Chapter 40
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The lights hit different when you’re not hiding anymore.
That’s the first thing I notice.
They’re still bright—still blinding, really, washing the stage in that familiar flood of gold and white that turns sweat into shine and shadows into something theatrical—but they don’t feel like a shield tonight.
They feel like exposure.
Like stepping into something honest.
The crowd is already on its feet before I even touch the strings.
That part hasn’t changed.
It’s a living thing out there—thousands of bodies packed into the venue, voices rising and falling like weather, heat rolling off them in waves that reach all the way up to the stage. This place smells like sweat, cheap drinks, ozone from the lighting rigs, and something electric.
I used to live for that.
Still do, in a way.
But tonight—
Tonight it’s different.
I adjust the strap on my guitar and glance toward the side of the stage.
Backstage is dim compared to the blaze of the lights, but I can still see them.
Tilda stands just beyond the curtain line, one hand resting lightly on Jesse’s shoulder as he peers out from behind her leg with open, fascinated curiosity. His eyes reflect the stage lights like molten gold, wide and unblinking as he takes in the noise, the movement, the sheer scale of it all.
He looks like he’s trying to understand how something this big exists.
Tilda catches my eye.
She doesn’t smile right away.
She studies me.
Like she’s checking for something.
Old habits.
Old ghosts.
Looking for the version of me that used to step onto stages like this and forget everything else existed.
I hold her gaze.
Don’t look away.
Don’t perform.
Just—
Stay.
After a second, she nods.
Just once.
It’s small.
But it hits harder than the crowd.
“Go,” she mouths.
Jesse waves at me.
“Dada loud,” he says, not even trying to keep his voice down.
I grin.
“Yeah,” I call back. “Dada’s loud.”
The stage manager gives me the signal.
I step forward.
The lights swallow me whole.
The noise spikes—louder, sharper, a physical thing that slams into my chest and rattles around in my ribs. I can feel it in my bones, the vibration of it, the collective energy of all those people focused in one direction.
On me.
Old Bron would have eaten that alive.
Would have soaked it in, turned it into fuel, let it burn hot and reckless until there was nothing left but the high of it.
This time—
I let it settle.
Let it exist without letting it take over.
“Hey,” I say into the mic.
My voice carries.
The crowd answers.
I let them.
Then I lift a hand slightly, and it quiets.
Not completely.
But enough.
“I’ve played a lot of shows,” I say, pacing slowly across the stage. “In a lot of places. For a lot of reasons.”
A few cheers ripple through the audience.
I nod.
“Some of them were good reasons,” I add. “Some of them… less so.”
A ripple of laughter.
“Used to be,” I continue, “I got up here because I liked the noise.”
I strum the guitar once.
The sound cuts clean through the space.
“I liked the attention. The energy. The feeling of being—” I gesture loosely. “—bigger than I actually was.”
More laughter.
Knowing this time.
“Turns out,” I say, softer now, “that’s not a great long-term strategy.”
The crowd quiets again.
There’s a shift.
Subtle.
But real.
“I took some time,” I go on. “Got knocked around a bit. Learned a few things the hard way.”
That gets a murmur.
Because they’ve seen it.
The footage.
The arena.
The moment everything changed.
“I learned,” I say, my voice steady now, “that there are things in this life that matter more than being loud.”
I glance toward the edge of the stage.
Toward them.
Tilda hasn’t moved.
Jesse is still watching me like I’m the most interesting thing in the universe.
“That’s new for me,” I admit.
A few chuckles.
“But I’m working on it.”
I adjust my grip on the guitar.
“This next one—” I pause, letting the moment breathe. “This next one is different.”
The room leans in.
Not physically.
But you can feel it.
“I didn’t write it for the charts,” I say. “Didn’t write it for the critics. Didn’t write it to prove anything.”
I look straight out into the crowd.
“I wrote it because I finally figured out who I’m doing this for.”
Silence.
The good kind.
The kind that listens.
I play.
The first notes come out soft.
Deliberate.
Not the kind of opening that demands attention.
The kind that earns it.
The melody builds slowly, each chord settling into place like it belongs there, like it’s been waiting for me to catch up to it.
And then I start to sing.
My voice feels different too.
Less sharp.
Less performative.
More… grounded.
Like it’s coming from somewhere deeper than just my lungs.
The lyrics aren’t complicated.
They don’t need to be.
They’re about quiet moments.
About small things that matter more than they should.
About a woman who rebuilt her life out of nothing and didn’t ask for applause.
About a kid who looks at the world like it’s something worth understanding instead of conquering.
About learning—slowly, painfully—how to be someone they can count on.
The crowd stays quiet.
Listening.
Really listening.
I don’t look away this time.
Not at the lights.
Not at the crowd.
I keep my focus on the edge of the stage.
On them.
Tilda’s expression shifts as the song goes on.
Something in her eyes softens.
Something unguarded.
Jesse sways slightly, completely off rhythm, humming along like he’s part of it.
I feel my chest tighten.
In a good way.
In a way that feels like something settling into place.
The final chord lingers in the air.
Fades.
Silence.
For half a second, the entire venue holds its breath.
Then—
The crowd erupts.
Louder than before.
Different than before.
Not just noise.
Something warmer.
Something… earned.
I let it wash over me.
But I don’t get lost in it.
I step forward.
Back to the mic.
“Hey,” I say again, my voice cutting through the roar.
It quiets.
Not completely.
But enough.
“I’m not going to pretend I’ve got everything figured out,” I tell them. “Because I don’t.”
A few laughs.
Honest ones.
“But I do know this.”
I glance toward the side of the stage again.
Toward Tilda.
Toward Jesse.
And this time—
I don’t just look.
I point.
“That’s my family,” I say.
The words land.
Heavy.
Real.
The crowd follows my gesture.
A ripple moves through them as people turn, trying to see.
Tilda stiffens slightly.
I can see it.
The instinct to retreat.
To stay out of the spotlight.
But she doesn’t move.
Jesse waves again.
“Hi!” he calls, completely unbothered.
The crowd laughs.
Softly.
Affectionately.
I grin.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s them.”
I rest my hand on the guitar.
“And everything I do from here on out—” I take a breath. “—it’s for them.”
No theatrics.
No grand flourish.
Just—
Truth.
The crowd responds.
Loud.
But not overwhelming.
Not consuming.
Just there.
Supporting.
I nod once.
“Thanks for listening,” I say.
I step back.
The band kicks in behind me for the next set, but my part—
My part is done.
I hand the guitar off as I move offstage.
The lights fade behind me.
The noise dims.
And then I’m back in the shadow of the curtain.
Back with them.
Tilda steps forward first.
She doesn’t say anything right away.
Just looks at me.
Really looks.
Then—
“That was good,” she says.
I clutch my chest.
“High praise.”
“Don’t push it.”
Jesse launches at me.
I catch him easily, lifting him up into my arms.
“Dada loud,” he says again.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “Still loud.”
He pats my face.
“Good loud.”
“I’ll take it.”
Tilda watches us, something steady and warm in her expression.
“You meant that?” she asks quietly.
“What?”
“What you said out there.”
I shift Jesse slightly on my hip.
“Yeah,” I say. “I did.”
She studies me for another second.
Then nods.
“Okay.”
That’s it.
No grand speech.
No dramatic declaration.
Just—
Okay.
And somehow, that means more.
“Come on,” I say, jerking my head toward the exit. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Already?” she asks.
“I’ve had enough spotlight for one night.”
She smirks.
“Miracles do happen.”
We walk out together.
No cameras.
No crowd.
Just a quiet corridor leading away from the noise.
Jesse chatters softly about lights and sounds and “big music,” his words tumbling over each other as he tries to process everything he just saw.
Tilda walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush every few steps.
Not by accident.
Not anymore.
By choice.
We reach the exit.
The night air hits cool against my skin, carrying the distant hum of the city and the faint scent of something blooming somewhere nearby.
I inhale deeply.
Feels different out here.
Quieter.
Real.
Tilda glances up at me.
“So,” she says. “What now?”
I look at her.
At Jesse.
At the life waiting in front of us.
“Now?” I echo.
I shift Jesse higher, reaching out with my free hand to lace my fingers through hers.
“Now we go home.”
She squeezes my hand.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “We do.”
And for the first time—
It doesn’t feel like something I’m running toward or away from.
It just feels like where I’m supposed to be.