The crowd quiets. People lean in, nudging each other, eyes glued to the stage. Some of them take out their phones to record, like it’s something they want to remember.
And then Melanie’s voice fills the air.
Just the first few notes, hanging in the warm summer air. The sound is pure and clear, but her voice has a tremble in it too, like she’s holding back.
Goose bumps rise on my arms as my fingers find the chords. Performing publicly may be unnerving to her, but she glows as if she belongs here. She looks at me as she sings the first verse of our song, and the rest of the world falls away.
I sing the song like I always have, watching couples holding hands, my mom in the front row wiping her eyes, and a little girl in a sundress twirling around. I watch them, watching her.
But none of them see what I see.
I see the girl I fell in love with at sixteen, wearing my hoodie, playing guitar on the front porch with nothing but a flashlight to see. I see the strength it took her to get back here. The fear and sadness she had to push through to get to this moment. The way she almost quit, but didn’t.
Our voices meld together on the second verse like they were never meant to stand alone. We alternate verses, harmonizing on the chorus, seamless and strong, picking up where the other leaves off. The crowd is silent, reverent even, waiting for the last note to fall.
I strum the final chord, giving the last line to Mel, and she sings it softly:
“But our love lives on in every song.”
The moment the last note fades, the crowd goes wild.
Cheers roll across the lawn like a wave, loud and joyful. Someone lets out a long whistle. Phones rise up and the applause is deafening. I glance at Melanie and her eyes are lit with something I’ve never seen in her before.
Belief.
She looks at me for just a beat, a grin plastered across her gorgeous face.
You did it,I mouth at her.
And we keep going.
* * *
We rollthroughthe rest of the set list with ease, like we’ve been doing this every night for years. The crowd knows most of the lyrics and sings along—in it with us fully. That gives us momentum. Mark never takes his eyes off us, a good sign for sure.
As the final song fades out, we get a standing ovation. People shout our names, waving their hands in the air. Somewhere in the chaos, I glimpse Sophie, tears in her eyes, holding up the phone so Frank can watch.
“Thank you, everyone,” Melanie murmurs into the mic.
I marvel at how comfortable she is after eight songs.
“Thank you all. Cara would have loved this,” I add, stepping back and holding my hand out to Melanie.
I squeeze her hand as we take our bow, the crowd still roaring, and all I can think iswhy did I ever want to be a solo act?This moment right here with her? It’s everything.
* * *
It takes foreverto leave the park. As soon as we step off stage, the world shifts—we’re flooded with hugs, photos, and congratulations from people we didn’t even know were watching.
But then I see them. My parents.
They make a beeline for us and for a moment, I brace myself. It’s been so long since we were close but when my mom’s arms wrap around me, it feels as if no time has passed at all.
“I’m so proud of you, Joshy,” my mother says, her voice thick with emotion as she presses her cheek into my shirt. The nickname makes something sharp and sweet twist in my chest.
My dad claps me on the back. “Me too, kid.”
I laugh, blinking back the heat behind my eyes. “Thanks, guys. That means a lot.”
