37. Will
THIRTY-SEVEN
WILL
I don’t get nervous for shows, I never really have.
When we first started playing at house parties and then at tiny venues, I wasn’t nervous because I didn’t take it very seriously.
Lest Is Moore was Jesse and Naz’s baby—it’s the reason our corny band name is made up of their last names.
They were the ones who put it all together in the first place, and the first ones that thought we could be something real once it started.
It was more of a pastime for me, and we got a lot of free drinks out of it.
Even now, I don’t think I’m that great of a guitar player—Jesse’s the real talent, he can shred.
When we started playing bigger venues, and after we got signed and shot to fame basically overnight, I was more focused on Ari, who tended to get pre-show jitters.
Tonight, I’m actually really fucking nervous.
I’m sure a good bit of it is exhaustion. We have been working harder than we ever have to get ready for this show. It’s been a whirlwind, and now all of a sudden, it’s almost time.
Looking around our chaotic dressing room, I shake out my arms and bounce on my toes a little to get out some of the nervous energy.
A crew member tells Jesse it’s time for him to go get hooked up so he can get lifted up into the scaffolding above everyone’s heads.
He blinks, but otherwise barely reacts, looking blank and empty.
Our first show after we got signed wasn’t a huge arena like we play in now.
It was a fairly modest venue, and we were opening for a band that wasn’t nearly as big as we are now.
It was still huge, though, for us. Just before we went on stage that first night, we stood in a little huddle, with our arms around each other and our heads pressed close, and said, “This is it. May the rock gods shine down on us,” or something of the sort.
It became a sort of ritual, one we’ve only missed once when Jesse was busy puking right before we got on stage.
We huddle up, and take turns saying something stupid, a joke in the form of a prayer.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, our friend needs our support.
We huddle in like always, but we focus all our energy on Jesse.
He’s trying to hold it together to pull off this show, and then he can rest and let all the pain out.
I heard him tell Blake he might check himself in at a retreat somewhere so he isn’t tempted to do anything stupid.
I’m not sure if that’s referring to a relapse or chasing after Luc.
“We’re behind you all the way,” Naz tells him, and we all nod, tightening our circle.
One of the stage managers calls Jesse again, and he runs off to get rigged up to fly into the air as soon as it’s dark enough that the crowd won’t see him.
We watch him go, then Naz turns to us with a worried expression. “Jesse doesn’t want to stay for the rest of the game. He wants to leave as soon as the set is done.”
“What?”
“Shit. What are we going to do?” I ask.
“I don’t know, I’m going to try to find Blake.”
“Alright, hurry.”
Go time in seven minutes.
The teams disappear into their respective tunnels while an army of stagehands dressed all in black floods the field, assembling the set like a well-oiled machine.
Panels lock into place, lighting rigs descend from the rafters, cables snake across the turf in deliberate patterns that will be cleared again in under fifteen minutes.
It’s controlled chaos, but everything moves smoothly and as planned.
Naz returns just as dozens of dancers are filing out and we’re given a two-minute warning.
“Blake was too close to Jesse, but I let Cory know, and he’s going to see if he can get a message to Luc through the team’s security.”
We nod. It’s the best we can do for now.
Someone nearby signals, and the tunnel darkens. Ari, Naz, and I nod at each other. I reach for Ari’s hand and give it a quick squeeze, it’s the most I can do with so many people around us. He smiles and squeezes mine back.
A crew member close to us starts a countdown. We close our eyes to get ready for the stadium to plummet into darkness. Right on cue, the stadium lights shut off with an audible boom. The startled crowd gasps but breaks out in cheers as soon as flickers of light start around the stage.
Showtime .
We run to the stage, following dimly glowing gaff tape all the way.
Our security team runs alongside us, and there is more security at the stage to make sure none of us bust our asses.
We get to our marks and are handed our instruments, hitting the first opening notes just as screens all around the field light up, each synched to the notes we’re playing.
The stage lights up in flashes to the beat of the drums, which is echoed by a full drumline.
Jesse’s voice rings out over the stadium, and I hear Ari laugh.
We were worried right up to the last second that our setlist addition would be denied, but I have a feeling Blake and the show coordinators didn’t ask anyone at the network’s permission.
Then again, they did book Lest Is Moore right in the middle of a politically charged year. They knew what they were doing.
When the audience screams, I know they must have spotted Jesse, and sure enough, his face is blown up on several giant screens, a drone camera zooming in close.
Then things kick into high gear as Jesse trust-falls off the platform, falling backwards from a height that makes my stomach drop, even after watching it multiple times.
The lighting and the camera angles are perfectly choreographed to make it look like a true free fall.
It’s symbolic of his own fall and journey as much as it is meant to represent how a single act of bravery or kindness can create waves.
The entire show is set up around this theme and celebrating diversity.
My favorite part of the show comes three songs in when half a dozen drag queens catwalk and vogue down an illuminated runway.
It all goes by so fast. From the outside, I know there’s no one outside the three of us, and maybe his mother, who can tell Jesse isn’t fully present. He’s pouring everything he has into this performance, he just happens to not have much less to give.
This becomes more obvious when it’s time for the last song.
Ari, Naz, and I fought to have this song taken off the setlist. The producers threw a fit, talking about how disappointed the fans would be if we didn’t do our breakout hit.
It was Jesse who made us back down. No one could have forced us to do it but him, and he wanted to do the song for the fans.
I think maybe he thought it would be like saying goodbye.
In the end, we only backed down because we knew it wouldn’t be goodbye. Because he was supposed to be getting his man back at the end of the game. Because he was supposed to stay and watch his man’s team in a show of solidarity and support.
Knowing that won’t happen now makes it even more heartbreaking to hear his voice waver. We have to restart the song after he looks back at us helplessly. When I look over at Ari, he has a tear trailing down his cheek.
Jesse starts to sing, walking down the long catwalk, and it feels like the entire arena is holding their breath. It’s eerily still and silent as the crowd leans in, feeling every raw note. It occurs to me that none of them know who this song is about, but they probably know who he’s singing to now.
A little over halfway through the song, there’s a disturbance on the field.
Someone shouts, but we can’t hear what they say.
My first thought is there’s probably a streaker—there’s always one.
But the energy shifts, and there’s a collective intake of breath followed by an almost staticky rumble of surprise.
It’s subtle at first—a ripple in the lower stands.
A murmur that grows louder, swelling into gasps and sporadic cheers and applause, mostly from the dancers and crew on the ground.
Ari’s arm presses against mine. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know… Oh, shit.”
Ari’s head swivels, and when his eyes land on what I see, he gasps audibly.
None other than Luc Martín climbs up from the side of the stage, helped up by Cory. He looks larger than life, bigger than usual in his football pads. His eyes are locked on Jesse, determined despite how terrified he must be.
The moment he’s on stage and the cameras are on him, the entire stadium erupts in excited cheers. He swallows visibly and starts walking toward Jesse, who is still singing. As he passes us, Ari and I both clap Luc on the shoulder in stunned encouragement, understanding just how big this moment is.
Ari practically sobs when Jesse finally turns around, the crowd screaming and pointing.
He does a double take when he sees Luc center stage, walking straight to him.
His voice falters for a brief moment, his eyes wide and clearly not believing what he’s seeing, but he somehow manages to keep singing.
I’ve barely remembered to keep playing, my fingers moving by muscle memory at this point.
Taking the mic from the stand he’d placed it in, he turns and starts walking, meeting him halfway.
They stand so close there’s barely room for the mic between them.
Jesse’s free hand comes up and touches Luc’s chest, like he might not actually be real.
Luc runs his hand up Jesse’s arm in a way that gives me goosebumps.
Jesse’s voice falters just enough that his last line almost sounds like a question, the last note of Ari’s answering backing vocals and the last chords of my guitar echo through the almost silent stadium as Luc whispers, “Jesse.”
And then he kisses him. In front of millions of people, both in this stadium and on televisions all around the country and the world, the all-American hero lays a truly romance-novel worthy kiss on the bad-boy rockstar that the haters said corrupted him.
It’s fucking beautiful.
What’s even better is how the entire stadium roars with thunderous applause.
Ari grips my arm so hard it hurts, but it grounds me. I look back at Naz, standing up from his drum kit with a huge smile on his face, clapping along with the crowd.
No one bows. We don’t say our closing remarks about loving one another and coming together for our neighbors. We don’t say that love and joy are resistance.
We don’t need the speech tonight. For once the point is loud enough to stand on its own.