I chew on my lip, mulling over how to explain it. “When did you realize you were good at baseball?” I ask.
“I don’t remember evernotbeing good at baseball.”
“Did adults in your life tell you that? Coaches, your dad?”
“Yes.” He says it cleanly—not a brag but a fact.
“Which means other than peewee, you never had to get over the hump oftrying something out. Of being hopeful about it, but not confident. Going to school with other musicians—being in community with them—helped me learn I don’t have to be embarrassed about trying. Or about loving something without being an expert in it.”
“Yet,” Liam corrects. “You weren’t an expert in ityet—but now you are.”
“I still don’t have any career experience with music.”
“After this tour, you will.”
We reach the center entrance, where a curly-haired woman in her late forties dressed in a Spokane Pavilion polo is waiting for us.
“Liam Bishop?” she asks.
He sticks out his free hand, and she shakes it. “Yes, ma’am. And this is my girlfriend, Paige Lancaster.”
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend!
The woman turns, leading us into the venue. “I’m Leanne, the events coordinator. I’ll show you the dressing rooms for the talent, and the load-in and load-out areas.”
Liam moves the guitar handle back to my hands and nods at a lawn chair someone’s left up on the hill. I throw him a thankful smile as I break off from Leanne’s path and climb the rows until I’m nearly at the top.
The sun is climbing higher, but I’m still in a shaded, cooler part of the venue. I pull my guitar out of the case and throw the strap over my shoulder, sitting in the lawn chair. Liam and Leanne’s tiny specks disappear around the back of the empty stage.
Then, I’m alone.
For hours, I work on the song, giving it the working title “Breathe for My Body.” The sun arches, burning my neck, then curves behind me, taking its turn with my shoulders, but I don’t move, wiping sweat from the crown of my forehead and mumbling to myself the way you can only do in absolute private. Changing the lyrics, testing out this bridge, then that one. I’m vaguely aware the stage is now littered with gear, people moving back and forth arranging speakers and foot pedals and microphones.
It isn’t until I’m pretty sure I’ve given the song my best shot without a second pair of ears that the universe allows me to pay attention to something else:
Sound check.
“Testing, testing,” comes Penelope Parker’s voice, blasted across the entire venue. “Paige Lancaster, if you can hear me, give us a wave!”
Oh, myfuck.
Penelope freaking Parker just said my name.
Into a microphone.
I start sweating again, profusely this time, as my hand comes up stiffly, my elbow at a sharp ninety-degree Barbie angle. The wave is stilted and awkward.
Down below, all seven people onstage cheer.
“If you aretrulyLiam Bishop’s girlfriend, and you’renotbeing held against your will,” Penelope goes on, sarcasm dripping from her voice, “give usanotherwave!”
I do as commanded, laughing out loud. The people onstage cheer again, one of them jumping up and down this time. Is that Misha?
After a muffled shout Penelope mutters, “Yeah, yeah, Liam, I was just verifying. Sue me. Check, check, check, chhhhheckkkkk. Spohh-CAN. Spohhh-CANNNN. Hello, Spokane!”
A guitar riff joins Penelope’s voice, then the drums. I pack up my guitar and head down toward the noise, my stomach tightening with nerves.
