Leanne gasped—not in fear but in wonder. A few weeks ago, thethought of crowd-surfing would have terrified her. And admittedly, there was a slight tingle of fear they might drop her now. But she’d spent a summer watching people move like waves, and now the hands beneath her were steady, guiding her forward with care.
And suddenly, she was there.
On the stage.
Beside her mother.
Eleanor’s guitar was slung low, her shoulders hunched slightly, bracing for the next chord. Leanne could see it up close now, how her hand trembled on the strings, how her eyes flicked across the crowd like she was still orienting herself.
Leanne wanted nothing more than to pull her mother into a hug, bury her face in her neck like she was still a little girl, and whisper, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
But to do that would stop the music. Would shatter the spell.
So instead, Leanne stepped beside Eleanor, placed her hand lightly over her mother’s where it gripped the microphone and began to sing.
The lyrics came like breath. Like memory. Like home.
Her mother’s hand was warm. Fragile in a way it had never felt before. Leanne squeezed gently, her voice finding the harmony, their words weaving together in the air like ribbon.
Together, they sang.
The song unfurled across the sky, and at last, Leanne saw what her mother had seen all these weeks—the sea of people, the energy, the joy. The eyes shining back.
Terrifying.
Beautiful.
Standing under the heat of the stage lights, with the crowd rippling in front of her like an ever-changing sea, Leanne understood how this became addictive.
The attention. The electricity. The sound of hundreds—no,thousands, hundreds of thousands—of voices echoing back lyrics that had once belonged only to a mother and her daughter. It was intoxicating. A moment that would imprint on a person’s soul.
Her eyes scanned the crowd until they found Nora.
There she was, tangled in the music and in Joe. Arms swaying in the air, her head tilted back in laughter, until Joe’s arm slipped around her shoulders like it belonged there. And maybe it did.
Leanne’s heart squeezed.
That night when Nora had finally crept into the motel room long after midnight, hair windblown and cheeks flushed, Leanne had recognized the blissful disarray of young love. Only after several minutes did she realize the couple on the picnic bench, locked in a kiss under the stars, had been Joe and Nora.
She wanted to ask what had happened. Wanted to pull her daughter into the warm circle of motherly knowing and ask all the questions. But she didn’t. Nora would tell her when she was ready.
And for now, it was enough to see her daughter smiling like that. Light spilling from her face like it was her own personal sunrise. After all the drama of high school, the heartaches, the self-doubt—this was the kind of joy every mother prayed their child would find.
Behind her, the drummer went wild, pounding the beat into the sky like thunder. Cymbals clashed in a gleeful frenzy. The guitarist let loose a solo that curled around the audience like the hug she desperately wanted to give. Someone passed Leanne a tambourine, and she took it without hesitation, slapping it against her thigh in rhythm.
A laugh burst from her chest, loud and bright and so thoroughly free it startled even her.
Leanne wasn’t a musician. Not like her mother. Not like the rest of the band. But she didn’t need to be. Because what she felt wasn’t performance it was harmony.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the chromemicrophone stands. Hair loose. Face bare. Freckles bright against flushed skin. A lacy top. Cutoff jean shorts. The Leanne she’d left back in New York—polished, restrained, invisible behind layers of responsibility—felt a million miles away.
And good riddance.
All around her, people danced. Colorful clothes swirling, fringe swaying, sweat glistening on open, joyful faces. Didn’t matter who you were or where you came from.
No one was thinking about war. Or dinner. Or making sure the laundry was folded just right.
There were only a million hands in the air.
