Strobes dizzy me. The sound is thunder. Chase’s plasma guitar illuminates the stage for “Night Song” like a lightning show in the dead of night.
The audience goes ballistic.
When it’s over, we huddle in the back alley with overblown hearts, gasping and grinning.
No one speaks.
We don’t need to.
Before I retreat to the van to pass out, I glance over at Tag.
He just stands there, staring up at the full honey moon.
A tear glistens on his cheek.
***
Baltimore
We’re all exhausted.
My brother slams the side door and storms off mid-argument about who forgot to grab batteries for the mics. Everything feels heavier when you’re this tired.
I sit in the front seat, pretending not to cry.
Zach tosses me a box of Sour Patch Kids because, according to his kid, sugar makes everything better.
By soundcheck, we’re talking again. Sort of.
That night we play with raw nerves and red eyes. Somehow, the crowd eats it up. Maybe honesty sells.
Someone throws a rose onstage.
Tag slips on it.
We make it look like choreography.
When midnight finds us, we’re all cramped inside the van, our gear stacked Tetris-style, chugging water and gorging on cheap pizza. Everyone tells stories, reliving the past few days, laughing until our stomachs ache. When Chase sends me a bright smile, it reminds me that the music isn’t the only thing keeping me going.
My brother wraps his arm around me.
We forget about the fight.
***
Richmond
Beach show. Acoustic set.
No stage. Just a circle of strangers on blankets and sand.
I feel weightless.
We play until the sun sets, the tide creeping closer with every chorus.
I sing for the teenage girl in the back row with flamingo-pink hair and winged eyeliner. The girl who DM’d me that our music pulled her out of someplace dark.
When I scan the crowd, I catch someone filming.
