I lean against the back wall of the venue, guitar at my feet, trying to keep my breathing steady. My palms are already sweating. I haven’t performed live much in the last year—just a few small open mic nights at local spots and the stage fright has been overwhelming. And this venue is ten times the size of those. Tonight feels like jumping off a cliff and hoping the parachute works.
“This place is cool,” Jack says, returning from the bar. He passes me my drink, a cucumber-lime mocktail that had looked refreshing, and watches as the current performer works the crowd. “Even better than I expected. I can’t believe that after I’ve moved away, Dark River gets an awesome underground scene nearby.”
Jack’s surveying the venue with interest. He seems completely at ease in this unfamiliar environment, which I both envy and find reassuring.
“Friday nights here are usually good,” I tell him, grateful for the distraction from my impending doom. I take a sip of the drink, the tartness cutting through my anxiety for a moment. “It’s a pretty supportive crowd too. Thankgod, because I need only supportive comments tonight. All compliments, all the time. No criticism allowed within a ten-foot radius of me.”
“Deal. In that case, in addition to being endlessly talented, you also look great tonight. Friend to friend, I mean.” He raises his bottle in a mini-toast.
I feel a flutter of pleasure warming my chest at his compliment. I’d told him to just come for my set, no point sitting through a whole lineup of other performers. We could grab photos after for Instagram, assuming I didn’t completely bomb. But he’d insisted on driving me here and staying the whole time.
Now, I’m grateful for his presence. Maren would’ve been here if she could—she’d even offered to cut her honeymoon short when I mentioned the show, which wassoher it made me want to cry. But I’d told her absolutely not and to enjoy her trip. Having Jack here helps more than I expected.
The guy on stage finishes his set to enthusiastic applause. He’s followed by a girl with a voice like smoke and honey, the crowd immediately falling silent as she begins. I watch them lean in, completely captivated. She’s effortlessly confident, moving across the stage like she owns it, her voice filling everycorner of the venue without any apparent strain. My stomach tightens. This is the kind of performer labels want. Polished, professional, completely at ease in front of an audience.
“She’ssooogood,” I say, feeling my confidence shrink with every perfectly delivered verse. “Maybe I should just leave now. Preserve what’s left of my dignity.”
“There’s always going to be other talented people,” Jack says, his tone gentle. “Doesn’t mean you’re not one of them.”
Next up is a guy with just an acoustic guitar who covers Johnny Cash, then comes a woman who does spoken word poetry over electronic beats she creates live on some kind of loop machine. It’s mesmerizing and weird and the crowd loves it.
With each performer, my anxiety climbs. They’re all so good, so unique, so confident. Brandon’s voice starts creeping in:You’re not good enough for this to be anything more than a hobby.
“You’re next,” the stage manager says, appearing beside me with a clipboard.
My stomach drops, landing somewhere around my shoes. I grab my guitar case, hands shaking now. Jack catches my arm gently and gives it a squeeze.
“Hey,” he says. “You belong up there. I know you do.”
His voice is so sure that it loosens the knot in my chest. I take a full breath for the first time in an hour and force a small smile. “Thanks,” I manage.
“I’ll be right here,” he promises. “Now go show them what you’ve got.”
The walk to the stage feels both endless and way too short. The stage lights are brighter than expected, turning the audience into a mass of shadows and shapes at first. I can hear them though, conversations continuing, drinks being ordered, that low hum of a crowd that’s not quite paying attention yet.
I position my stool and adjust the mic stand, my fingers feeling clumsy. When I glance up to scan the crowd, I spot Jack near the front, leaning against a pillar with his eyes fixed on me.
“Hi,” I say into the mic, cringing at how small my voice sounds. I clear my throat. “I’m Lark Reyes. Thanks for having me.”
A few polite claps, a couple of encouraging whoops. I start to strum the opening chords of my first song, a mid-tempo piece about leaving home. My fingers are on autopilot, muscle memory taking over as I focus on keeping my breathing steady.
The first verse comes out a bit shaky, my voice not quite finding its center. I stare at a point on the back wall, too nervous to make eye contact with anyone. But as I reach the chorus, the melody becomes familiar terrain, and I can feel myself settling into it.
By the second verse, my fingers find the chord changes without thinking. My voice steadies, even though my heart is still racing. When I reach the bridge, I force myself to look up from my guitar and find Jack’s gaze. He gives me a small, encouraging nod. Don’t think about the crowd. Don’t think about how many people are watching. Just focus on the next line.
I take a deep breath and let my voice soar into the higher register, hitting the notes I sometimes shy away from. They land cleanly. My hands are sweating on the guitar neck and part of my brain is screaming that I’m about to forget the words, but somehow I keep going. Somehow it’s working.
When the song ends there’s a beat of silence, then applause. Decent, maybemorethan decent. I feel a tentative smile, though my pulse is still hammering.
“Thank you,” I say into the mic, gripping it a little too hard to keep my hand from shaking. “This next one is called ‘Paper Hearts.’”
Just two more songs. I can do two more songs. The worst is over, right?
I’m adjusting my guitar strap, trying to breathe through the adrenaline, when I see him.
Brandon’s standing near the bar, arms crossed and scowling. Kelly’s next to him, looking deeply uncomfortable. But Brandon’s watching me with that familiar expression, the one that says he’s waiting for me to fail, expecting it, maybe even counting on it.
How did he even know about this? A distant part of my brain remembers—Kelly is Elle Smith’s granddaughter. I chatted with her during a Black Lantern shift last week, and mentioned the open mic. Fuck.
