It makes me wonder, as it always has, if there’s something wrong with me for wanting nothing to do with it. I’ve existed like this long enough to know it’s not a phase I’m growing out of, or a pill I need to learn to swallow. When we were kids and Maisy’s mom made her do all those pageant shows, I’d get hives imagining being in her shoes, and as a high schooler I wasn’t fond of our biannual orchestra concerts despite my near invisibility from the third row. I also never volunteered myself for open mic nights during college even though it was a huge part of our social life, preferring to play for my classmates only on school grounds.
My happiness with songwriting has always come from the process, puzzling it out until something new is made and then handed off to another person who will sayThank you for doing your part, Paige, I’ll take it from here.
Liam catches my wrist, and I spin. He holds out his phone, where he’s typed a note.
It’s going to be a late night for me. You can take my rental car back to the hotel. I’ll uber when I’m finished here.
I grab his phone and quickly type back,I’ll wait for you.
He types something else:We have to drive to Seattle tonight. You should get a few hours’ rest before the road trip.
Everything about that plan feels wrong. If Liam is going to stay here for load-out, then drive to Seattle in the middle of the night, just to do this all again tomorrow, I need to know what that’s likefor him. I need to understand what he’s putting his body through all summer.
I’m staying, I type back.I can help if you need.
He gives me an exasperated look, but I catch the hint of a smile beneath it. Liam nods at the stage, and I turn back just as the final verse of the last song plays out.
Penelope’s hair is a mess. She’s drenched in her own sweat.
She looks euphoric.
Sex with a brand-new partner, I think, and yes, Misha, I get it now.
“Thank you all so much!” Penelope shouts. “Get home safe and have a good night!”
The stage blacks out, the music halting, the audience roaring, and Liam tugs on my hand, pulling me back into the private concourse.
Everything that follows is a blur. The band comes offstage with fame-drunk grins and all hug each other, then the openers, then Liam, then even me.
“That was so many people,” Penelope says, laughing.
“We upgraded,” Siah says.
“Tomorrow will be bigger,” Liam warns them.
They hug some more, announce a round of shots, vanish into their dressing room. Liam asks if I want to join, but I shake my head and stick by his side. He distributes orders to a few of the crew, who get to work like a well-oiled machine. Curtains are drawn, amps are unplugged, speakers are loaded onto dollies.
“If you really want to help,” Liam says, “you can roll up the carpets onstage. They’ll go in the equipment truck.”
I do as he says, making friends with Vladimir while I’m at it, who finally explains to me how he’s able to predict rain (“the radar”) and what his job on tour is (“stopping idiots”). We load the carpets into the truck, then I fold up a few card tables and load those too.
All in all, the whole thing takes about an hour, and that’sincluding getting the band and openers onto their tour buses, some of them freshly showered, some drunk or high, some with kiss-bruised lips and flushed cheeks. Then the crew climbs onto their bus, and everybody drives off in a convoy.
“That,” I say to Liam, who is chugging a bottle of water beside me in the dark parking lot, “was a whole separate performance.”
He grins. “How’d I do?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re the real star of this show.”
He clears his throat. “Sounds like it’s time.”
“For what?”
He bites on a smile. “To ask how in love with me you are today.”
“Oh, afterthat? It was very hot watching you take charge of everything. You easily doubled your previous score.”
“So I’m at thirty percent?” He nods. “I’ll take that.”
