Chapter 14
Joni leaned close to the mic, voice husky. “This is the last one.”
The crowd whistled and roared.
At the side of the makeshift stage, a man with thick, wavy hair handed her a shot. She threw it back, wiped a hand across her mouth, then tossed the empty toward him.
Joni looked down at the guitar in her arms and hesitated, as if she couldn’t quite recall how it had gotten there, or where she was. The room fell quiet. She swayed lightly. Her head felt blank, suspended.
She lifted her gaze to the sea of faces. She could see Liz at the front of the room. Her brow furrowed as she grew alert, stepping forward, ready.
Liz was always there, ready to catch her when she fell.
Joni didn’t deserve her. When she disappeared for months at a time, Liz would try calling, or emailing, or sending packages of vitamins and supplements to her record label, hoping they’d get passed on.
In breaks between tours, occasionally Joni would stay with Liz and Patrick, rolling in exhausted, her skin wan.
Liz would make up the spare bed, pick flowers from the garden, and arrange them in a jug on the windowsill, and—on that first day—Joni would sleep and sleep.
Then she’d emerge quieter, a little softer, drawing Liz’s children into her arms. Evie would perform dance routines, eager for praise, while Daniel would shyly lay out his latest karate belt, hoping to be asked for a demonstration, tiny legs and fists flying at the sofa cushions.
In the evenings, Patrick would make nourishing meals from root vegetables he’d grown through the winter, and the adults would stay up late, Joni and Patrick listening to old, obscure albums and crushing on riffs and chord progressions, Liz warmly teasing them, hiding her yawns behind her hands.
Liz kept encouraging her to buy a house in the village as a base to return to between tours. Her childhood home had been sold a decade ago, after her grandmother died. She knew Liz wanted her to have roots—and bed them in the earth near her.
But Joni couldn’t come back.
Now Liz took a step toward the stage. “Joni?” she called, concerned.
Joni blinked. She gave the lightest of nods, silently communicating that she was okay. Then her fingers began to move, picking at the strings. Three notes. A curling pause. Then her voice kicked in.
She felt the riptide of energy and endorphins and alcohol carrying her away, until she was soaring with the sound waves.
She watched Liz smiling, relieved.
Onstage, Joni moved to the music, hairline beaded with sweat, the insides of her thighs damp. Her hips sank lower. Her hair swung loose against her neck.
“I’m flying so high / Touching the clouds,” she sang, throat open, diaphragm pushing up, fingers plucking the strings.
The small crowd moved to the words, arms thrown in the air, faces flushed, T-shirts clinging to hot, sweating bodies.
Her mouth lowered to the mic as she sang, “But they don’t see / I’m not flying.”
A single, final strum of the guitar. Then a last breath, drawn deep in her body. Her head rising, lips brushing the mic. “I’m falling . . .”
She held the last note, feeling the sound deepen and hollow as it left her body, chest tightening, abdomen firing. Then she dropped her head, emptied of sound, dark hair curtaining her face.
The lodge erupted with cheers.
She kept her eyes lowered, applause washing over her.
For a few moments, she felt bathed in it, connected through her music with these strangers.
They were her words. Her emotions. Poured out.
And when they hit another person just right, it was like a spark in the darkness.
She’d forgotten the feeling of a small audience an arm’s length away.
No dazzling stage lights or costumes or big screens.
Just a girl with a guitar and something to say.
Slowly, she raised her head, a grin splitting her face, golden warmth spreading through her as she took in the room. Two younger guys jumped on the spot, arms around one another’s shoulders. Maggie and Liz were clapping madly, calling her name.
Joni dipped her face to the mic. “Thank you for having me,” she said in a low voice. Then she was unhooking the guitar strap, handing it back to the musician, who was grinning, and then Maggie and Liz were stepping forward.
“That was incredible!” Liz cried, hugging her.
“You were phenomenal!” Maggie said, joining the hug.
Joni concentrated on the feel of her friends’ arms tight around her, the buzz of the music still deep in her chest, the energy humming in the room. It was so close to being just right. Almost perfect.
She lifted her gaze, scanning the faces. Her brow dipped. “Where’s Helena?”