Relief washed through me. Good. We were on the same page again.
Before I could respond, one of the organizers waved us over.
She checked a clipboard, then looked up expectantly. “You’re up next. Do you have a name you’re performing under?”
My brain stalled.
A name. Of course we needed a name.
I opened my mouth, panic flaring, but Mark beat me to it.
“Not yet,” he said easily. “But we can change it if we get in, right?”
The organizer shrugged, already lifting the mic. “Sure. I’ll just announce you individually.”
She glanced back down at the sheet and turned toward the stage.
“And next up,” she said, voice carrying across the park, “we have Zack and Mark.”
Well. That was one problem solved.
I tightened my grip on my guitar and followed Mark toward the steps, heart pounding, the noise of the park falling away.
The wood creaked softly beneath our weight as we stepped onto the stage together.
Up close, everything felt louder and smaller at the same time.
The speakers loomed. The microphones waited, angled a little too high.
Mark crossed to his mic stand while I moved toward mine, setting my guitar case down and plugging into the amp.
I twisted the volume knob and strummed once, just enough to hear the hum, then again, lighter.
I didn’t really need to tune. I’d already checked it the night before. Checked it again this morning.
Still, my fingers found the pegs out of habit, making tiny adjustments, chasing a pitch that already felt right.
Before stepping back, I ran my hand along the back of the guitar’s neck.
The familiar notches were still there, small grooves worn into the wood where my dad’s thumb used to rest and where mine had followed over the years.
I leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the headstock, right where I used to every time before a show.
I hadn’t done that in a long time.
When I straightened, Mark was already watching me. His expression softened when our eyes met, something unspoken passing between us.
I gave a small nod. We counted in without words.
The first few seconds were a little shaky. Mark’s rhythm came in just a beat off, his fingers stumbling before finding their place.
I adjusted, listening harder, guiding the tempo instead of fighting it.
It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t bad either, especially considering we’d only managed two rushed practices between everything else.
A part of me knew this would’ve been easier with Noah and Ethan. Muscle memory. Songs we’d played a hundred times before.
But then Mark started singing.
