Chapter 11
The Paradise Rock Club is standing room only, featuring a stocked bar to the left that I can already imagine packed with bodies, judgmental eyes fixed on my every move.
The wraparound balcony overhead makes me feel like I’m under a microscope during sound check.
My voice is wobbly as we rehearse a few songs, sweat budding on my forehead and pooling under my arms until my skin prickles.
“Great job, everyone,” Kevin says, clapping his hands and smiling at us as we finish up. “Let’s get you all cleaned up and presentable.” I want to strangle him by his stylish silk scarf for the extra long glance he bestows upon me.
In an edgy haze, I follow the group backstage.
They sprawl out around the green room—Harry and Kale slouched on the couch, Deja perched on Skull’s lap as he lounges in an armchair, Darcy planting herself in front of one of the mirrors and applying a dramatic swoop of pink eyeshadow across her lids.
I stay hunched in the corner, something sticky and dark with fear rooting my feet to the ground.
They laugh and chat, an excited current zipping between them while my nerves envelop me in a throbbing bubble, the noise reaching me like it’s traveling through water. Rather fitting, I suppose—I do feel a bit like I’m drowning.
We’ve played plenty of shows before, and it used to be my favorite part of the job—taking this wonderful, terrible, magical thing we’ve labored over and sharing it with anyone willing to listen; losing myself in the addictive thrill of handing something so deeply personal over to strangers.
But this show is different. Tainted and messy and already a rotten memory. It’s my first without Connor. The first with a substantial crowd. The first where I know people are here to size me up as a spectacle, not as a musician.
I’m still fading into the cinder block walls when Kevin rolls in a few racks of new clothes from Zuuli, the others swarming like moths to a flame to collect their spoils.
When the frenzy disperses and everyone heads to their mock modesty corners to change, I flick through the clothes designated for me.
There are few things I hate more than admitting when I’m wrong or that I maybe, ever so slightly, overreacted to something, but Zuuli did come through with some amazing pieces for our shows. Still don’t love the exclusivity part, but I’m learning not to look a gift horse in the free crop top.
Darcy’s wardrobe hangs on one half of the rack next to mine, and the difference is comical. Her side is short hems and bright colors. Sequins and outrageous patterns and plenty of feathers thrown in.
So entirely her.
My side looks more like a display for an incredibly trendy funeral. Black, black, black, exactly how I want my clothes, matching my emotions and cold, shriveled heart. I pick a piece at random and throw it on.
“Whatdya think of this one?” Darcy asks, doing a quick spin and making her pink miniskirt flare around her hips.
She’s paired it with a lavender halter crop top and a stack of necklaces.
She laughs as the skirt continues to sway when she stops in front of me.
I swallow past the knot in my throat, mouth going dry.
“Stunning,” I answer, honestly. Hopefully she can’t tell how honestly.
“Will it look like I’m just in my knickers when I’m holding my bass?” she asks, swiping her hands back and forth across the pleats before grabbing the instrument.
“Which answer are you hoping for?”
She fixes me with a wicked grin. “Not sure. Still trying to decide how scandalous I’d like to be tonight.”
“You look the perfect amount of scandalous.”
“And you look like a sexy Steve Jobs,” Darcy says, biting her lip and scrunching up her nose.
“Thanks,” I deadpan, looking down at the black sleeveless turtleneck dress I’m in. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
Darcy laughs and gives me a playful shove as she sets her bass back down.
I’m furious at myself that the press of her hand makes my heart leap, that such an innocuous, friendly gesture turns my insides out while she walks away unfazed, following the rest of the group out of the green room and toward the stage.
With a deep breath and mental slap, I trail behind.
We stand in the wings as music bumps over the speakers, noises of the crowd pressing around me like a hand to the throat.
“This is it,” Kevin says, turning to us. He drapes his arms over Harry and Kale to start some sort of huddle. Harry returns the gesture, looping Darcy in, but Kale stares at Kevin with a meaningful side-eye. Kevin clears his throat, removing his hand. “The big night, the start of everything.”
I can see him digging deep within himself to make this as inspirational as possible. It’s a sweet attempt to mark the moment, but I’m at risk of projectile vomiting on his shiny loafers.
“You all have worked so hard, not only these past few weeks, but for years. I know you haven’t been together for long, but every step, every music lesson, every minute locked in your rooms playing something over and over has led to this.
It’s your time. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of. Take the moment and taste it.”
There’s a long pause.
“Kevin, did you just quote Taylor Swift to us?” Darcy asks.
Even in the dim backstage lights, Kevin’s blush is obvious. “I … uh … It’s…”
“That’s one of my favorites by her,” Skull says, soliciting a double take from Harry.
“Let’s just go out there and play a good fucking show,” Kale says with a roll of his eyes.
Harry nods appreciatively. “Not as poetic as Miss Swift, but gets the job done.”
A stagehand gives us the signal that we’ll be going on in one minute.
Sixty seconds.
I want to melt into the floor. I can see a sliver of the crowd, the blue lights of their cell phone screens as they scroll and take pictures creating an eerie glow. My stomach twists into knots, wringing out spurts of adrenaline that burn up and down my body.
Thirty seconds.
I can already picture the comments. The tags and mentions telling me what a fake I am, how bad I am at singing, how I toy with precious boys, sucking the goodness out of them. I want to sprint far away from this murder of crows waiting to peck me to death.
Fifteen seconds.
I tremble, sound going fuzzy and distant as the world starts to spin in the wrong direction. I want … I need … I’m going to …
Suddenly, Darcy’s there, her palm pressed between my shoulder blades. Something about feeling my breaths expanding and contracting against her stillness makes getting air down a bit easier, my head whirling at a slower speed, and it makes me want to cry in relief.
When I finally settle to a place where I don’t feel like I’ll suffocate in my own skin, she moves her hand, skimming across my shoulder to trace up and down my bare arm in a firm touch. Her fingers are callused, comforting and gentle in their roughness.
Time’s up.
I’m swept onstage in the band’s wave of energy, the rupture of cheers from the crowd building their excitement.
Everyone makes a beeline for their position.
I pick up my guitar in the center like it’s a weapon, a shield, the only thing between me and my destruction.
I stand at the frontlines, staring out at my opponent.
The noise of the crowd dips, and I know I’m supposed to say something, but I miss the natural beat, the silence stretching too long.
I’m losing them already.
The lights are blinding, making my eyes water and stomach pinch.
Say something. Anything. Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t—
“How’re you all doing tonight?” Harry’s words ripple through the mic, and the crowd erupts again. “We’re Tea Time Tantrum, and if it’s okay with you, we’d like to play you a little song.” He smiles at the next surge of cheers.
Some people are natural performers, lit from within and radiating so brightly the entire room shines.
That’s Harry. Darcy. Dynamic people with an essence worth sharing, tugging you into their gravity.
While I can’t shake the feeling these people are here to watch me fail, I know without a doubt that they want to watch Harry win.
Whether I’m ready or not, the music comes in, Skull’s drumming replacing my heartbeat, Harry on the keys adding something bright to Darcy’s deep and consuming bass.
My fingers automatically take their position along the neck and body of my guitar and I start to play.
Kale’s somber violin slides in, and my vocal cue is coming. Only a measure to go.
I clear my throat, then lean toward the mic. Nothing comes out.
The melody gets tangled in my throat, a rotten, wet mass of words I can’t bring myself to say.
The moment passes, my lips hanging open, a hollow wasteland on my tongue.
The band recovers for me, circling the melody back to the start, giving me more time as I spiral deeper and deeper into the punishing bright lights.
I feel my heartbeat pulse in my sweaty palms, fingers tripping over notes as the panic sets in, the weight of the crowds’ stare swallowing me whole.
I slant an anxious glance to my right, hoping—needing—to see a reassuring face.
And Harry is there, closing the distance between us, keyboard abandoned, his pale blue eyes fixed on me. His hand slips along the curve of my spine as the intro comes back around, and he leans close to the mic, cheek brushing mine. He starts to sing.
I’m floating upside down,
Can’t seem to trace the sound.
He takes a breath, pulling back for a fraction of a second and smiling at me before finishing the verse.
Of your whispers of forever
And your footsteps to the door.
His voice is rough, unrefined. Somehow perfect for its edges. His hand presses more firmly into my back, a grounding, warm weight as the next verse tumbles out of me.
Someone had to leave first,
It’s the ending of our story.
I built a house on your lies,
You built an empire off my worry.
My hands return to my guitar, but his palm stays anchored on me, the other wrapped around the stand, holding us in a closed circuit. Our mouths are close, noses almost touching as we hover above the microphone. His crooked smile is charged, capturing all of my attention.
We trade a few more verses, the nerves leaving me with every strum of my guitar until something bright and golden sits in my chest. Harry’s eyes stay locked on mine as we sing the chorus to each other.
Now you’re back on my doorstep,
My biggest regret.
Sad smile and heart blue
And I don’t know how to tell you.
I just don’t give a damn,
I’m gonna find myself a better man.
I finally register the crowd again, their cheers echoing around us as the song continues to build through a few more verses. Harry’s attention never falters from me as we give our everything to this moment.
The music swerves toward the end, Skull’s drumbeat fading as Kale’s violin haunts the stage, my fingers slipping up and down the strings as I continue to look at Harry.
We loop back to the end of the chorus, Harry winking at me at the change of lyrics.
And it’s pretty easy to tell you
I just don’t give a damn,
I’m gonna find myself a better man.
There’s one verse left, just vocals, but at the last moment, Harry steps back, my voice the only one echoing through the venue.
Just you watch, wait and see,
As I find myself the kind of man you’ll never be.
The room swells with noise. I can’t tell if they’re cheers or boos or my heartbeat thumping in my ears, but it doesn’t matter.
We did it. Ripped that Band-Aid off. After a few gulping breaths, it becomes clear that the audience is clapping and yelling, and on a bubble of excitement, I float above the stage.
I turn to Harry, grinning at him. He drops his sweaty forehead to mine, and somehow, it feels more intimate than a kiss, sending a thunderbolt through my body. But he’s got me, protecting me, shielding me from the world and its cruelty for a second.
The screaming grows even louder. Before I can overthink that, before I can dissect if that’s the real reason, the only reason, these people are applauding, the band picks up the beat of the next song, Harry jogging over to his keyboard.
I know there will be pictures tomorrow; hell, there are probably pictures up right now—posts and stories and comments snatching that precious moment from Harry and me, warping it to fit whatever story they want to tell of us.
All the noise ricocheting through the space dissolves into my skin, and I let it wash away the sour pit in my stomach.
Whatever this crowd’s motivation for watching, it’s the reason I’m up here, getting to play.
I’m not going to let the shitty circumstances Connor built around the moment ruin this for me.
Fingers strumming my guitar, I step up to the mic and I do what these people expect of me.
I put on a show.