I just blew up my deal with Tidal Records. Probably. Almost definitely.
And I’m about to walk out on that stage anyway.
“Next up, all the way from Washington State, please welcome Lark Reyes!” The voice booms through the speakers.
Polite applause. Underwhelming but expected. Nobody knows who I am. I’m background music while people wait for the race.
I walk onto the stage, guitar in hand. The lights hit immediately, bright enough that the crowd becomes shapes and shadows.
“Hi,” I say, somehow sounding steadier than I feel, which is a win considering I might throw up. “I’m Lark. Thanks for having me.”
Some murmurs. A little clapping.
A guy yells, “THIS BETTER BE GOOD!”
“Couldn’t agree more, pal,” I say into the mic. “If this sucks, trust me, we’re all gonna be disappointed.”
The crowd laughs and a few people are putting their phones down. The panic in my chest loosens slightly.Okay.I can work with this.
I settle onto the stool and adjust the mic stand. My guitar feels familiar and grounding, the one constant in this surreal situation. The stage fright is already bubbling up, that familiar panic that makes me want to run. But I’m here now. I made my choice. And I’m not backing down.
I start strumming the opening chords of “Wildfire.” Not the pop version. My version. The original acoustic arrangement I wrote in the aftermath of my divorce when I was so angry I could barely see straight.
The first note comes out clear and strong. Someone near the back whoops.
The first verse flows. My voice finding its center, my fingers remembering where to go. A few people near the front turn to watch.
By the second verse, more eyes are on the stage. The fear is still there, but I’m pushing through it. Note by note, line by line. People are actually listening now. The song ends and there’s real applause.
“Thank you,” I say, steadier now. “This next one is called ‘Burning Bridges.’”
My version again. The one with the lyrics I figured out at 3 AM, the bridge that builds instead of simplifies. The melody that captured what I felt when I was finally angry enough to leave. More people are watching now. Phones up, recording. A couple near the stage stops talking to listen. A woman is dancing, drink forgotten.
When the song ends, the applause is louder, enthusiastic, with some whistles.
“One more song,” I say into the mic, and I’m smiling now despite the nerves still buzzing under my skin.
I was supposed to play “Late Night Calls” next. It’s on the set list, it’s what I practiced. Safe choice. Good energy to end on.
But my fingers move to a different chord progression entirely.
“This is a new one I wrote recently,” I hear myself say, even though I didn’t plan this, didn’t even consider playing it tonight. “It’s calledUntil You Say Stay.”
JACK
The hospitality area is crowded with sponsors and team personnel when I cut through on my way back from my final media obligation. Guitar chords drift through the pre-race noise, a voice rising above the hum of the crowd. Clear and compelling enough to make me slow my pace and turn toward the sound.
“This is a new one I wrote recently,” the voice says. “It’s calledUntil You Say Stay.”
The entertainment stage is set up across from the paddock, and there’s a crowd gathered at the railing overlooking it. People swaying with their phones up, filming. The voice draws me toward it like gravity, recognition dawning over me as I push through the crowd.
Lark is on stage with her guitar.
For a second I’m convinced I’ve finally cracked, that two weeks of thinking about her constantly has manifested some kind of fever dream. That my brain has decided to torture me by conjuring her image in the one place I least expect it.
But she’s here. The Vegas skyline glitters behind her under the floodlights and she looks ethereal on stage, like she stepped out of one of those dreams where everything feels too vivid to be real.
Every trace of the stage fright I’ve seen her battle has vanished. She commands that audience with the confidence of someone who was born to be on stage.
