Near the end, the song winnows to Ripper’s steady melody, Kenny’s low drumbeat, and Hannah’s voice, spare and raw. She closes her eyes, hands cupping the mic, as she tells us why she doesn’t deserve anything, not our pity, not our kindness, not our love. It’s mesmerizing.
I blink back into reality as the song cuts out and the audience explodes into applause, and then they’re standing. A standing ovation.
“Look at you,” Liv yells over the noise. “You’re vibrating.”
“That was good, right?”
“Yes, Theo. That was very good.”
The band exits and the show goes into a commercial break. In the lull, Liv turns to me. “Brief break, and then they’re back for their interview. You going to make it until then?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly the picture of composure, am I?”
“I think it’s nice. It means you really care.” Her eyes sweep my face. “So how’s life, Theo? Outside of work, I mean. How’s your mom?”
“There’s life outside of work?” I joke. “And she’s good. From what I can tell.”
Liv raises her brows, and I feel a jolt of regret for being too honest. I’d forgotten that everything that happened with my mom went down while Liv and I were still dating, so she had a front-row seat. “Don’t tell me the two of you still aren’t talking?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “We talk. Just not . . . much.”
She gives me a rueful smile. “It never made sense to me that a guy like you fell out with his mom. You’re so good at relationships. A lot better than I ever was, even in college.”
“Speaking of—Bryan’s curious whether you still have my old Whitesnake T-shirt.” I hold up my hands. “His question.”
“What a subtle change of subject.” Liv rolls her eyes, then gives me a contrite look. “Sorry. Nosy old Liv. Five minutes into our reunion and I’m poking old wounds.”
I sling an arm around her. “You might be nosy, but you’re still pretty cool.”
Once, years ago, I thought I’d marry Liv. We met freshman year at Dartmouth, and I was immediately in awe of how freewheeling and uninhibited she was. For a guy who’d had to work hard for everything, she was fascinating. We were an opposites-attract couple: Liv’s family was rich, full of Dartmouth legacies, and summered in the Berkshires.
My mom and I barely eked by in Virginia, with no college degrees in our family tree. Despite the culture clash, Liv and I dated all four years—until we graduated and Liv’s freewheeling personality wheeled her away from me.
But that was the past. Now, it’s simply nice to see an old friend.
She tugs on my arm as the audience hushes. “Look, it’s time for the interview.”
Behind his mahogany desk, with the glittering Los Angeles skyline behind him, Jimmy Kimmel—fifties, salt-and-pepper beard, amiable smile—stands up and announces the Saints.
My heart drums as Hannah, Ripper, and Kenny walk single file onstage, then shake Jimmy’s hand. I’m sweating by the time they settle in their seats and the applause dies down. I close my eyes for a brief moment.Please, no swearing on live TV.
“Thanks for being here,” Jimmy says to the band, smoothing his tie. “It’s good to see you all in one piece. Judging by your recent viral videos, is it safe to say concert stages are slipperier than us nonmusicians might imagine?” He delivers the question with his signature sly smile. The audience chuckles. Great. Starting out with a reference to Hannah falling.Thanks, Jimmy.
Ripper kicks a leg over one knee and leans back. “I think it’s safer to say you shouldn’t get fucked-up and try to walk a straight line onstage.” He grins, pleased with himself.
Oh, no.I place a hand over my mouth. I forgot to tell Ripper not to be himself.
The audience titters good-naturedly. Beside me, Liv turns and widens her eyes. I know what she’s saying:Your people better get their act together.
“Oh boy,” says Jimmy, unbuttoning the top button of his suit. “It’s going to be one of those interviews.” The audience laughs again. “Let’s get down to business: first of all, congratulations on your success. Your music is resonating with a lot of people.”
“People with fine-ass taste,” Kenny agrees.
Jimmy chuckles and darts a glance offstage, presumably at his director. He tugs at his neckline, pretending to sweat. “Giving our censors quite a workout, aren’t we?”
More laughter. “But really, Hannah, you’re the songwriter of the group. You guys made your name with a lighter genre of music. Why the change in direction?”
Hannah, at least, is taking this seriously. She folds her hands on her knees. “The way I’ve always worked is thatI write what I’m feeling. I’m not trying to stay in a lane or write what’s going to sell, as much as I realize the three of us need to sell records to pay rent. I’m putting pieces of myself into these songs, and I guess my old self was a feel-good kind of person. My new self . . . well, I’ll let you be the judge.”
