Chapter 23 Annalise
Annalise
“Annalise! Thank you so much for doing this.” The bride hobbles over to me in her strappy heels, dodging pockets of lumpy grass. “Declan told me Tag put a whole band together just for our special night. It means the world to me. To both of us.”
Stepping off the makeshift stage in the center of their lush backyard, I greet Declan’s new wife with a warm hug.
I’ve only met Lillian a handful of times. House parties, barbecues, a triple date two years ago when Tag was seeing a law student named Marissa. But Lillian is the kind of person you don’t forget, with a permanent sun-kissed smile and shiny blond hair to match.
She wraps her arms around me, smelling like she walked out of a Bath and Body Works ad. When she inches back, she smooths her hands down a layered boho wedding dress, the delicate lace drenched in pink-and-gold hues from the setting sun.
I twist a spiral of freshly curled hair around my finger, smiling wide. “We’re so honored to be here. Thank you for trusting us with this.”
“Are you kidding? Your brother is an amazing performer. If you can sing even half as well as he can…” She splays her palms near her head with a sharp flick, signaling mind blown.
I blush through the grin.
Behind me, the guys finish tuning their instruments, the hum of Chase’s electric guitar fusing with the tap of drumsticks against the snare. Tag adjusts the mic stand, giving me a quick nod, as the glow of string lights paint the polished wood in a dreamy haze.
A low strum echoes through the speakers as Declan jogs over, draping an arm around Lillian’s shoulders. “Ready to party, Mrs. Sanders?” He presses a kiss to her temple.
Her eyes shimmer as she pops her hip, hands curling around her waist. “More than ready.”
I turn back to the band, inhaling deep as Tag gives the downbeat. The night is ours. Time to shine, or drown in the mortification of my failure for decades to come.
Gulping, I retreat to the stage. “See you two on the flip side,” I say, harnessing my smile. “Enjoy the show!”
“No doubt.” Declan lifts his beer in cheers.
They sound so confident. As if they hadn’t panic-plucked five random people off the streets to play a three-hour set on the most important night of their lives, two of those people having never performed live in this capacity before. Even Tag hasn’t done anything this big, this brave.
Heart in my throat, I clomp back up to the platform in my brand-new white sneakers. The shoes were a deliberate choice—comfort over glam. The last thing I need is to trip over a pair of sky-high heels in front of a hundred wedding guests and a petite chihuahua wearing a bowtie.
The beady-eyed creature stares me down, as if waiting for my shoelaces to magically unravel and tie my ankles into a knot.
Focus, Annalise.
As I traipse across the stage and find my spot, Chase rakes his eyes over me before peering down at his guitar.
My dress is a powder-blue shift with a high neckline and a scalloped lace overlay, straight out of the sixties. The fabric flutters as I move, airy and effortless, like something Twiggy might’ve worn in a sun-doused Polaroid.
I gulp again.
A swarm of butterflies escape their cocoons and skitter up to my throat.
The crowd beneath us gathers with champagne flutes and dessert plates topped with cake and buttercream.
The weather is stunning, the backdrop romantic and picturesque, and all I can do is pray that our grueling, all-night practice sessions have paid off.
Luckily, the bassist and drummer—Dan and Aaron—are seasoned pros.
I know they’ll steer us around the curves.
Tag leans over to whisper in my ear. “You good, sis?”
My eyes flare wide. “Don’t ask me that. You’re reminding me that I’m not even close to good.”
“Well, you look like you’re about to vomit.”
“That’s the impending catatonia.”
He sighs, his expression softening as he props his foot up on the amp. “You got this, all right? Just picture everyone naked or some shit.”
Instinctively, my gaze veers over to Chase. “Not helpful,” I croak.
Feeling my stare, Chase turns to look at me in his gunmetal-gray vest and matching slacks, the stark white of his rolled-up sleeves highlighting the lean muscle in his forearms. With his guitar slung low and a few strands of warm brown hair falling over his brow, he looks like he belongs on a stage, under the lights, the whole world as his audience.
He smiles. Soft, confident, reassuring.
Then he cups a hand over the mic speaker and tilts back. “You ready?”
Tag gives my shoulder a squeeze as I attempt to conjure words. “Ready.”
Stepping up to the microphone stand, I inhale a centering breath. I feel bare and exposed with no instrument. Just a mic clasped between my hands, slick from sweat. My eyes close as chatter from the guests fades out and music filters to my ears.
Tag gives a countdown, and the beginning chords of “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire take shape.
Dan’s bass line thrums through the humid air, a heady pulse that stabilizes my heartbeat.
To my left, Chase’s fingers dance over the strings, his body swaying in time with the beat.
He’s loose, natural, lost in the rhythm, while I’m locked in place, white-knuckling the mic stand like it might float away if I let go.
But then he looks at me again.
Just a flick of his gaze, steady and knowing, because he feels what’s churning inside me. His fingers pick a playful riff, an improvisation that isn’t in the song but fits like it was meant to be.
A reminder to have fun. To just go with it.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “You can do this, Annie.” The words are low enough so only I can hear them. “You were born to do this.”
Something clicks into place.
The nerves don’t flee, but they morph into something bigger. Soul-spun electricity. The energy in the air is contagious, winding through me in glimmering tendrils and settling in my chest. I loosen my grip on the mic stand.
Then I start to sing.
The first verse rolls off my tongue, tentative but building, each note zigzagging through the crowd.
People start moving. The bride twirls in her lacy gown, her husband spinning her under his arm.
Champagne sloshes. Heads tip back with untamed joy, the kind only music can bring. That unparalleled elixir of life.
Chase’s voice finds mine in the chorus, a flawless harmony that sends a jolt down my back.
Our eyes meet again, bold and energizing.
There’s this unspoken thrill of creating magic, of bringing something to life.
His smile deepens as he leans into the mic, long fingers gliding over the guitar, coaxing out a solo that makes the crowd go wild.
Tag picks up the groove, throwing in a deep, rolling rhythm. Aaron matches him beat for beat on the drum kit, driving the song forward like a runaway train.
And then the real magic happens.
Another song rolls out. Then another.
I step away from the mic stand.
My sneakers scuff against the wooden platform as I dance, my body giving in to the music. The feeling. A wave of confidence unfurls, scaling my limbs, my voice, my whole damn heart. I extend my hand toward the crowd as the chorus to “Don’t Stop Believin’” swells.
Guests whoop and holler, sing along, raise their drinks in the air. The joy is infectious, a wildfire spreading through the backyard.
Through me.
I laugh, breathless and free, and Chase catches it, watching me with something unreadable in his eyes. Like he’s seeing me for the first time.
No…
Like he’s seeing me see me for the first time.
I’m more than a voice. More than an overworked waitress. More than a girl too scared to chase what she really wants.
I have a place on this stage.
We slow it down with “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star, a personal selection by me. I take the lead, the haunting, moody lyrics stripping me bare. And then we move into another song. Something so familiar it claws at my heart.
“I Only Want To Be With You.”
Chase and Tag ditch the electric guitars for a raw, acoustic rendition.
As Chase strums the opening chords, the moment stretches, fragile and aching. My breath locks up. The music is softer, more intimate, wrapping around us like the stifling heat of late July. The lyrics are light and playful, but the words dig deep.
Chase sings with me, his voice threading through the chords like melted butter. His harmony wraps around mine, lifting it, blending it, creating richness.
My chest tightens. I feel him in every note, every inflection. We step closer together, hardly a foot between us.
When the chorus hits, we lean in at the same time, sharing a microphone, our faces inches apart. The air crackles. He watches my mouth as I sing.
For a fleeting second, it feels like we aren’t at a wedding. Like it’s just us, playing in some dimly lit bar, lost in the music. The moment. And God, I wish I could freeze it. Hold on to the way he’s looking at me right now, like I’m something worth holding on to.
As the last note fades out, Chase lets out a breath, eyes on mine, his lips parting like he’s about to say something.
But the applause surges, swallowing the moment whole.
It’s a drug. Both a sedative and a high.
Just under three hours roll by in a fairy-tale fog. I’m on the outside looking in, the night too good to be true. But it is true. It’s real, and it’s happening.
We finish the set.
Chase slings his guitar aside and grabs me without hesitation.
Suddenly, I’m weightless—lifted, spun, my legs kicking back as he whirls me in dizzying circles, like we’ve just sprinted across the finish line of a never-ending marathon.
Sweat clings to my skin. My hair whips around me.
I’m laughing so hard it hurts, my arms tightening around his neck, anchoring me.
We did it.
When he sets me down, I don’t have time to recover as Tag rushes over and pulls me into a bone-crushing hug. He inches me backward, grips me by the shoulders, bending to meet my eyes, his face the proudest I’ve ever seen it. “You killed it, sis. You absolutely fucking killed it.”
I’m crying. I’m laughing. I’m free.
The guys hug while hands clap together, hair is ruffled, and backs are smacked.
Everything is glorious.
We’re ambushed the second we step off the stage, champagne glasses pressed into our hands. Lillian and Declan make the rounds, engulfing us with praise. Tears stream down Lillian’s cheeks, the pinnacle of the night and too much bubbly making her weep.
I’ve hardly caught my breath when a mid-thirties man waltzes over to us in a crisp suit, his hair a mess of dirty-blond curls.
“Name’s Crowley,” he introduces. “Second cousin to the bride.”
He shakes our hands. Chase hovers to my right, Tag on my left.
“I own a music venue out in New York called The Soundproof,” he continues, straightening out his tie. “Bit of a hike, I know. But if you can swing the drive, I’d love to get you guys on the schedule sometime.”
I blanch.
New York.
That’s huge.
It’s less than a five-hour commute. Hardly anything given the enormous opportunity dangling in front of us.
Tag’s eyes bulge. “The Soundproof.” He nearly chokes. “Shit. That place is iconic.”
“It’s been a labor of love, no doubt.”
“That’s where Misfire got their big break. Arlo Knox became an overnight legend.”
Crowley chuckles, bows his head. “Arlo is something else. Quite the presence.”
I hold my breath, my eyes ping-ponging between the two men on either side of me.
My smile wilts.
There’s just one problem.
“We, um…don’t really have a full band yet.” I bite my lip, disappointment rolling through me. “Dan and Aaron were just filling in for us as a favor. They already have a band.”
“Mm, I see.” Crowley’s face falls. “Well, if anything changes, take my card. Give me a call.”
I take the business card he hands me. Light and weightless, yet brimming with serendipity.
Crowley looks directly at Chase. “Having been in this business for over a decade, I have a keen eye for talent. The raw, gritty stuff you can’t manufacture.
The Arlos of the world,” he drawls, expression turning earnest. “I see a lot of up-and-comers breeze through my doors, but only one percent of them stick. And that’s probably a generous estimate. ”
I study Chase, the way he swallows, stiffens, his eyes glazing over.
“Take what you want from that,” the man adds, a smile cresting. He smacks Chase on the shoulder, then sends me and Tag a quick glance. “Congrats on the show.”
He saunters away, leaving me speechless.
My brother swipes both hands down his face, spinning around, then pivoting right back. “Jesus. Did you hear that?”
I down my champagne. “Mm-hmm.”
“Shit. Holy shit.”
Chase scratches his jaw, eyeing the business card tucked inside my hand. “We need a drummer and a bassist.”
Tag nods, eyes still bugged out of his head. “I have connections. I’ll ask around.”
“I might know a drummer,” Chase adds, his gaze faraway, wheels spinning. Then he looks at me. “Is this something you want?”
Both men watch me, waiting.
The sparkling wine fizzes in my throat.
Of course it is. On the surface, it’s everything I want. Music, writing, creating, living.
Yes.
But Chase isn’t just asking a question. He’s telling me to think.
To peel back the layers, examine each piece, and see it for what it really is.
This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision.
This is a crossroads. A life upheaval. A domino effect of shifting dreams, abandoned safety nets, and terrifying decisions.
This is another test.
My job will take a back seat.
My relationship will be pushed to its limits.
My conviction will be analyzed and picked apart, leaving me in pulpy pieces.
Life, as I know it, will change.
This is more than music. I’m signing up for everything that comes with it. And at the center of that conundrum is Chase: the one person I swore to avoid after tonight.
Our eyes meet through the dusky night, his burning into mine.
I swallow hard.
Around him, I don’t trust myself.
And yet…
Every road seems to lead back to him.