Then the lights went out.
The stage crew rushed in.
The band scattered toward the tunnel. Someone pulled the guitar strap over my head. Another person handed me a towel and a bottle of water. The noise of the crowd followed us backstage, muffled now by concrete walls.
Rachel was waiting beside the stairs.
“Good show.”
“Good?”
“Very good.”
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
“You missed a lyric.”
“I offered the audience an interactive experience.”
“You said Denver.”
“That was before the show. It doesn’t count.”
She handed me my phone.
Forty-three notifications covered the screen.
Messages from my mother. My stylist. Sophie. Two people from the label. Someone I had not spoken to since an awards dinner three years earlier. An entertainment alert using my own name.
Nothing I wanted to open.
“Press in eight,” Rachel said.
I looked back toward the stage tunnel.
The crowd was still calling for another encore even though we had already done two.
“Can I have five minutes?”
“You have four.”
“Cruel.”
“Efficient.”
The interview took seven.
The interviewer told me the show had been incredible, then asked the same questions I had answered in Houston, New Orleans, Atlanta, and Tampa.
How did it feel to sell out the arena?
Unbelievable.
What was my favorite part of touring?
Meeting the fans.
Was the next album more personal?
