Chapter 10
LARK
The Blue Room is already packed when we arrive, and it’s only ten o’clock.
The venue is a forty minute drive from Dark River and used to be something industrial—a warehouse or maybe a factory—but now it’s one of those places where indie bands play and people who think they might be the next big thing test out their material.
The walls are painted black, covered in layers of concert posters and graffiti that’s been shellacked over so many times it looks like art. The stage isn’t huge, but it’s legitimate, with real lighting rigs and a sound system that can handle live music without turning everything into feedback.
I lean against the back wall of the venue, guitar at my feet, trying to keep my breathing steady.
My palms are already sweating. I haven’t performed live much in the last year—just a few small open mic nights at local spots and the stage fright has been overwhelming.
And this venue is ten times the size of those.
Tonight feels like jumping off a cliff and hoping the parachute works.
“This place is cool,” Jack says, returning from the bar.
He passes me my drink, a cucumber-lime mocktail that had looked refreshing, and watches as the current performer works the crowd.
“Even better than I expected. I can’t believe that after I’ve moved away, Dark River gets an awesome underground scene nearby. ”
Jack’s surveying the venue with interest. He seems completely at ease in this unfamiliar environment, which I both envy and find reassuring.
“Friday nights here are usually good,” I tell him, grateful for the distraction from my impending doom.
I take a sip of the drink, the tartness cutting through my anxiety for a moment.
“It’s a pretty supportive crowd too. Thank god, because I need only supportive comments tonight.
All compliments, all the time. No criticism allowed within a ten-foot radius of me. ”
“Deal. In that case, in addition to being endlessly talented, you also look great tonight. Friend to friend, I mean.” He raises his bottle in a mini-toast.
I feel a flutter of pleasure warming my chest at his compliment.
I’d told him to just come for my set, no point sitting through a whole lineup of other performers.
We could grab photos after for Instagram, assuming I didn’t completely bomb.
But he’d insisted on driving me here and staying the whole time.
Now, I’m grateful for his presence. Maren would’ve been here if she could—she’d even offered to cut her honeymoon short when I mentioned the show, which was so her it made me want to cry. But I’d told her absolutely not and to enjoy her trip. Having Jack here helps more than I expected.
The guy on stage finishes his set to enthusiastic applause.
He’s followed by a girl with a voice like smoke and honey, the crowd immediately falling silent as she begins.
I watch them lean in, completely captivated.
She’s effortlessly confident, moving across the stage like she owns it, her voice filling every corner of the venue without any apparent strain.
My stomach tightens. This is the kind of performer labels want.
Polished, professional, completely at ease in front of an audience.
“She’s sooo good,” I say, feeling my confidence shrink with every perfectly delivered verse. “Maybe I should just leave now. Preserve what’s left of my dignity.”
“There’s always going to be other talented people,” Jack says, his tone gentle. “Doesn’t mean you’re not one of them.”
Next up is a guy with just an acoustic guitar who covers Johnny Cash, then comes a woman who does spoken word poetry over electronic beats she creates live on some kind of loop machine. It’s mesmerizing and weird and the crowd loves it.
With each performer, my anxiety climbs. They’re all so good, so unique, so confident. Brandon’s voice starts creeping in: You’re not good enough for this to be anything more than a hobby.
“You’re next,” the stage manager says, appearing beside me with a clipboard.
My stomach drops, landing somewhere around my shoes. I grab my guitar case, hands shaking now. Jack catches my arm gently and gives it a squeeze.
“Hey,” he says. “You belong up there. I know you do.”
His voice is so sure that it loosens the knot in my chest. I take a full breath for the first time in an hour and force a small smile. “Thanks,” I manage.
“I’ll be right here,” he promises. “Now go show them what you’ve got.”
The walk to the stage feels both endless and way too short.
The stage lights are brighter than expected, turning the audience into a mass of shadows and shapes at first. I can hear them though, conversations continuing, drinks being ordered, that low hum of a crowd that’s not quite paying attention yet.
I position my stool and adjust the mic stand, my fingers feeling clumsy. When I glance up to scan the crowd, I spot Jack near the front, leaning against a pillar with his eyes fixed on me.
“Hi,” I say into the mic, cringing at how small my voice sounds. I clear my throat. “I’m Lark Reyes. Thanks for having me.”
A few polite claps, a couple of encouraging whoops. I start to strum the opening chords of my first song, a mid-tempo piece about leaving home. My fingers are on autopilot, muscle memory taking over as I focus on keeping my breathing steady.
The first verse comes out a bit shaky, my voice not quite finding its center. I stare at a point on the back wall, too nervous to make eye contact with anyone. But as I reach the chorus, the melody becomes familiar terrain, and I can feel myself settling into it.
By the second verse, my fingers find the chord changes without thinking.
My voice steadies, even though my heart is still racing.
When I reach the bridge, I force myself to look up from my guitar and find Jack’s gaze.
He gives me a small, encouraging nod. Don’t think about the crowd.
Don’t think about how many people are watching. Just focus on the next line.
I take a deep breath and let my voice soar into the higher register, hitting the notes I sometimes shy away from. They land cleanly. My hands are sweating on the guitar neck and part of my brain is screaming that I’m about to forget the words, but somehow I keep going. Somehow it’s working.
When the song ends there’s a beat of silence, then applause. Decent, maybe more than decent. I feel a tentative smile, though my pulse is still hammering.
“Thank you,” I say into the mic, gripping it a little too hard to keep my hand from shaking. “This next one is called ‘Paper Hearts.’”
Just two more songs. I can do two more songs. The worst is over, right?
I’m adjusting my guitar strap, trying to breathe through the adrenaline, when I see him.
Brandon’s standing near the bar, arms crossed and scowling. Kelly’s next to him, looking deeply uncomfortable. But Brandon’s watching me with that familiar expression, the one that says he’s waiting for me to fail, expecting it, maybe even counting on it.
How did he even know about this? A distant part of my brain remembers—Kelly is Elle Smith’s granddaughter. I chatted with her during a Black Lantern shift last week, and mentioned the open mic. Fuck.
My fingers completely botch the next chord change, turning what should be a smooth transition into an ugly, jarring mess. I stumble on the lyrics. I try to recover, push through, but I’ve completely lost it now. The crowd’s attention evaporates.
From the stage I can see Brandon’s smirk, that satisfied expression that says he’s getting exactly what he came for.
By the final song, I’m just going through the motions.
There’s no feeling in it, no connection.
Even Jack’s steady presence at the front can’t salvage this.
He’s still watching, still focused, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“Thanks,” I say when it’s finally, mercifully over. The applause is perfunctory, already dying before I’m off stage. Someone actually says “at last” as I walk past, though maybe that was about their drink order. Maybe.
I don’t wait around backstage. Don’t stay to support the other performers like you’re supposed to, like everyone else has been doing. I grab my guitar and head straight for the exit, needing space, needing to be anywhere but here.
The cool night air hits my burning face as I push through the door.
Jack catches up with me in the parking lot before I make it to my car. “Lark, wait,” he calls, his footsteps quick on the pavement behind me. His hand touches my arm gently. “Hey, slow down for a second.”
I stop abruptly, turning to face him. “What?” The word comes out sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it. My throat is tight, my chest aching with humiliation.
His eyebrows draw together, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice cracking on the last word. “Can we just go?”
“Lark—”
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Can we just not talk about it right now?”
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing whether to push or give me space. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, of course.”
He takes my guitar case and walks with me to the car—Calvin’s, which Jack’s using while Calvin and Maren are on their honeymoon.
We drive in silence for the first twenty minutes.
Jack doesn’t try to make me talk, and I’m grateful for that at least. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, occasionally glancing over at me like he’s making sure I’m still breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, breaking the silence. My voice sounds small in the darkness of the car. “I didn’t mean to snap at you back there.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”
I take a shaky breath. “I really thought I could do it. For a minute there, it actually felt good. Like I was really doing it, you know? And then…” The tears threaten again. “I choked. I completely fell apart up there.”