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The laughter is short lived, though, and I sober right up, trying to calm the nerves jangling inside of me. Funny how a person gets performance anxiety for something that only a few weeks ago would’ve been no big deal.
While I know it won’t be hard, what I’m about to do, there will be a lot of eyes on us. If not at the restaurant, then at least via social media.
“You’re going to be great,” Simon finally says to break the tension-filled silence—most of it coming from me. “Stop getting all worked up over something you used to do all the time.”
“I don’t remember me doing anything like this,” I tell him.
He sends me a quick look. “You used to perform all the time.”
“With four other people. Now I’m on my own. All eyes on me.”
“You’ve totally got this. They’re all in love with you.” Simon reaches over, gripping my knee and giving it a quick shake. “Number seven! Unbelievable!”
“Thanks.”
“Red” broke the top ten in its debut on theBillboardHot 100. Fucking unbelievable. I never imagined for a second I could make something like that happen again.
Now the pressure is on. Hotter than ever.
“You should be feeling on top of the world, my friend.”
“Easy for you to say.” I shift in my seat, my phone declaring the destination is in one mile. Traffic is moving, and as we draw nearer, I realize there are a lot of people outside the restaurant.
Huh.
Simon approaches the building and pulls over to the curb, parking in a red zone. “Go ahead and get out. I’ll find parking and come back.”
“You’re going to leave me here alone?”
“What, are you scared?” The way he says it actually annoys the shit out of me.
What’s wrong with having a little stage fright?
“I’m not fucking scared,” I spit out. “But there are a shit ton of people hanging around this place.”
“It’s a popular restaurant. Get over yourself.” He hits unlock on his car, and I reach for the handle, opening the door. “Don’t forget your guitar.”
I climb out of the car and open the back door, pulling my guitar out and leaving the case behind. I sling the strap around my neck, the beat-up old guitar resting in front of me, and I bend my knees so I can make eye contact with Simon, still in the car. “Want me to wait for you before I start?”
“Nah. Someone will start recording the moment you start singing, so I won’t miss much. See you in a few.”
I’ve barely slammed the car door before Simon is pulling back into traffic, causing a few cars to honk at his impatient ass. Turning, I face the restaurant, realizing that quite a few people are watching me.
A young girl screams out, “Tate Ramsey!” when she spots me, ready to charge in my direction, but the man standing with her—pretty sure that’s her dad—grabs her by the shoulder, holding her back.
Her yelling out my name draws plenty of attention—heads swivel in my direction, curiosity in their gazes, recognition dawning.
Shit. Looks like I’m performing for an audience.
The restaurant Scarlett is at has plenty of windows lining the front, and as I approach the building, I’m squinting, trying to find her sitting inside. Finally, I spot her, her long brown hair streaming down her back, smiling as she sits across from a cute blond I recognize from her party. Her best friend, Rachel. The one who’s supposedly going to visit us in Los Angeles.
Hopefully she’s a Tate Ramsey fan.
Grateful she’s sitting so close to a window, I position myself directly in front of it and grab hold of my guitar, strumming it. Ignoring everyone watching me, and that’s pretty fucking difficult since they all have their phones aimed right at me, capturing what I’m about to do, I clear my throat and march right up to the window, knocking on it so hard the glass rattles.
Scarlett startles, her head swinging my way, her eyes going wide when she spots me. I glance over at her friend, who’s watching me with equal wide-eyed wonder, and I clear my throat one more time before I begin to sing.
She’s a beautiful girl who changed my life
