The song climbs higher, and suddenly she breaks into a new guitar riff, harder and faster, and the drums speed up, and she’s singing again, the same words about longing and disassociation, but this time, she opens her eyes andlooksat us. This time, her voice isn’t plaintive but hard and unflinching. We’re nervous, the crowd and I. We hold our breath. My heart’s picking up the way it used to when I was thirteen, sitting in front of my dad’s record player, listening to the chorus build in my favorite songs, knowing the climax was coming, waiting to tip over the edge into a sea of feeling.
I see her take a deep breath, filling her lungs, and when she belts, “But I just want to sleep forever.” I swear to Godshe’s talking to me. I want to put my drink down and cut through the crowd to be by her side. Before our eyes, Hannah Cortland drops to her knees. The audience freezes, shocked to see her this vulnerable, shocked to find her looking back at us for the first time all night. But Ripper and Kenny don’t miss a beat, and the song explodes around her. From down on her knees her powerful voice fills the room, soaring over the guitars: “You want me to get better, be the girl I used to be, live the life you dreamed for me.” The music is unrelenting. “I’ll get better—I’ll get better—I’ll get better.”
Without warning the song cuts out so there’s only the reverberation of the guitars, the fading cymbals. Her voice is a memory. She stands up, lifts her guitar over her shoulders, and walks offstage.
“Good night, Bonita Vista,” says Ripper quickly, and then he and Kenny follow. The crowd is left stunned. People stop recording and turn to each other with wide eyes. The chatter in the room builds back as the stage lights flash.
I turn back to my companions at the bar. The bartender has given up the pretense of working; he stands with his hands braced on the bar, eyes on the empty stage. Minnie’s hand flutters to her chest.
“That was . . . ” Her voice is faint. “I don’t even know what to say.”
The bartender shakes his head. “That wasgood, is what that was. Fucking tragic, but good.”
I palm through my wallet and peel off a few bills, enough for a generous tip, and place the money on the bar. Backstage, the band will be coming down off their performance high. Postshow moments are a unique window of time when musicians are needy and therefore open to suggestion. I need to get back there.
“Thanks for the conversation,” I say to Minnie and the bartender. “I mean it.”
Minnie shakes her head at me. “Where are you rushing off to? Didn’t that song just kill you?”
“I’ve got to get backstage,” I say, pounding a fist on the bar and spinning away.
“Hey,” the bartender calls. “Who did you say you were again?”
I spin back to face them, but don’t stop jogging. “Theo Ford. The Saints’ new manager.”
Chapter 2
Hannah
Saturday, April 13, 2024
It’s merciful the way the whole world narrows after a show. The chaos of our crew running around backstage, guitar techs hauling equipment, sound producers yelling about the lack of acoustics in this dive bar—it all fades as I shrink back into myself, becoming a private person again, concentrate on simply putting one foot in front of the other. The crew pauses as I pass, bumping my shoulder and telling me what a good job I did. But I keep my gaze on the floor, afraid their eyes will reveal a different truth. When I was a kid, I would rush backstage to find my dad after every concert, my heart in my throat, so eager for his feedback. But it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone else’s opinion. I cut a path to the greenroom, where I know there’s beer in the fridge, courtesy of Aki, the Hideout’s owner, who still treats us like we’re stars no matter how obvious it is that we fell short of our potential. I pop the tab on one and pour it into a glass engraved with the Hideout’s logo, an upside-down microphone hanging by a wire. You can find a dozen of these in my attic, buried in old boxes. My high school friends and I used to steal them every time we snuck into shows.Hideout rats, Aki used to call us, with equal parts frustration and affection.
It’s fitting that I’m back in my childhood hometown for the band’s last show. Ripper, Kenny, Bowie, the whole crew—they think it’s just the last show of this year’s shitty tour, but I no longer see the point of pretending my career is going anywhere. Chasing your dreams doesn’t change the fact that in the end, we all just exist on this planet for a handful of years until our time is up, and then poof! We’re gone, dust in the wind, all our trying and hoping amounting to nothing. At least there’s some poetry to throwing in the towel here where I began. Bonita Vista, witness to all my youthful failures, will preside over one more.
Ginny pops out of nowhere and I almost spit out my beer.
“Jesus,” she says. “That new song at the end—where’ve you been hiding that?”
I swallow. “Did you like it?” Ginny’s the only exception to my feedback rule. But even with her, I prefer getting it over with quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid.
“You kidding?” Her blond eyebrows nearly meet her hairline. She’s a couple inches shorter than me, with light hair, perpetually tan skin, a smattering of freckles, and ocean-blue eyes. The beach personified— one look at her and you’re dreaming of sunshine. “Once I got over wanting to slit my wrists, yeah, the song was good. What I don’t get is why you kept it a secret from me.”
I shrug. “You know I never know what I’m going to do until I’m up there doing it.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you’re a real treat to work with.”
“Well.” I take another sip of beer. Sometimes performing has the unfortunate side effect of sobering me up. “Soon I won’t be anyone’s problem.”
“I’ve told you a million times.” Ginny’s tone is uncharacteristically serious. “You shouldn’t do this.”
“My hands are onfire,” Kenny shouts, barreling into the room. Ripper follows him at a slower clip, and, as usual, they’re both larger than life: Kenny a whirlwind of warm, manic energy, an old hippie trapped in a twenty-eight-year-old’s body; Ripper cool as ice, eyeing his surroundings with the knife-edge awareness of someone looking to boost something. “I need to soak these puppies in ice. Think Aki would bring me a bucket?”
“I told you if you stopped jerking off so much, you’d have the wrist strength left to play,” Ripper says.
Kenny ignores him. “‘Six Feet Under’ worked, Banana. I think it could be our next single.”
I gave up trying to get Kenny to stop calling me Hannah Banana years ago. He’s the only person in the world I’d let get away with it. Ginny claims it’s proof I’m secretly soft as a marshmallow.
