Chapter 18 Open Mic #2
“He was,” I start, but he sails on.
“My dad never backed my dreams. Cut me off when I went into music. But my uncle, on the other hand—Dustin Willoughby—he was my real role model.”
The urge to clarify that my dad is gone rises on my tongue, but then someone calls his name from across the room.
Willoughby flashes me a white smile. “Well, looks like the ship needs its captain. Hope I get to hear you play tonight.”
He strides off towards the growing bustle.
I brush the strings one by one, each note ringing soft and clear. If I do play tonight—and that’s a big ‘if’—what song should I choose? I have a couple of indie folk ones in mind, though I wish I’d had more time to practise.
I roll my guitar pick between thumb and forefinger, unable to relax. Could I do it? Play a whole song for an audience? And sing at the same time?
My throat seizes at the thought. No. I doubt I’d get a single word out before croaking.
Unexpectedly, my brain tosses me a ridiculous, comforting image: I’m sitting on the beach with Brandon, laughing, kazoo in hand like evidence I can still make noise when words fail. It makes me smile for half a breath, and it makes me long to be back there, just Brandon and me.
The crowd settles as Willoughby climbs onto the stage, his voice booming over the microphone as he welcomes everyone to the event.
I quietly return my guitar to its case. It’s too soon. I’m out of practice, and Brandon’s right: I’ve been putting too much pressure on myself. Music is supposed to be fun, yet the idea of playing tonight terrifies me more than playing in the grand halls of the Sydney Conservatorium ever did.
And that’s okay, I realise. There’s nothing wrong with not performing tonight.
The café hums around me—terrarium-lined shelves, the smell of food and coffee in the air, modern music threading softly through the room. It’s warm and a little chaotic, alive in a way that makes it easy to breathe. If there were ever a place to take the pressure off, it’s here.
I draw a long breath, and something loosens in my chest. Saying no feels strangely like saying yes to myself.
Daisy plonks into the chair beside me, all grin and energy. “So, decided what you’re playing?”
I glance at my feet, where my guitar gleams in its open case. I reach down and push the lid shut. “Actually, I think I’ll sit this one out.”
“Oh, really? That’s too bad.”
I shrug, but deep down, I care far more than I want to admit. Music is everything to me. This time, though, I won’t tear myself apart over it. I’ll take Brandon’s advice and give myself some breathing room, a chance to get my bearings.
The night rolls on, and despite me not playing, the world doesn’t end. The show carries on—the lights brighten, a mic squeals with feedback, and a jangly guitar intro fills the room. I stop fretting.
“Will you play the drums?” I ask Daisy.
“Yup. Those bad boys,” she says proudly, pointing to a drum kit at the rear of the stage. “I’ll see if I can blow the roof off this place.”
She very nearly does. When it’s her turn, she’s incredible. Loud and full of energy, every beat rattling through the floor. The crowd tries to clap along, though I’m pretty sure Daisy keeps switching up the rhythm just to mess with us.
At my request, she strikes my name off the sign-up sheet.
Relief floods me, but disappointment hovers at the edges, like a shadow I’m pretending not to see.
I tell myself I don’t mind, that I’m lighter without the pressure, but the truth is, a part of me aches to be on stage.
I shove the feeling down and focus on the acts that follow.
One by one, performers take the stage: a scrappy local band, a girl who blends stand-up with song, and several solo singers of varying polish.
Willoughby himself gets up twice, leading a raucous singalong to one of Dustin’s hits, and the crowd laps it up.
He’s magnetic up there, so at ease, and so clearly enjoying himself that the whole room takes on a festival air.
It makes me glad I came.
Finally, the open mic begins to wrap up with Willoughby taking the stage again to offer closing remarks.
A strange finality sinks in. The night is over, along with my chance to take a first halting step towards finding my way back as a performer, even if only in small cafés like this one.
On one hand, I’m proud of myself for not forcing it, for choosing my own pace instead of taking the risk of crumbling under pressure.
On the other, I feel like I’m letting myself down, the perfect opportunity sliding past with each passing second.
I stand, finishing the raspberry vodka I bought earlier, while Willoughby’s amplified voice rings out.
“Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for everyone who’s played tonight. Absolute stars, every one of you.”
I’m crouched down by the case, clipping it shut, when a blinding light hits me. I shield my face and look up, only to realise it’s the spotlight. It’s been turned on me.
“What…?” I mumble, squinting through the brightness as every head in the room swivels my way.
“Before we wrap up for the evening, we might still have one new voice waiting in the wings.” From the stage, Willoughby shoots me an apologetic grin. “Sorry to put you on the spot, Lily, but if you feel like sharing a song tonight, the stage is wide open.”
My heart stutters. I freeze, still crouched by my case.
“As in…right now?”
“Right now. Go on, we all know you’ll be brilliant.” He gestures with a theatrical flourish, and the crowd breaks into encouraging applause. “But only if you want to, alright?”
I slowly straighten, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides. “I…”
I should say no. Just say ‘no’ and go home—but the spotlight pins me in place, and I can’t quite form the word.
Not when Willoughby is looking at me with that maddeningly confident grin, so sure I’ll rise to the occasion despite not having heard me play a single note.
No one’s ever been so openly encouraging before.
It’s blind faith, I know, but somehow, it doesn’t matter.
I believe him. I think I could be brilliant.
“She’s thinking about it,” he coaxes into the mic, and a few people cheer. “Well, what’ll it be, Lily? Fancy giving it a crack?”
“Go on!” Daisy whispers, nudging my arm.
“I can’t,” I mumble. “I haven’t prepared anything.”
My voice carries in the hush, and Willoughby chuckles into the mic.
“Doesn’t matter. You can even play Smoke on the Water or Back in Black.” He winks. “We won’t kick you out.”
The crowd laughs—and so do I, an involuntary chortle that breaks the spell, freezing me in place.
I hover, torn, acutely aware of every gaze pressing in, waiting for me to make up my mind.
The smartest thing would be to simply wave goodbye and leave. I snatch up my hard case by its handle, but instead of marching for the door, I head for the stage.
Applause breaks out, overwhelming me with nerves. But instead of drowning me, the swell lifts me, sweeping me forward like a wave.
My pulse races, my throat tightens, but beneath all the tension lies a spark that’s wild, reckless, and alive. It’s the same elusive spark I’ve been searching for—the one I thought I’d lost for good.
It was here all along, hiding somewhere between fear and exhilaration.
And even though I’m out of practice, and nervous, and don’t even have a song prepared…
And even if I crash and burn…
At least this way, the questions gnawing at me will finally be answered:
Do I still belong on stage?
Can I really do this without Toby?
And, heart-wrenchingly, Is music still mine?
I need to know.
I take out my guitar and sling the strap over my shoulder.
Brandon told me to wait until I feel like playing.
But I can’t keep waiting. I can’t keep second-guessing and holding back.
Not anymore.
So, even if this is a shot in the dark…
Here goes.