Chapter 18
Cleveland proves to be an outrageously fun show. We’re the second of three acts at the House of Blues, but the crowd responds to us like we’re the biggest stars in the world.
We close out the set with our newest song, which we released online about a week ago, and it quickly started trending.
We weren’t expecting it; the sound is a bit harsher than the folksy vibe we usually put out, but it’s become a personal favorite and I sing it like my life depends on it, the crowd screaming with me.
You know I know you know you’re never going to change.
I find it funny that you find it strange
That I’m a mess, when I’m the mess that you made me.
Waiting on your love to come save me.
The energy is intoxicating, a pulsing reminder of why I do this.
My brain isn’t wrestling with questions I’m scared to even ask myself, my focus centered on the pull of my vocal cords and bang of the band and the echoed words from the audience.
It’s like we’re sharing a soul as we scream out words that do a small part to soothe the hurt.
We’re all humans thinking of someone different, connected by that evergreen ache.
Darcy is absolutely killing it, performing like the night’s energy has sunk itself into her bones and is radiating through her.
I watch her step forward as she rips through a chord progression.
She’s both delicate and raw when she plays, her fingers dancing across the neck of her bass as she translates the confusion of emotions into the precision of musical notes.
Harry’s feeling it too, singing with me from behind his keyboard.
The recording circulating the internet has both our vocals on there, and he’s delivering tonight.
At a break in the lyrics, he steps around his instrument and strides toward me, a grin on his face.
He’s magnetic, a performer through and through.
When he gets to me, he steps close, feet between mine, our thighs brushing.
We smirk at each other as we prepare for the final verse, leaning in so our noses touch.
You call me selfish,
But your kiss makes me reckless.
I’d risk it all to crash and burn at the edge of your lips.
The music plays out, and we repeat the lyrics a few times, letting our voices trail off as the song comes to a close, the crowd screaming.
It’s hard to drag my gaze from his face—skin flushed and hair tangled, smile creasing his eyes and the bridge of his nose.
He drops his sweaty forehead to mine, and I reach up, cupping his cheek.
The way he looks at me makes my heart squeeze, like I’m the most important person in his world.
Finally, he acknowledges the crowd, turning his head and waving, and I follow suit.
We take a minute to soak it all in, the noise and the amazing set and the absurdity that our dysfunctional group has somehow gotten to a moment like this, everything so perfectly synchronized.
The audience slowly calms down, and Harry fixes his grin back on me.
As I do most nights, I go to hug him. But Harry does something that shifts my world off its axis. He curves one hand around my waist, the other at my throat, thumb tilting my chin so I’m looking up at him. There’s nothing but heat and mischief in those ridiculously blue eyes of his.
Then he kisses me.
Onstage.
For everyone to see.