In the twenty-five years of the band’s history, Hall of Fame has never played in Winterberry because they haven’t wanted to attract attention to the place they’ve called home, even for those in the band who aren’t actually from here.
“I still can’t believe they’re actually doing this,” a woman says beside me, clutching her husband’s arm with barely contained excitement. “Twenty-five years of following them to Boston, New York, even that time we drove all the way to Montreal, and now they’re playing right here at home.”
“And at Christmas,” her husband adds. “It’s like a gift to the whole town.”
Mrs. Stanton from the general store appears at my other side, practically bouncing on her toes. “Did you hear it’s just going to be a short set? Five, maybe six songs? They’re opening for our local boys.” Her eyes shine with pride. “That’s what makes themspecial, you know? They could headline anywhere in the world, but they’re here supporting local musicians.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Old Jim chimes in from behind us. “Must be something in the water around here to grow all this amazing talent. And they’re so generous too.”
“Sebastian helped me fix my fence last week,” someone else adds. “Didn’t even mention it. Just showed up with tools and got to work.”
“And Stone overheard my Bonnie talk about her college application at Noëlle’s and spent an hour talking to her about how to make it stand out,” another voice joins in. “Wouldn’t even accept a pastry for it either.”
The crowd presses closer as show time approaches.
I maintain my position near the sound booth, far enough from the stage to watch the show while keeping an eye on Eleanor. With the crowds today, she might need my help, although she threatened to kick me out, saying she’d recruited her grandson to help.
Nikko moves between monitors, checking everything but touching nothing. As the band’s tour manager, he must know the jobs of the supporting crew inside out.
When Bastian steps onto the stage, the audience’s response is immediate and electric. His presence fills the space with his easy confidence and natural charisma that draws every eye.
That’s my man, right there on the stage. Pride swells in my chest with the knowledge that the voice about to sing the songs that have made them famous, that have served as soundtrack to so many lives, is the voice that will talk into my ear until I’m asleep tonight.
Fuck, I’m way too sappy in love.
“Evening, Winterberry,” he says into the microphone.
The crowd responds with an enthusiasm that makes me wonder how many are locals versus tourists drawn in by thenews that Hall of Fame would perform tonight. “Thanks for letting us crash your festival.”
The crowd laughs, but I know exactly how hard Finn worked to convince them to play this small set.
As if conjured, my best friend shows up beside me. “I believe the words used were blackmail, old school photos, and the video recording of a song he wrote when he was ten.”
I laugh. “Nothing like a little encouragement.”
“They would have done it anyway, but it was fun seeing Bastian squirm and then sit back as he convinced the rest of the band.”
The first notes of their opening song get the crowd screaming. Bastian’s voice carries the rough warmth of aged whiskey, deepened by years of singing and shouting over stadium crowds.
I fall for him a little more as I watch him work the crowd, pointing at familiar faces and making eye contact with fans who probably haven’t slept since hearing Hall of Fame would perform. This is his element, the place where Sebastian Hall becomes more than just a dairy farmer’s son who got a lucky break.
The next song shifts into darker territory. One of their newer pieces that explores themes of leaving and returning, of trying to balance opposing forces in one life. They wrote the song for their last album, before Mik announced he wanted to settle down with Kay in Stillwater, but the irony of the lyrics isn’t lost on me as I watch Bastian pour himself into the performance. His hands move over the guitar strings with the same grace they showed when touching my skin earlier today.
When they launch into their biggest hit, the audience’s response drowns out the first few notes completely.
I lean into Finn so he can hear me. “Hey, I’m going to grab a hot drink and then check in on Eleanor. Be back in a bit.”
The excuse sounds as I intended it, but the truth sits heavy in my stomach as I claim an empty space near Joe’s counter. I need time to process what loving Bastian really means, what sacrifices might be required from both of us.
Because watching him perform tonight has reminded me of a fundamental truth I’ve been trying to ignore: Sebastian Hall belongs to more than just me, more than just this town. And loving him means accepting that his heart will always be divided between worlds that sometimes feel impossibly far apart.
“Taylen, you look like you need some hot cider, am I right?” Joe says.
“You are. Bring it on,” I say, using the smile I’ve practiced over the last twelve years whenever people ask me how I am but don’t really want to know that I’m dying inside.
It’s always easier for everyone if I look happy.
The cider burns my tongue as I take a too-large sip, desperate for the warmth that might chase away the chill.
