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I’d been working at Lyrics, a small jazz bar, for the past year. Of course, my passion wasn’t serving people drinks, but I loved the atmosphere and the people who worked here. I was a singer at heart, so I was right in my element, and well, I lived in a city that was expensive as hell, and I had to pay my bills.
So waitressing was what I did to make rent.
But this was my scene, my people, and being able to work at Lyrics made my heart sing.
So when I wasn’t working at the bar, I did open mic at some of the other local establishments. I loved Lyrics but had never felt comfortable singing here during their open stage nights. But that would change come Sunday, when I signed up for their open mic night. In this city, everyone and their mom were talented singers. I was just another person who sat up on those stages and told a story in melody. I didn’t see myself as anything special, anything different.
But then I’d seen him three months ago. I don’t know what it was about Oliver, but the way he talked about my singing, the genuine awe that came from him made me feel like I wasn’t just another body who hoped to make their break.
I took the tray and gave the girls their drinks. They were good and buzzed, so when I set down their order, they were overly excited, ecstatic that I just saved the night for them.
I made my rounds, checking on my tables, refilling orders, and all the while I kept glancing at the stage, at the next singer belting out a slow, desperate song about love and loss.
He played an acoustic guitar, his longer hair tied up in a messy man bun, his beard thick. His mouth was close to the microphone, his eyes closed. His jeans were faded and worn, his boots old and scuffed. He wore a distressed leather jacket, a dingy-looking white shirt underneath. He had that “starving artist” appearance going for him, but I knew Broderick was anything but starving.
Being a trust fund baby, Broderick broke the family mold of his CEO father and supermodel mother. He made his own way, worked as a barista—much to his parents’ disapproval—and in his spare time, he sang at Lyrics. He was a regular, a favorite among patrons and the staff.
He gave me hope that no matter your upbringing, the life you might have been meant to lead, if you had a passion, you went for it.
And that’s why I found myself doing open mic, why I didn’t give up on my dream and desire. I didn’t want to be some big rock star. I didn’t want to be a celebrity.
I just wanted to sing and make people feel from it.
“I’m heading out,” I said to Bishop as I set my tray on the bar. “Cheryl is taking over.” Bishop nodded and gave me another smile before serving the next customer who stepped up to the bar.
“Have a good night, Adele.”
I smiled at him and took off my apron before stashing it under the bar top and grabbing my purse.
I headed out of Lyrics, the city bustling. It was ten at night, late for other parts of the country, but for the city, it was just waking up. I ended up securing a small ten-minute spot at Tate’s Boon, a new bar that just opened a couple months ago.
To say I was terrified of sitting onstage with a full house was the understatement of the century. This would be the biggest crowd I’d ever sung for.
I didn’t bother heading home to change. I didn’t have time anyway. The bar was a good fifteen-minute walk, and I was due onstage in thirty minutes. I wanted time to stay calm, to just… breathe.
Fifteen minutes later I found myself approaching the bar. There was a line outside, wrapping around the side of the building, and a bouncer standing in front of the door, letting in a couple people at a time. The bar was always packed on the weekends, and not just because it was a brand-new establishment, but because they had some incredible shows every weekend.
They hosted no-name artists, local bands, and I even heard they had one or two singers who actually made it big.
After getting the all-clear from the bouncer, allowed entrance, and told where to go, and after weaving my way through the already congested crowd, I found where I was supposed to be backstage.
The nerves started really climbing then, but I found a semi-quiet corner, leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe. And the first thing, the first person I thought about was Oliver. Instantly I felt calm, relaxed. I pictured him, the smile he’d give me that night, the way he made me feel. I felt the stress leave, and when I opened my eyes, I knew I had this. I could do this.
