After the young man left, Mal said, “Is he running late?”
“I don’t know. He’s not returning my phone calls.”
“Of all nights. Irresponsible. Now we know why his career’s in the toilet.” Seeing the expression on Raine’s face, Mal said, “Okay. Let me see what I can do. I’ll be back.”
After Mal left, Raine looked at her phone again, but there was nothing. She started to tap out another message but then realized it wouldn’t do any good. If Quentin had decided not to come, sending more texts wouldn’t help a damn bit.
He knew.
From where she sat, she could hear the show progressing. A woman who had released her debut album earlier in the year was singing her number-one hit, “Without You,” a song Raine had listened to many times. It seemed so apropos to her own situation. So she stared at her reflection in the mirror: You are not going to cry.
The stage manager reappeared at her open door. “Have you heard from your producer?”
Her voice was steady when she answered. “No.” But the tightness in her chest refused to subside.
Before he left the room, Mal reached the door and the two of them began whispering. The stage manager said, “We can adjust if need be.”
A chill darted down her spine as she realized…they weren’t going to cancel the act.
When the two of them completely entered her room, Mal closed the door. Facing her, her said, “You’ll go on without him.”
The stage manager nodded. “Ten minutes. We need to get you upstairs.”
She didn’t have a choice?
Of course, she didn’t. How much control had she ever really had over her own career?
Well…there was one thing she did have. She had that song, that truth. Quentin might have coaxed it out of her, but it was hers and hers alone. And the world had already told her they loved it, so she could and would do it.
Mal stepped out of the dressing room, and she could hear him on the phone. Based on what he was saying, she was certain he was talking to someone at the label. When the stage manager came back and asked her to follow him, she did, and Mal’s voice became a silent echo behind her.
It wasn’t until they were upstairs that the full force of the sound hit her. No longer muffled, she was right there, just barely behind the stage. The stage manager led her to a small room in the wings and whispered, “When they call your name, you’ll go out.”
“Am I singing it a capella?”
“Your manager gave us the music track so you can lip sync.”
“No. I won’t do it that way. That’s not how I’ve been practicing it. Where’s the acoustic guitar?”
“We still have it,” the stage manager said quietly, his face neutral, telling Raine he’d done this hundreds of times before.
“Then I’ll play it.”
“Okay. We’ll get the stage set up for that. When they call your name, go through the divide in the curtains there and walk to the mics. We’ll have the guitar there for you.”
Raine nodded, swallowing to force the lump in her throat to go down.
Quentin was no longer on her mind. Finally, she was able to draw on what she always did right before a live performance—an energy, an excitement from deep inside her, one that gave her what she needed to be the very best she could be. Being completely sober helped with that.
During the commercial break, the audience chattered but it was hard to hear any actual words from her location. Instead, she heard people backstage whispering not far from her. “Quentin must have dumped her.”
“Oh, that’s harsh. But maybe she dumped him.”
No, the first person had had it right. Raine couldn’t see the people talking and forced their words out of her head. I can do this. I’m a professional. This audience wants to see me perform anyway.
It would be okay.
When the commercial break ended, it wasn’t long before the announcer, a stand-up comedian hosting the show that year, started talking again, and Raine knew it was almost time. “Our next performer is one you likely know well—but you’ll be glad to know that we gave her a breathalyzer test a few minutes ago just to make sure she was up for the task.”
