My fingers twitch at my sides. There were nights I would stay up until sunrise, playing until my fingers bled so much that it stained the strings. I’ve memorized every scale, every chord, every harmonic. But confidence? That’s the one thing I can’t rehearse. What if we sound small, like children playing dress-up?
I push the feeling down—I can’t afford to lose the small shred of confidence I have. Not now. Not when my friends are relying on me.
As the final chorus starts, the singer is locked in eye contact with the two people in the center of the room—the judges. One I remember as the bartender from the other night, but the other I don’t recognize. His angular features protrude through the stage lights, making him look menacing. He runs a hand through his short, honey-blonde hair before scribbling something on the notepad in his lap. I wonder if he’s the owner. He’s big, but not in anIncredible Hulkkind of way. The kind of way that if you weren’t looking too closely, you’d underestimate him. His suit clings to him in a way that only expensive, tailored suits can. Helooksimportant.
“Thank you, this will be our last song,” the vocalist says with a quick bow.
“Come on,” Harper says, tugging lightly on my hoodie. “We’d better finish getting ready.”
Back in the dressing room, the air is thick with nerves and tension. My palms are slick with sweat as I stare at myself in the mirror. Harper and Ryland are bickering somewhere in the background about who should count in the song.
“It’s obviously the drummer, Harper,” Ryland states.
“It brings more energy when the vocalist does it,Ryland,” she retorts.
I’m vaguely aware of the sound of something being thrown.
I roll my eyes and smirk. The smirk quickly fades as my attention is drawn back to the mirror. Unease fills my gut as I pick at my clothes. They’re too tight, nothing looks right. The leather pants I’m wearing are bunching against my stomach, accentuating my pooch that I always try to cover. The ripped Metallica shirt feels tight around my chest and too loose everywhere else. I adjust the shirt, pulling it every which way, andnothingfeels right. Nothing looks right. The fluorescent light above the mirror is a cruel joke. It shows everything—every insecurity that I tried to bury under my leather and eyeliner.
I sigh, tears stinging behind my eyes. The feeling of inadequacy I tried to bury earlier threatens to return. I pull the shirt so that it sits just off my shoulders and tie the excess material in a knot at the side of my waist. I cringe at how figure-hugging this outfit has suddenly become, but the shirt now slightly covers my pooch, which relieves the unease just enough that I don’t feel like throwing a trash bag over myself, tying a belt around my waist, and calling ithaute couture.
Fuck it. This is as good as it’s going to get.
I turn away from the mirror and grab my guitar.
“Hey, are you okay?” Luca asks, his hand coming to rest on my elbow.
“Yeah, I’m just nervous,” I lie, noticing how easily the words come.
“I’m nervous too,” he says with a half-smile, playfully nudging me.
“I couldn’t tell,” I say, running my hand over the guitar neck absentmindedly.
“I’m pushing through it. When Jared and I got married, he vowed to always support me and my music because heknew how important it was to me,” he explains, his eyes full of adoration for his husband. “So I guess I want to prove to him that his support means something. That he didn’t do all that overtime at the firm for nothing. So, for me, there’s no reality where wedon’tget this. Because it doesn’t exist yet.”
“Jared is lucky to have you,” I say, giving him a small nudge.
“No,I’mlucky to have Jared,” he says, pushing against my knee as he goes to stand. “All I’m saying is, remember why you’re doing this.”
He gives me a knowing look as he walks across the room and begins tuning his bass. His last words linger in the air.
Why am I doing this?
My mind draws a blank. I’m doing this because I love music, of course. Music kept me alive when I didn’t even want to keep myself alive. It’s the one thing that I do for me. Is that even an answer? But I don’t have any goals or aspirations when it comes to music. I’d be happy for life to continue the way it is right now—although, ideally, with some more money. I’ve never let myself truly think of a future because the future is never guaranteed—especially with a past like mine. But… what if? What if this is our ‘big break’?
The questions feel hollow in my head. Sure, I’ve thought about what could happen in the future, but I’ve never seen it. Everything could be ripped from us at any moment. My fingers rise to toy with my necklace, the cool metal of the delicate chain feeling comforting on my skin as the question rolls around in my head.
The door to the dressing room opens, ripping me from my thoughts. The honey-blonde judge crosses the threshold. His earlier sitting position must have concealed his frame—he’s tall.Really tall. I’m five foot ten, and he has at least a few inches on me, which makes him even more intimidating. His features are schooled into neutrality, giving nothing away.
“You’re up next,” he says, his voice carrying an effortless authority that commands attention from us all.
Taking a deep breath, I slip the worn leather guitar strap over my shoulders and make my way to the door. Harper runs up beside me, linking her arm with mine.
“I think we got this,” she whispers giddily at me.
I can only muster a nod. My bones feel too stiff, my muscles feel like stone, and my breathing is coming in short pants. Harper notices and squeezes my arm.
The walk to the stage is long. Longer than it seemed before. The posters that I was adoring earlier now feel claustrophobic as they clutter the walls. The tension is thick in the air. At least I’m not the only one absolutely shitting myself—the others can hide beneath experience and bravado, but at the end of the day, we all need this residency for one reason or another.
