I splash cool water on my face, rake my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath.
Showtime.
When I reenter the green room, the band is gearing up for our cue.
Crowley pops in and out, inspecting equipment and assessing our spirits. Annie twinkles under the low light with glittery eyeshadow, shimmer-doused skin, and pixie dust in her hair. She glances my way, shoots me a nervous smile. Then she circles a hand around her bruised wrist and drops her head, the smile fading.
I saunter over to her, forcing my concern to take a back seat. My shoulder nudges hers. “Honeymoon phase,” I remind her softly.
A tiny grin flickers back to life. “No nerves allowed in the honeymoon phase.”
“That’s right.”
“Always end on a high note,” she says, echoing my sentiment from earlier. Squaring her shoulders and standing tall, she exhales a calming breath. “I can do this.”
Before I can respond, Crowley points at me. “You’re up.”
The room stills. No one breathes.
Then something unspoken clicks into place, and we all converge. Tag cracks his knuckles and slings his guitar across his back while Rock mutters a half-hearted joke that doesn’t land, but no one cares because we’re already moving.
The hallway narrows, the floor thumping beneath our boots as we follow the pulsing beat of the crowd up the stairs and beyond the curtain. Stage lights spill from the wings, casting our shadows against the concrete wall.
The roar on the other side grows louder, restless, expectant.
My palms sweat around the neck of my guitar.
We reach the side of the stage. Our names aren’t lit up anywhere. No banners. No fanfare.
But this moment…it’s ours.
With a short nod, Crowley steps aside as the stagehand waves us forward.
The lights are bright, electric, nailing us all at once. The crowd erupts, a tidal wave of sound crashing over the stage, and for a second, I just stand there, letting it wash over me. Annie strides out first, now fearless in her silver boots and spine-straight confidence. Tag follows, tossing a wink and an over-the-top bow to the front row.
Zach is next, bass slung low, cool as ever, flashing a grin as he finds his spot. “Breathe. Play clean,” he reminds us, like a mantra.
Rock brings up the rear, twirling one drumstick between his fingers as if we’re not standing in the middle of the biggest show of our lives. He takes his throne and gives his kit a single tap.
I’m last.
I step into the sea of lights, the weight of my instrument hanging across my chest, my heart pounding like a kick drum in my ears.
The mic waits for me at center stage.
I grip it, glance back at my band, and then scan the room packed wall-to-wall with strangers who have no idea who we are.
Yet.
I bring the mic to my lips. “We’re Honey Moons,” I announce, voice steadier than I expect. “Thanks for giving the little guys a chance tonight. We’ve got five songs. Hope at least one sticks with you.”
Annie and I share a look, a smile, a tether vibrating with silent strength.
Then I look over at Rock, give him a nod.
He counts us in.
Annie takes her place at the mic stand just left of center, one hand curled around the stem like an anchor. With no guitar to hide behind, she commands the space differently, her eyes scanning the crowd, a white-toothed grin glowing ear to ear.
