“Pretty happy-go-lucky stuff. Not really my taste, to be honest. I like it harder. But you guys are selling tickets, so I figured I should book you.”
Bowie sputters—talent bookers are usually fawners, not assholes—but I don’t take the bait.
“Look,” Diehard says, “I know you asked for barricades to help control the crowd. But do you really think you need them?” He chuckles. “You may be dipping your toe into heavier stuff lately, but you’re still an easy, breezy, chick-led rock band—”
I stop. I know his type: metal bros who think anyone who isn’t screaming into the mic isn’t making real music. Women never seem to make the cut either. Part of how I’ve shaped myself as a musician has been to defend against this kind of thinking. Women don’t get far in rock without being twice as hard as every guy who wants to knock us down, every John Mayer–type virtuoso who wants to prove guys are inherentlybetter musicians, every emo douche who insists you’re not one of them because you don’t sing about the important things, like how no girls wanted to fuck you in high school.
Diehard’s still going strong. “I mean, it’s not like you’re going to bring down the rafters. I’m more worried about you falling off the stage. It’s higher and bigger than you’re used to, and I know you don’t have the best track record staying upright. So no drama tonight, please.”
We’re close to the stage entrance now, and I can hear the crowd. They’re so loud it sends a shiver of anticipation up my spine.
“You were always at your best when it came time to fight,” Ginny says quietly.
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” I tell Diehard. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t believe me, but luckily Kenny strides up, Ripper in tow. They breeze right past Ginny, nearly ruffling her hair. “Time for our ritual.”
“Break a leg,” Diehard tells us, and saunters off.
Ripper eyes me. “What’s that guy’s deal?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I point at his bare chest. “Not even going to bother with a shirt tonight?”
He shrugs. “Figured I’d cut to the chase. Give the people what they want.”
Onstage, the lights flash, getting the audience hyped. It’s amazing the amount of noise two thousand people can make.
Kenny takes my hand and holds up his other until Ripper sighs and grabs it. The three of us stand in a quiet circle. The calm before the storm.
“I ask the rock gods to bless us tonight,” Kenny intones. “Allow us to tap into the infinite collective and draw out our best performances.” Ginny stands outside our circle, watching. She belongs in here, sandwiched between me and Ripper. Her absence is a gaping hole.
“Amen,” Ripper says.
“Amen,” I echo, dropping their hands.
“You good?” Kenny rests his hand on my shoulder. Theo, Bowie, now Kenny. All this gentle touching, these careful questions. The people around me keep treating me like I’m made of porcelain.
As if on cue, Theo rounds the corner, in conversation with Bran-son, our disaster-prone tech. By the gestures he’s making, it looks like Theo’s explaining the proper way to lift an amp without hurting yourself. He catches sight of me and stops talking mid-sentence.
Ripper gives my shoulders a gentle shove. “It’s go time.”
“Let’s do it.” I grab my guitar from where it’s been laid against the wall, slinging it over my chest, and walk onstage.
The crowd screams. The lights are blinding, the volume daunting. There are metal towers along the periphery for techs to climb for light adjustments, and they make the place look like the Thunderdome.
Ripper’s chest swells as he takes a deep breath. Kenny rustles nervously at his kit. They’re feeling the weight of this too. There’s only one thing to do when you’re nervous: I grab the neck of my guitar and send the opening notes of “Family Fruit” tearing into the air. Kenny and Ripper take what I give and add to it, building layers, a note of disagreement here, a tease there, until we’ve got a song.
This is where I’ve always wanted to be—onstage with thousands of faces looking up at me, mouthing my words, moving to music I dreamed up, picturing scenes that were once in my head, lines I whispered to myself filling their mouths. I’m inside them, and that’s power.
I look to the side of the stage out of habit, seeking Ginny’s approval. But standing in her place, of course, is Theo.
Ginny will never stand there again.
In the space of a second the full crushing weight of the truth I keep at bay hits me. Ginny is gone, and in her place is an empty void, a lesion filled with the life we lost: growing old, buying houses next door, getting married, having kids. Everything together, the way our lives were supposed to go.
It’s not right. It’s not fair Ginny will never get to experience what she longed for. I want to rip my heart out, turn back time, and offer myself in her place.Take me instead.That’s my secret, that’s what I’m saying with my guitar every night that I’m performing. With every song I’m yellingI’ll do anything. I’m begging whoever the fuck is in charge to cut a deal with me to make this right.Do you hear me? Give her back.
Because if the universe won’t, then it’s up to me. I’ll will her back to my side. I’ll want it so badly it bends space and time and metaphysics to come true.
