My fingers completely botch the next chord change, turning what should be a smooth transition into an ugly, jarring mess. I stumble on the lyrics. I try to recover, push through, but I’ve completely lost it now. The crowd’s attention evaporates.
From the stage I can see Brandon’s smirk, that satisfied expression that says he’s getting exactly what he came for. By the final song, I’m just going through the motions. There’s no feeling in it, no connection. Even Jack’s steady presence at the front can’t salvage this. He’s still watching, still focused, but I can’t meet his eyes.
“Thanks,” I say when it’s finally, mercifully over. The applause is perfunctory, already dying before I’m off stage. Someone actually says “at last” as I walk past, though maybe that was about their drink order. Maybe.
I don’t wait around backstage. Don’t stay to support the other performers like you’re supposed to, like everyone else has been doing. I grab my guitar and head straight for the exit, needing space, needing to be anywhere but here.
The cool night air hits my burning face as I push through the door.
Jack catches up with me in the parking lot before I make it to my car. “Lark, wait,” he calls, his footsteps quick on the pavement behind me. His hand touches my arm gently. “Hey, slow down for a second.”
I stop abruptly, turning to face him. “What?” The word comes out sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it. My throat is tight, my chest aching with humiliation.
His eyebrows draw together, concern written all over his face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, my voice cracking on the last word. “Can we just go?”
“Lark—”
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Can we just not talk about it right now?”
He studies me for a long moment, and I can see him weighing whether to push or give me space. Finally, he nods. “Yeah, of course.”
He takes my guitar case and walks with me to the car—Calvin’s, which Jack’s using while Calvin and Maren are on their honeymoon. We drive in silence for the first twenty minutes. Jack doesn’t try to make me talk, and I’m grateful for that at least. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, occasionally glancing over at me like he’s making sure I’m still breathing.
“I’m sorry,” I finally say, breaking the silence. My voice sounds small in the darkness of the car. “I didn’t mean to snap at you back there.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”
I take a shaky breath. “I really thought I could do it. For a minute there, it actually felt good. Like I was really doing it, you know? And then…” The tears threaten again. “I choked. I completely fell apart up there.”
Jack is quiet for a moment, his jaw working. Then he says, “That’s not what I saw. I saw someone with real talent own that stage for the first half of that set. The way you connected with the crowd, the way you moved, your voice. That thing that makes people unable to look away. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Neither could anyone else in that room.”
I turn to look at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice.
“So what if it didn’t go perfectly,” he continues. “It was your first time back on a big stage in years. These things take time.”
My throat tightens. “It doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I proved I can’t do this.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You proved you can get up there. The rest is just practice.” He pauses, glancing at me. “We can talk through what you were feeling. I don’t know if that would help, but maybe analyzing it would give you something to work with next time.”
I tense slightly at the suggestion. I could tell him about Brandon being there, but the shame of it stops the words in my throat. Two years after the divorce, and he still has that kind of power over me? After all my big talk about trying to move on. The humiliation is too much.
“I don’t really know what it was,” I lie, staring out at the darkness beyond my window. “Just general stage fright, I guess. It just… hit me all at once.”
He nods slowly, like he can sense there’s more I’m not saying, but won’t push. “Whatever happened up there doesn’t change the fact that you’re the real deal. You just need to trust that.”
A tear finally escapes down my cheek. “You know, for a fake boyfriend, you’re not half bad at the comfort thing.”
“I’m full of surprises,” he says, and his hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing. “And I mean what I said. You have something special, Lark. Don’t let one rough night make you forget that.”
His thumb strokes across my knuckles. I want to believe him. I want to believe that tonight wasn’t proof of failure, that I really do have whatever he thinks he saw.
“You know,” he says, “my first professional race was acompletedisaster.”
I turn to look at him. “Really?”
“Really. I qualified well, started in fourth position, and then proceeded to make every rookie mistake possible. Spun out, almost took out another driver on the restart, and finished dead last.” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “The F1 press had a field day with it. There was this one headline—‘Midnight’s Career Over Before It Begins.’”
