Gill simply smiles, even though she asked the same thing. We’re all excited today, and it shows. Even the staff seems to be in high spirits.
“So ready!” Nash bounces in place again, making me wonder if someone fed him too much sugar today.
“Fantastic,” Izzy says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get you on stage.” Her and Gill lead the way out the door with my guys following one by one until it’s only Tristan left.
He holds out a hand, and I take it, threading our fingers together. “I know you won’t, but if you do, let me know at any time if you need me to step in with the lyrics.”
“I will,” I tell him with a smile. “I’m happy we are finally doing things the way we always should’ve.”
A huge grin spreads across his face. “Me too, Lexi. Me too.” He squeezes my hand and leads me to the door. “Now let’s show them the new Raina.”
The sound is deafening when we reach the stage. This time, instead of a roadie handing me my microphone, it’s Gill. “Good luck on the start of your tour. You’ll shine up there.”
Her words bolster me, and I take the microphone from her with a smile.
The wings of the venue are choked with bodies and gear. The air is a live wire—ozone, anticipation, the sick-sweet tang of crowd heat right out of view.
Taking a deep breath, I cradle the microphone in both hands like it’s a weapon and a lifeline. Every second I stand here, my heart pounds harder and higher, a drumline scoring the panic behind my breastbone.
Nash stands next to me, his eyeliner smudged, arms jittering with an over abundance of energy. He slaps his bass, checkingthe tension on the lowest string, then shakes his hands out like he’s prepping for a prize fight. “You good?” he mouths, arching his eyebrows high. I manage the smallest nod. He gives a smile, one that warms me to my very core.
Keaton joins us next, drumsticks flicking between his fingers. He’s the only one here who isn’t pretending this is simply another show. He glances up once, catches my eye, and gives the briefest, most meaningful blink of support. That’s all I get, all I need. The thunder is waiting in his wrists.
On the far side of the curtain, Darius and Blake wait to take the stage with us. Darius grins at me, flashing the edges of his teeth. Blake gives a thumbs up and then looks away, already lost in whatever private calculus gets him onstage without imploding.
Tristan steps up behind me. He’s stripped down to a threadbare tee, jeans torn open across the knees, guitar slung over his shoulder. “Lexi,” he says, pitching his voice low enough that only I can hear, “you don’t have to be anything but yourself tonight.” It’s the same words he told me before my first performance, bringing us full circle. This is how it’s meant to be.
I grip the microphone harder, feeling the memory of Dr. Shapiro’s voice lessons scrape up from somewhere deep. I can practically hear the vowel drills and diaphragm exercises that rebuilt my voice from the ground up.
“You okay?” Nash again, closer this time, arm around my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think so.” I stare at the curtain, listening to the murmur of the crowd on the other side. Their anticipation is a pulse in the floorboards, a living thing.
He leans in, voice soft against my hair. “You’re a fucking legend. Let them see it.”
On cue, the stage lights cut out, and the crowd goes silent. A moment later, lightning flashes and huge fans turn on, the sound of a tornado blasting through the speakers.
The pre-recorded sound of my voice filters in. “Sometimes a tornado comes through, ripping your life apart…” There’s a crash on stage, sparks flying, and the crowd screams. “But we rebuild, and come back stronger.”
With the fading sound of my voice, the lights come back on. The stage now a wreck, the neon light of my name is broken in half, hanging by a cord, sparks continuing to go off every now and again. Scaffolding for the lighting is in precarious positions, all of course professionally staged.
The old me got torn up, it can never be the same, but that doesn’t mean we give up… at least that’s the message I’m trying to give.
Excitement washes over the audience, and they quickly return to chanting my name, urging me to take the stage.
I look down at my hands, at the mic. The nails are painted midnight, a last-minute Nash touch. They’re shaking, and it takes a second to realize they’re not shaking from fear—they’re shaking because I’m not afraid enough.
I flash to last year: the agonizing pain that led me to try to take my own life, the months of Tristan giving me hell, the never-ending bullshit with Dickless, the blank terror of never being able to sing again.
And then I think of who I am now. Of the person I’ve become born out of disaster. Of the relationships I’ve built.
Fuck, do I love my life.
“Ready?” Nash says, but it’s not a question.
I take a breath and step forward, the Survival logo burning against the back of the stage.
This is it. This is everything.
