Page 70 of Gin and Bear It

She has a great voice. Not professionally perfect but strong. The whole crowd brightens up the way they do when someone can really sing.

She gets into it the longer the song, an old R&B classic, goes on. She even gets a standing ovation when she finishes. I hear her laugh as she takes a bow and hops off the stage.

“You could have told me you could sing before I embarrass myself up there,” I say in her ear.

She shrugs. “Embarrassment is a state of mind. Your turn.”

I take the mic next and get up on stage. I always have a little stage fright, as often as I’ve performed, and even this little stage incites it in me. But when the music starts, I go for it and ignore my fears.

Once I’m into it enough, I dare to look down at the crowd.

Jada’s smile is so big and bright that I can’t help but smile back at her. That feeling I used to get doing a show starts creeping back in. The connection with the crowd, all of us in sync. My voice feels tired and out of practice, but I sing hard anyway. When the song ends, everyone cheers and a few guys clap me on the shoulder as I step off the stage.

“You’re a fucking great singer, Ash,” she says once I pass the mic back. “You could have fronted the band.”

“Thanks, but you’re overestimating my abilities,” I say, my face heating up. I’m used to people saying that my singing isn’t strong enough or picking it to shreds. But that’s the music industry talking.

“I’m so not.” She slams the last of her drink. They’re watered down as hell, so I’m not surprised she went through hers so fast. “Let’s do more!”

She grabs me by the hand and drags me to the tablet again. Her enthusiasm and the high of performing in a space where I don’t have to prove shit to anyone makes me want to keep going. I choose a song I like by the Beatles that most people in the crowd should also know the words to.

Then, I spot one of Cinematicas’ most popular songs, Uphill. It’s one of the less miserable ones off that album, which I wrote when I thought I was coming out of the hole of depression that the night in Calabasas kicked off. I’m pretty sure I have the demo I recorded with Dylan somewhere in my storage. It’s the one song where I prefer my vocals to Caro’s.

I tap it before I can overthink anymore.

We perform our other songs, and eventually, Uphill comes on. Jada looks at me, wide-eyed, when the title pops up on the screen.

“You chose this?” she asks.

“Yeah. Fuck it, why not?” I say.

Seriously, why not? It’s my song. I pored over those lyrics, writing draft after draft, mentally working on a bass line until it clicked. Dylan filled in the drums and added his own flair to it. I know the music inside and out. I want people to know what I did.

I hop up on stage and take the mic. Seeing the band’s name and my face makes something click among some people in the crowd. I still can’t believe so many random people know my face. Someone pulls out a phone. Maybe they’re taking a photo, or maybe they’re taking a selfie. I don’t know.

“Hey, I’m Ash Stryker. I’m—or I was—in the band Cinematicas,” I say as the music starts. A few people nod and say things to each other. “I actually wrote this song with our drummer, Dylan. All of these lyrics are straight from climbing out of the shittiest six months of my life. Uphill.”

I slide into the song and perform it the way I’ve always wanted to, with the emphasis on the phrases that were hardest to write or I liked the most. The quality of the background track isn’t the greatest, but it doesn’t matter. I sing it like it’s for a sold-out crowd.

The bar has filled in over the past half hour, and they explode in cheers once I’m done. I blow out a breath, relief washing over me. Maybe I shouldn’t have said what I said, but I’ll deal with the fallout later.

“You sounded amazing,” Jada says once I come off the stage. I pull her into a hug, and she hangs on for a few extra beats.

A few people say hello and ask for pictures, but I decline. Thankfully, they’re fine with it. Most people leave us alone after that, besides a few looks.

The night starts flying by, and I forget how shitty and draining the first half of it was. Eventually Jada starts yawning, so I take the lead and pay our tab. We head outside, hand in hand, even though we don’t have to pretend anymore.

Even though I’m tired, too, I’m buzzing with energy underneath that. I haven’t felt like this in so fucking long. Free from the pressure of wondering if I’m talking to the right person, or if that person is just trying to get closer to the more popular members of the band. I was just able to perform and get shit off my chest, too.

And I was able to do it all because of Jada. I don’t think I’d feel this way if I were with someone else.

I lace my fingers in between hers and she squeezes my hand tighter. The shy little smile she gives me cracks right through my defenses.

I’m going to do something stupid, aren’t I? Just pure, raw stupidity without being tipsy being to blame.

She’s unusually quiet, and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s tired or if she’s thinking. When we get back to the hotel, the warm look she gives me tells me everything. She feels like something’s shifted, too.

Ah, fuck it.