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His forehead wrinkled. “Okay, look at me.” He gripped her arms tightly so that she could peer into his blue eyes, the same vivid color as his brother’s. So strange how his held compassion when West’s never did. “How bad is this stage fright that you’ve got?”
“My lips are numb.”
He laughed helplessly. “You’ve got this.”
“Do I? Because I feel like someone is hunting me with a knife, and it’s the audience… and look!” She held up her hands to show him that they were shaking. “My fingers won’t move.”
“They’re kind of moving.”
“Well, yeah… but they’re not doing what I want them to do. How am I supposed to play a guitar?”
He grunted like he was thinking, just as a voice sounded over the loudspeaker. “Are we ready for some fireworks, everyone?”
The crowd cheered back in response.
“I couldn’t hear you,” the DJ encouraged. “You sure?”
Now the spectators sounded like a den of roaring lions. She felt the feeling leave her cheeks next. Nash’s jaw tightened.
“Emily, that’s your cue!” Mia ran up behind her, grappling for her guitar, nudging her to step out into the arena. Emily couldn’t look at Nash now that she’d confessed her deepest, darkest secret. Besides River, she’d never told anyone something so detrimental before.
“You remember that I’m a bullfighter, right?” he asked.
“A what?”
“Rodeo clown, baby. We know the arena better than anybody. If you need my help, I’ll do it. Just give me a signal.”
What was he talking about?
“Just set down your guitar at the mic and I’ll do it. I’ll help you. That’ll be the signal.”
“Yeah.” She was in a fog of fear now. His talking wasn’t making it to her brain, just a lot of misfiring neurons screaming for her to run. Squeezing his hand, Emily snatched at the guitar that Mia pushed into her hands.
“Wait.” Mia screwed a cowboy hat over her head, as if that improved things somehow.
Throwing back her shoulders and hoping that her smile didn’t look sickly, Emily made the long trek across the lonely arena to get to the microphone.
Why had she worn heels? They’d made her feel so confident when she’d first put them on. Now they punched into the dirt, making her feet stick.
Was she moving at slow, nightmare speeds? It felt like it. The spotlight followed her every movement.
They’d cleared the arena of everything but a banner that twisted in the faint breeze. From the overhead lights, she noticed her name was on it.
Someone over a loudspeaker was talking about how cute she was.
With difficulty, she kept herself from fainting. She neared the microphone. It waited there like a threat. Her guitar felt like it was slipping from her hand. Gross. Was she all sweaty?
“Just set down your guitar at the mic and I’ll do it. I’ll help you. That’ll be the signal.”
She reached the microphone. She felt even worse now than she had at Lacy Lynch’s. She’d evaded her fate then. Had the cold fireworks done their job, she might’ve gotten through the recital with a subpar performance under her belt. There really was something about each success, no matter how small, making you able to face the next challenge, except, this wasn’t going to be a success, was it?
No, no, no. These negative thoughts weren’t going to do anything for her.
She took the strap of her guitar to slide over her quivering shoulder.
“I’ll be waiting for you in the stands. We can sit together and watch the singer tonight. I heard that she’s tolerable.”
Oh great, really? She was really going to think about Eva Trout right now?
