Chills lace my skin, and tears attempt to emerge. But they’re not ones of sadness, they’re ones of pride.
Because while I’m absolutely terrified of what I know is about to come, I’m so proud of myself for coming this far.
My voice rings in my ears, and I take one earpiece out to hear how it would sound to the crowd.
Crisp. Loud.Raw.
Once the song ends, I sigh a breath of relief knowing I gave it the best I could, hoping my best is enough.
But when Iggy has no comment, I freeze in the center of the stage, waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Until my impatience wins out. "How did that sound?" I feel pathetic for even asking the question, but I have a constant need for validation. "Was it okay?" I fidget with the neck of my guitar, careful not to look in Iggy’s direction.
"You know, for someone so adamant that love isn’t real," he says, then clears his throat. I have a feeling I’m about to be grateful that only I can hear him. "You sure do sing a lot about heartbreak. I don’t think you’re as stone-cold as you make yourself out to be."
I can hear the smile in his voice, the sarcasm seeping through every single word he’d just said, but it doesn’t mean his words don’t slice through my core and rattle me from the inside out.
"You didn’t answer my question," I tease to deflect.
"You sounded great."
"Thank you," I say with a soft smile, my heartbeat calming.
Removing my other earpiece, I let them fall down my shoulders as I walk off the side of the stage to where my manager, Josie, is waiting for me.
"Good sound check, Olive."
I nod and smile at her, too. She isn’t paid to compliment me, she’s paid to make sure I don’t screw up. So I know when she tells me I did good, she’s being honest.
"Thanks, Josie," I say, trying to ignore the ache growing in my temples. The one that is screaming at me for not having enough water and sleep, making my brain feel like it’s swimming in a cloud of fog.
But with a job as demanding as this one is proving to be, it’s almost impossible to prioritize your health, no matter how badly your body begs for it.
Way different to the teaching job I had my entire adult life.
I keep telling myself I just need to give it time, that I’ll figure it all out. But how can I figure it out, without knowing what I’m dealing with?
Logically, I know it’s a learning curve, one that I haven’t yet mastered, but now I’m beginning to wonder if time is on my side, or if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. If accepting the offer to go on this tour will end up being a mistake, or the greatest thing I’ve ever done.
"Remember what the label said." My managers words re-open a wound that never fully healed.
"To not be boring? Let my fans see the vulnerable parts of me? And what was the last one again?" I ask sarcastically. She’s just the messenger and not the person at fault, but it rubs me the wrong way when she constantly likes to remind me of all the ways I need to changejustto impress an old man in a suit. "Oh yeah. They want me to rememberthatsexis what sells." Whatever thatmeans. "In case you couldn’t tell, Josie, I don’texactlyoozesex appeal." I chuckle to myself, though she doesn’t seem to enjoy my humor.
She scrunches up her nose when she takes in my outfit.
Old, black leggings with a hole in the thigh, a Rolling Stones t-shirt with a giant stain from a chocolate lava cake that I heated up and spilled all over myself, and my hair is in what I like to callThe Pineapple Bun.I don’t know when I became such a mess, but apparently, today wasn’t the best time to showcase it. "You can, with the right stylist. Or, we change your sound."
I purse my lips together with a tight nod, and take my guitar off my shoulder, before placing it down onto its stand.
"I’m not writing an entire catalogue of new music just to please the label, when the collection of songs I have right now works just fine with pleasing my fans." I shudder.
The word sounds so foreign to me. Like anybody would love my music enough to call themselves a fan.
People like Akira Rain have fans. And with a voice like hers, it’s no wonder they all stuck around when they did.
