I let out a breath that sounds way too much like a laugh. “No promises.”
“See you out there,” he says, clapping my shoulder before he’s gone.
I tuck the ring box into the inside of my jacket. Then I stand, hands bracing the couch for one last moment of support. I take one final deep breath, eyes on my reflection in the mirror.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper. “For her. Always for her.”
Then, without another thought, I walk out the door and towards the rest of my life.
Chapter fifty-one
"Blinding Lights" - All Time Low
Mia
Backstage looks the exact same way it always has.
I breathe in the familiar smell of the stage fog, sweat, and energy drinks that seem to always be around. The black walls, fraying rugs, and mismatched folding chairs are almost comforting.
But I can’t help but think—this feels different.
I tell myself this is okay. ThatI’mokay. That stepping back into this space doesn’t have to be this big, life-changing thing unless I make it into one.
But it isn’t lost on me that this is the same venue where everything started. Wherewestarted. Before the tour. Before we fell in love. Before the car flipped and everything cracked open. Beforeall of it.
Now, here I am again, feeling like I’ve aged a thousand years. Bruised. Still healing. But still his.
Physically, I look okay—more than, actually.
For whatever reason, Rylee insisted on doing my makeup tonight even though I’d told her I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. It had been a whole thing. She’d told me if I even thought about lifting a brush or, God forbid, doing my own eyeliner, she would tackle me.
In the end, I’d let her win. It’s easier, and I know it’s because she’s just trying to say she cares the only way she knows how.
Johanna has also been unusually enthusiastic, laying out my all-designer outfit for me as if I’m going to the first day of Kindergarten—not a rock concert.
Now I sit in front of the mirror, blinking at my reflection. Smoky eyes, perfect eyeliner, a soft-but-effective lip color, and just a touch of shimmer. My hair is curled into loose waves, and I have to admit—the outfit Johanna picked isperfect.
But it’s the spark in my eye that makes me pause.
It’s really me.
Not the girl in the ICU. Not the girl in pain. Not the behind-the-scenes girl.
The woman I’ve become.
The sought-after concert photographer. The woman who, somehow, has stopped running from the spotlight.
Me.
“You good?” Rylee asks from behind me.
Her tone is light, but I can hear the concern in her voice.
“Good,” I say. Then add, “A little terrified. But good.”
“You haven’t been scared of a crowd since the first night you performed,” Johanna says as she perches on the arm of the couch, surveying me like a very glamorous hawk. “You’ve got this, Mia. You know you do.”
I smile a little. “I’m not nervous about the crowd.”
