I take a steadying breath.
My fingers don’t feel like mine, so numb I can barely sense the strings pressing into my skin. I begin anyway, fingerpicking a tender intro to buy myself a few extra seconds.
It’s a good thing I do. As I shift to chords and strum, the sound from the speakers startles me, too loud and bold in the room’s hush.
My fingers fumble once, but then I settle into the rhythm of it. It’s not a perfect beginning but not a disaster either. When I sing, I expect my voice to tremble, but it’s smooth and clear, and the rest of the words follow easily.
I’m only two lines into the verse when someone in the audience laughs. I force myself to tune it out. It could be unrelated to my playing, though I wouldn’t be surprised if someone’s scoffing at my song choice:Don’t Stop Dancing, a reflective rock ballad by Creed. Dad used to say that some bands get so big they become punchlines—'Nickelback syndrome,’ he called it—but neither of us cared about that.
This song was always ours. I was meant to sing it at his funeral, but then I fainted and lost that chance. I don’t know what possessed me to play it here, but as my voice resonates through the room, my vision blurs.
A flash of sun through eucalyptus leaves pulls me back in time: Dad leading us along the Manly track, bush thick around us and the harbour glittering far below; Mum squinting at the tiny buildings, trying to guess which ones are restaurants we’ve been to; Ellenor fussing over dust on her new white Nikes. Me, distractedly scrawling lyrics in my notebook whenever we stop, the words spilling faster than I can catch them.
Our laughter carries on the wind, fading into my music.
My chest tightens, thick with emotion. Maybe it was a mistake to share this song, to lay bare something so private. I never thought I’d play it again, let alone for a roomful of strangers. It should feel wrong, and yet it doesn’t.
I feel Dad in every note, every word, his steady voice lending me strength. I thought I’d lost. Campfires, car rides, and playing video games on his old office computer. The memories skim past like sparks, so vivid I can’t stop tears spilling down my cheeks.
My heart swells. It’s almost like he’s here, singing with me, urging me on.Proud, the way Brandon said he was.
My voice trembles as I sing the last line. For the first time since his death, the fear and loneliness of living without Dad’s support fades back.
Suddenly, applause fills the small space.
I blink, hardly aware I’ve reached the end of the song, the final chord drowned out by cheers.
“Absolutely brilliant! And that’s why we do open mic!” Willoughby announces, rejoining me on stage as I hastily wipe my cheeks. Aside, he says, “An oldie but a goodie—I’ve always had a soft spot for Creed. I see it got to you as well. But hey, why didn’t you tell me you could play like that?” Back into the mic: “What a voice, huh? How about another round of applause for Lily, a rising star all the way from Australia!”
I slip the guitar strap over my head, my body numb once more as I step off the stage. It feels like another out-of-body experience, only this time it’s the pleasant kind, like I’ve had one too many drinks. Stunned but buzzing with happiness, I drift back to my seat.
I did it. I actually did it.
My heart is still drumming, but it’s not the painful kind. A week ago, I could barely open the case. Tonight, I played and, in some messy, breathless way, I connected to the song, to Dad, and to myself.
Daisy gives me an approving grin. “Wow. You were onfire,babes. You should play professionally.”
“I do. I used to play in an ensemble.”
“That sounds posh.”
I laugh. “It was a bit. But I’d much rather play in a place like this.”
“What, this dumpster fire?” She pulls a mock-shocked face, then she grins. “Joking. But you’re clearly too good for us.”
“I don’t think that. I like it here. It’s…more my vibe.”
“Is it now?” Her gaze sharpens, catlike. “Where can I find you online?”
She’s shocked when she learns I’m not on social media.
“But that’s how you get fans! How else are people supposed to find you?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’d be happy to set up an account for you.”
“Oh. No, that’s okay. I might start one eventually…”
