Chapter 27 #2
Backstage before the show, the chaos in my head feels like the static on Nonna’s radio when her favorite Sicilian station craps out. JC drops beside me on the sofa, getting all cozy, arm around my shoulder. He’s changed into stage clothes. But is he Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde? It’s hard to look at him.
“You feeling okay?” he asks. “You seemed a little out of it at dinner.”
A little? I drowned dinner in wine just to stay numb. Barely felt tethered to the moment. Ate listlessly when normally I hoover down platefuls.
My shoulders hitch in a tiny shrug. “It’s been a long day.”
“I liked hanging out with your family. Thanks for making me part of it.”
He leans in for a kiss, but I turn my head so his lips land on my cheek instead. JC looks at me wordlessly, brows drawn. Let him think the worst. Let him feel what I felt last night, face pressed against a window, watching my entire world fall apart.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
I stand abruptly, emotions rippling through me like an endless tide. It’s killing me not to ask JC about his plans, but I refuse to create drama before the show. Relationship Armageddon can wait.
Head down and pulse skyrocketing, I crash into Shae, our miracle in cowboy boots. Prompt, friendly, and on our side as much as she can be as Sawyer’s mouthpiece. She’s weaving a little from all the wine she drank.
“Good news!” Her voice is jarringly loud in the empty hallway. “Just got word we have an extra special guest tonight.”
A fissure runs up my spine. “Yeah, who?”
“The Italian prime minister.”
I blink, unsure if this is real life or a random sitcom I’m now starring in. Politics? Couldn't care less. But Shae’s expectant grin says this is where I’m supposed to shriek and clap.
“She’s a fan. These Euro politicians don’t rock out like ours do.” Shae beams with pride. “Feather in your cap.”
Jesus. If there’s a hell, I’m living in it right here: pretending to care. “Amazing,” I say. “I’ll toss out some extra-special Italian just for her.”
“Perf. Oh, and Sawyer approved a private meet-and-greet after the show. Major photo opp. Sounds like she has a wee crush on JC. But don’t we all?”
She winks, and it feels like all my insides pool onto the floor.
I mumble something that sounds like thanks and hightail it to the bathroom.
Kicking open a stall door, I scream at the top of my lungs.
I spent the evening in a smug dress, in a restaurant that amplified my impostor syndrome, and played nice to prove to JC that I could.
Meanwhile, he's blabbing to me about not burning empires while secretly rebuilding his.
Off my thunder.
On my fifth “fuck,” I calm down. Sort of.
I don’t know how to be with someone I have these complicated feelings for. It’s so rare that I let anyone in. But something in me has accepted him.
And I can’t bring myself to believe the worst.
Ten minutes later, I’m still a hot mess, slumped on the toilet seat, when a text lands from Brady.
BB: Andiamo. Let’s do this.
It's a struggle to stand. I feel weary. Older. I splash water on my face and trudge into the hall just as the boys and JC pour out of the dressing room. Tai and Brady have given me space since dinner, enough of it that JC’s wounded expression makes me feel like shit.
I want to hate him. But I can’t.
Not yet.
If he can convince me Sawyer is full of hot air, as he can be, we are good.
Maybe.
I walk like a robot, stiff with no rhythm, into the dense wall of darkness on stage.
As soon as fans see our outlines, their murmurs of excitement explode into a welcoming roar.
Brady, dressed in his flowy pirate shirt, whips them into frenzy, coaxing them louder with hand gestures before he settles behind his kit.
Tai slings his bass over one shoulder of his Skinny Puppy tee and batters the crowd with a monster E chord.
JC finesses his pedals. Wah, chorus, and finally, distortion.
The jacked-up crowd surfers in the front row cheer and high-five each other.
They know what that means. Tonight, we’re opening with “Bite into the Chaos.” The classic of every dorm room party.
It lights up the crowd and sets the tone for the show.
I feel looser, in my element. Ready to blow up the night. I face the crowd, scan the front row … and freeze.
There she is.
Haunted blue eyes, smooth, shiny hair, very blonde above the purple coat. Way too much cleavage on display for a cougar. Amber’s smile almost looks soft, but something cold lurks at its corners.
I whip my head to face JC. He’s in the zone, already escaping to the place where only music can take us.
But he feels the laser beam of my eyes hit with full force.
Like it's happening in slow motion, he turns to me first before his gaze pivots to Amber. His shock is almost comical. Did it ever occur to him that no matter how deep someone’s crazy piles up, there’s always more?
I’m dimly aware of the chanting as it slowly builds.
JC and Gia. JC and Gia. JC and Gia.
And then Amber blows him a fucking kiss!
Something inside me snaps. Later, I don’t remember much more of this moment other than a crystallization in the pit of my stomach. Pure, white-hot rage takes over.
I grab the mic and scream, “Buona notte, Milano!”
The fans scream their approval while I signal Charlie, our guitar tech, to hand me JC's Fender Strat. He helps me adjust the strap, hands me a pick, and peels off enough cable to connect me to an amp. The entire time, Tai, Brady, and JC are giving major WTF looks.
Where is this change-up coming from?
I toss my hair back and address the crowd. “I’ve got a little surprise for y’all. A new song. Let me know what you think.” I strum an A minor, sharp and purposeful, and turn to the boys, shouting: “It’s A minor, F, C, E. Follow my lead.”
Across the stage, I can see it dawning on JC—I notice the tightened control in his eyes and his mouth. Then he marches over, invading my space with no time to defend it.
“What are you doing?”
I breathe out, let the shakes subside. Either JC lied about telling Amber to stay away, or she gives zero fucks. Either way, I suddenly feel helpless, like they’ve pushed me here: an animal reacting just to protect myself.
“Why is she here?” I demand.
Someone in the crowd yells, “Are you two dating?”
I laugh nervously into the mic. “We sure are. He wrote this song for me. Tell me how beautiful it sounds.”
JC stumbles backward as if I kicked him in the guts. Time stalls; sound evaporates. The chaos in my head screams louder. This is his song. I should wait. I should ask. But the moment is cresting like a wave, and if I don’t ride it, I’ll sink.
And Amber doesn’t get the satisfaction of watching me drown.
The lights begin to change from white to a deep cherry red, touching the ocean of humanity with a rose-colored light.
I could still stop this. It’s not too late.
My relatives are here, expecting greatness.
The Prime Minister too, seated with Sawyer, who praised me earlier over carpaccio as slimy as his smile.
And maybe it's a trick of light, my imagination spiraling out of control, but Amber’s eyes, a bright crippling blue, are suddenly all I can see.
I start strumming and feel the dangerous energy rushing out of me like I slit a vein. Four thousand phones are poised to capture this moment, and I know this is wrong, ambushing him. But I can’t stop. And JC’s glorious melody gets reduced to a skeleton, because I’m the only one playing.
JC stands motionless, a shadow in the dark.
Brady and Tai—unwilling to cross a line they don’t understand.
And my oh-so justified vindication, meant to land like a fist against bone, swerves into a meaningless void. My fingers fumble. The lyrics tumble out of my mouth, and it feels like I’m singing my own obituary.
Based on JC’s reaction, a funeral feels appropriate.
He whips off his guitar. Slams it into the stand.
And storms off the stage.