They celebrate my fame, but they’ve never coveted it or interfered with it. They’ve never made me feel like their burdens are my responsibility.
When Jane and Parker approached me about starting a marketing firm a few years ago, it was an easy yes. I was working as a corporate lawyer, but I didn’t need the money. I was alreadymaking enough with my music to ensure that my success didn’t hinge on anyone else—not even my friends.
Jane might think I need to let more people in, but that’s because she has her big sister hat on, not her CEO hat.
I can’t let anything jeopardize this tour.
I want to show the world I’m not just Winona Williams’ daughter or some YouTuber of the month who lucked into fame through the mystery of my identity.
Stepping out of the shadows has to mean something.
And that’s why, when Patty comes back into the room, I get up from the couch and cross over to where he’s standing by the table.
His fork is sinking into warm pecan pie when I approach him.
“I don’t want you to pipe in the audience,” I say, cutting straight to the chase. “It’s too overwhelming.”
He takes a bite, chewing slowly and looking calmer than when we last spoke.
“Because you’re used to performing in front of a camera, not a crowd?”
“Exactly.”
“All right, Queenie. But you’ll want to get used to it eventually.”
My brows thread together. “Why? Why can’t I go on without the sound of the audience?”
He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “Because judging by tonight and how that crowd lost their minds for you, this is just the beginning of a very long, very successful career.”
The weight of his words feels less like a compliment and more like a warning.
“And?”
“And you need to remember who you’re performing for. The moment you shut your fans out, the moment it all becomes about you, is the moment it all goes wrong. They become objects that feed your ego instead of people who make your job possible. Their adoration will turn your head, and trust me, that feeling is a drug as dangerous as anything I’ve ever seen.”
I almost don’t know how to respond. Some joke—I’m a D.A.R.E. kid?—but he’s not joking.
For someone who’s always serious, this is the gravest I’ve seen him yet.
“It’s hard hearing them,” I admit. “It makes me nervous, like I’m going to screw up and let everyone down.”
“Youshouldfeel nervous,” he says, but then his tone softens slightly. “Not so much you can’t perform, but enough that it keeps you connected. Anchored. If you’re trying to protect yourself from feelin’ something about your fans, you’re doing this wrong.”
I stay quiet long enough that he goes back to eating pie, and I can’t help noting the absurdity of him delivering his little speech while scraping his fork across the plate to get the last of the caramelized pecans and ice cream.
“Are there maybe … baby steps to that? To letting the audience in?”
He looks away from me, like he’s thinking.
“Yeah. I have a couple of ideas. We can try ‘em out during sound check Saturday before the show.”
“I can’t leave a decision like this up to a sound check hours before I go on stage again.” A fluttering in my right ear muffles the sound in the room. “I was spiraling out there.”
“You didn’t look like it,” he says, and this time, I both feel and take the compliment.
“Well, I was. And I need to get more used to playing with an IEM and hearing a mix at all.”
Patty sighs and sets down his plate.
