She’s already taken it off.
"My momma always told me you can have it all, but not all at once. For the longest time, I thought that meant you can’t actually have it all, so choose wisely. And I thought my choice—the music industry—was the only one that could make me happy. Keep me safe."
A small smile tugs at her lips.
"Now, I finally know better. She strums her guitar, and my breath catches at the first few notes ofLast Train to Midnight.
My favorite song of hers. The song that took root in my soul the first time I heard it.
The audience roars their approval.
“You see, ‘having it all’ is a little like writing music. A song doesn’t come to you all at once, and you sure don’t have to have it figured out right away," Lou continues, adding another chord, then another, layering the sound.
Delilah joins in with a steady drumbeat, and the others jump in, not quite playing the song but not quite riffing, either—building anticipation.
"First, you get a lyric or a melody, something that sticks with you, something that won’t leave you alone. Then come the chords and harmonies, the rhythm and beats."
She pauses, letting the music swell behind her.
"You add them piece by piece—erasing some parts, rewriting others, tossing some completely. And you keep going until you take all of those separate lines, put them together, and have a song. A beautiful, complete, unforgettable song."
Now, all five women—Lou and her band—are fully locked into the song, the intro longer than usual, a dramatic buildup.
My ears strain for the piano part, but it’s missing.
She turns toward the audience again, voice steady but full of emotion.
“Too often, we women put pressure on ourselves, feeling like we have to be everything and do everything all at once. I know, because I’ve done it, too. We feel like we have to hold every note, play every instrument, and carry the harmonyandmelody at the same time. And heaven forbid we make a mistake. Hit a bad note. Get behind a measure. We don’t notice when someone else misses a chord, but we beat ourselves up when we do, comparing our worst instrument to everyone else’s best. We act like we have to be able to play the entire song at once, forgetting that no song—nolife—is built that way. It’s built piece by piece, moment by moment; a lifetime of layering instruments, of playing verses and choruses that sometimes feel too repetitive and sometimes sound messy, but that are also beautiful.
“But the song doesn’t have to be played all at once. Itcan’tbe. The song is thesumof a lifetime of efforts.
“The song is the legacy.”
She pauses, looking down.
“I don’t know about you, but it’s time I write my own legacy.”
The crowd loses it.
Screams and cheers echo through the venue, so loud I swear I can hear sobs even through my own in-ears.
Lou radiates goodness and happiness. She looks the most natural I’ve seen her yet. “Now, if y’all will allow it, I’d like to play a song that means a lot to me. It’s not an anthem, but it’s a little like a prayer. Only, I seem to be one man down."
She turns her face side-stage, her eyes searching as she gestures toward the piano.
"And I know exactly where to find him."
The band continues playing, the music building like a slow tide, pushing the energy of the crowd to the edge of a precipice, where they’re going to fall or fly.
“Years ago, this guy was in the music industry. A true prodigy. He had music singing in his blood. But it didn’t workout.” She glances at me, eyes shining. “I know for a fact he misses it. But you know what? I think the music world misses him even more.”
My stomach tightens.
"Lou,” I say urgently. “It’s too much too fast. I’m not ready."
She turns that knowing smile on me, warmth rolling off her in waves.
I know, her smile tells me.Take all the time you need.
