Here’s what’s true: I’ll never let her go. I’m her sister. This is the promise I made the first time my mother put Ginny in my arms and told me she was mine to watch over. The promise I failed to keep ten months ago, the day my mother called me and told me to sit down. The day my life split in two, Before and After, and I had to stitch the pieces back together through sheer fuckingwill.
I will surge into heaven and drag her back if I have to. Because the way I love my sister is bigger than God, or limits, or cruel, indifferent waves, bigger than a small, stupid mistake that caused her lungs to flood forno reason,withno warning. I won’t let death have her. NotmyGinny. Notmysister. I will walk through heaven and hell—
Do you hear me?
These are the only powers I possess. This guitar, this stage, this microphone, my words in people’s mouths. I swear to God I’m going to make somebody hear me. What more can I do for her? What more can a mortal fucking persondo?
Chapter 19
Theo
Saturday, May 4, 2024
From the start there’s something different about this show. It’s not just the size of the crowd or their untamed energy. It’s the band. There’s a charge. All night Hannah slings words like knives, Kenny pounds the drums like he’s exorcising demons. Even Ripper looks more focused, almost nervous, like he knows something’s coming.
Bowie knocks my shoulder. “They’re on fire!”
He goes back to dancing, which any other day would’ve made me smile, because Bowie’s a ridiculous dancer, all flailing limbs. Even the crew members who don’t have places to be have gathered to watch, drawn by the force of what’s happening onstage. Bowie’s not wrong: the audience is absolutely frothing, on the verge of moshing. But something’s making me uneasy.
I look at Hannah, who’s got her poker face on, playing an old song offCollege-Educated Idiots, fingers flying over the strings. How she can go from the angry, messy woman at Caesars Palace to someone capable of this absolute beast of a performance is a mystery. As her manager, I should be relieved she can pull a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But instead, I have thisinsane urge to walk onstage, gather Hannah in my arms, and turn my back on the audience. Like she needs shielding. My instincts must be misfiring.
I massage fingers into my jaw to relieve the tension from clenching. Thank god the Saints are at the end of their set list. They’ll do a song or two for encore, and then we can wrap Vegas and put this town in our rearview mirror.
The lights dim, signaling the end, and the crowd groans. The bros in the front are the loudest, booing, and even though I know it’s technically a compliment, the hairs on my neck prickle.
I turn to Bowie. “Have the team start packing so we can leave fast.” He nods.
A spotlight finds Hannah. She kicks the mic stand closer and grips it. “Vegas, we have one last song for you.”
The booing turns to cheers.
“It’s a new one. I hope you like it.”
I turn to Bowie, but he’s already shaking his head. “I have no clue what this is.”
Two more spotlights flicker on, one for Ripper and Kenny each. The rest of the stage is dark. Eerie. Hannah shrugs off her Jazzmaster and walks to Ripper, who shrugs off his bass. They switch guitars. The crowd screams louder.
Bowie grips my bicep. “Is she letting him play lead?”
I press my hands to my mouth. The world has stopped making sense. The crew members Bowie instructed to start packing haven’t budged. They’re glued to this mystery as much as we are.
The band waits until the noise dies down, uncharacteristically patient. Then Ripper, now lead guitar, plays the first chords of a song I’ve never heard. It’s fast, sharp, defiant. He’s taunting the entire venue.
Hannah looks across the stage and meets my eyes. My adrenaline spikes, my body vibrating with the notes that comecrashing through the speakers, the words she sings into the mic slicing under my skin: “My soul is gone. Your words mean nothing to me. My heart is wrong. Your help means nothing to me.”
“Not to me,” Ripper and Kenny intone, and then Kenny comes crashing in with the drums.
The words are stark, but the bandmates’ delivery is unbothered. They’re the class stoners, middle fingers raised when the teacher turns his back.
Ripper speeds up his pace, and the stage lights start flashing. Hannah lets go of the bass to twist words into the mic. “Fuck sorry, I absolve myself. Sick in the head, yeah, I need some help. So sorry for bein’ myself. Look at me, better get the belt.”
It hits me like a punch to the chest. She hasn’t spoken to me since the pool bar. But now she’s talking back in the loudest way possible.
The minute she sees I understand, she returns her gaze to the crowd.
Bowie shouts against the onslaught of sound. “Hey, man, I think this song’s about you!”
I nod, dazed. She’s written a protest song, and she’s feet away, screaming it through the mic, through Ripper’s bass, leaning toward the audience like she’s bearing down against a tidal wave, some mighty crush.
