzie they know. The one I was worried I lost two years ago, when I lost a part of myself I never thought I would.
If that’s still a question, then the answer comes now.
“It’s been a while. And to level with you, some of that is because my voice isn’t the same as it was the last time I was up here.”
I say it plainly. Not a confession. Not an apology. The audience is very still, unsure how to react.
“But neither are a lot of things about me,” I say sincerely. “I’m pretty damn grateful for that.”
I strum the guitar, easing into a slow version of a familiar chord progression. Before I open my mouth to sing, I aim a smile at the upper level of the venue, knowing full well it’s where the label execs are standing.
They didn’t bother to say anything about Thunder Hearts songs, knowing full well I couldn’t sing them anymore. But the pages are crystal clear in my head—all of my words in Sam’s handwriting. Old songs he helped me make new.
The label wanted this show to claim Seven. But it’s my show now, and I’m reclaiming Mackenzie Waters, one song at a time.
The next twenty minutes are a time capsule pulled from the depths of my heart.
The first song we debuted with as Thunder Hearts.
Each of the songs I sang solo on our three albums. Songs I wrote about heartbreaks and triumphs that seem distant, now that they’ve been softened with time and by this new voice of mine.
After the applause dies down, I let my hand hover over the guitar strings, tilting my head toward the wings.
“I still have some time to fill, so I hope you don’t mind if I welcome a few special guests up here.”
If the applause was effusive before, it’s deafening the instant Serena and Hannah walk out with handheld mics and stools of their own.
We didn’t have a second to spare to rehearse this backstage before I had to go on.
But if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed about Thunder Hearts, it’s that we know how to put on a damn show.
As soon as they settle on either side of me, we start to sing one of our old hits in unison.
I’m so stunned I almost drop out to listen.
I’ve never heard Serena’s and Hannah’s voices like this.
They lower theirs to match mine, Hannah’s sweet and light, Serena’s rich and low.
We were famous for our loud, striking harmonies, but now, hushed and quiet, they sound like something holy.
I don’t even hear the roar of applause when the last chord comes to a stop. Serena grabs us both and yanks us in for a tight, haphazard Thunder Hearts hug. It feels like the farewell Thunder Hearts de served, but never fully got. Not the end of something, but the beginning of so much else.
Hannah and Serena move their stools, settling behind me. The plan is that I’ll sing one more song on my own. But first, I pull the mic off the stand again, addressing the audience one last time. I have the answer to my question, but they still need one for theirs.
“A lot of you came here tonight expecting to hear something from Seven,” I say. “And this much I can tell you: She wrote those songs to let something go, and she did. Which is why I can honestly say that I’m not her.”
The space is quiet enough to hear a pin drop. Everyone knows the truth about Seven already. But this is my truth.
And it still has plenty of power to speak for other people, even if it’s done speaking for me.
“Tonight, you’ve heard a lot of other talented Tick Tune artists, and after this you’ll hear more,” I go on.
“But while I’ve got the mic, I’d like to share that the three of us spent the past few days launching a website of our own.
It’s designed to let artists download and transfer their Tick Tune accounts, with their original stats, and claim the rights without making their identities public.
It’s in the beginning stages, but when we’re finished, we’ll also set up secure payments for all artists to get paid for their streams.”
The applause is so loud that I barely get the last part out.
I glance back at Serena and Hannah, whose grins match mine.
Between Serena and Rocket’s tech savvy, Hannah’s eye for branding, and my inner knowledge of Tick Tune, we got the site up in record time.
Turns out we make a good team onstage and off.
“Oh, shit.” Serena laughs, and when I follow her gaze, I see that there’s a light on in the back of the venue. The execs are moving. For the first time in our lives, we may get kicked off a stage.
I put my mouth up to the mic. No matter how I walk off this stage, it’ll no doubt be without a label, without a duet, and possibly without a manager to boot. So I’m going to make every second count.
“Sorry to disappoint anyone who thought I was Seven,” I say. And then I pause, letting a slow smirk curl on my face. “But if I were.”
I play one singular chord. The chord that opens up the very last song that got uploaded to Tick Tune from my drafts and revealed my identity, and led us to this moment now. It is distinct enough that I hear several gasps before the cheering starts.
“If I were,” I say, “this is the song I would have posted, instead of the one that went up. I’d like to play it for you. Not as Seven. But myself.”
I close my eyes and strum the guitar.
“It’s called ‘Last.’”
And then I finally get to sing it. Sam’s song, the way I rewrote it. Sam’s song, the way it deserves to be heard.
Our song, the way I hope it always will be.
I sing it as if he’s here. As if I can make every word of it fly through the air and reach him, wherever he is—not to tell him how much I love him. He already knows that. But to make him feel it.
As I play the last note, I sense shuffling in the wings. It’s all right. Security can do whatever they want with me now—I’ve said my piece and then some.
But when I look up, it’s Sam’s eyes that meet mine.