“Do you really have a boyfriend?”
There’s a titter from the younger members of the audience and a chuckle from their mothers.
“I do, but I don’t like to talk about him, because some things should stay private.”
“I think you should date that guy from the superhero movie.”
“Aww, I’m sure he’ll be flattered.”
“He isreallycute,” Hayami says.
I know exactly who she’s talking about, and she’s right. He’s very cute.
He also knows it.
“Cute doesn’t always make the best boyfriend.” Calista points to the audience, sweeping her finger and her gaze around like she’s making eye contact with half the teenage girls in here today. “Demand what you’re worth from your partners. Don’t settle for what looks good. Go with what makes youfeelgood, inside and out.”
“Are you an inspirational speaker when you’re not being funny?” I ask her.
“The truth is in the comedy, and sometimes, that’s the only way people will hear it.” She points to the last aisle in the audience. “And now—oh. Well, look at this. We don’t see this very often when you’re visiting, do we?”
The next audience member with a question is a white man who looks about fifty. He has salt-and-pepper hair, a husky build, and he’s wearing a button-down white shirt over jeans.
Don’t be creepy. Don’t be creepy. Don’t be creepy.
I shouldn’t judge.
I shouldn’t.
But after this many years in the business, I get a vibe, and I am getting a vibe.
“What’s your name, sir?” Calista asks.
He clears his throat awkwardly in the microphone, winces, does it again, and then blurts, “Norm.”
“Hi, Norm.” I smile, but I’m still silently begging him to not be creepy. My stomach rumbles, and I catch sight of Kiva hovering off-stage, like she knows it.
“You a big Waverly Sweet fan?” Calista asks.
“I—” He pauses, his eyes go shiny, and then he smiles.
Déjà vu washes over me and my gut tightens.
Have I met this guy before?
“I—can I sing for you?” he asks me.
If a teenage girl asked me that, it’s a no-brainer. It’s ayes, and I’m going to tell her she’s amazing no matter what.
When a middle-aged dude asks?
“You sing?” Calista asks him.
His cheeks are going ruddy. He meets my gaze, and that déjà vu hits again. Why do his eyes look familiar? “Yeah,” he says. “I—I sing a little. I—”
He stops stuttering, and suddenly launches into the chorus of “You Gotta Believe,” one of my early hits that I wrote when I was struggling hardcore with the press covering every last embarrassing thing I’d ever done, when record sales weren’t as strong as my label wanted, and when I felt like all of my dreams were out of reach.
It was my reminder to myself that I could get through the tough times to make my dreams come true, and it took on a life of its own when it released.
