Page 275 of End Game

“No.”

Cami leans around him. “Did you get one vertically for Instagram?”

I lower my phone. “See? She understands branding.”

“You're not posting it until after the show,” Micah says.

“I know.”

Cami pats my arm. “He's nervous.”

“I am not nervous.”

“You're photographing printer paper.”

“It's historic printer paper.”

Micah smiles.

Asshole.

Today has already been insane.

The group recording happened this afternoon, which turns out to be exactly what you'd expect when you put a dozen frontmen in one studio and ask them to share a song.

Too much hair.

Too many opinions.

At least three men who apparently believe harmony is a personal attack.

I knew some of them on sight. A couple I've listened to since high school. More than one has a platinum record hanging somewhere, which feels unnecessarily aggressive.

Two I'd never heard of.

Most hadn't heard of me either.

More importantly, the bridge survived.

My bridge.

Technically our bridge because Austin and I beat it into shape together yesterday, but my changes stayed. So did two of my lyric suggestions.

Then I got assigned part of it vocally.

Which seems unsafe.

Now the benefit show is in full swing, there are several thousand people on the other side of the walls, and in approximately eleven minutes I am supposed to walk onto a stage where most of them have no fucking clue who I am.

This is somehow scarier than sixty thousand people.

That makes absolutely no sense.

Maybe because this felt more intentional.

Austin asked me to come.

I helped write part of the song.