Pasha had heard Ed practice these lines over and over, but he saw the moment firsthand when Ed verbally tripped over lyrics that held so much meaning for him.
He stumbled over the promises Steve had written for his son.
Promises that Ed couldn’t bring to life no matter how hard he tried.
Ed’s voice cracked before he recovered, hauling back the lyrics like he was dragging each word to safety. His expression revealed emotions that Pasha recognized so clearly—love, and guilt, and sorrow—and his voice broke one last time on the final prolonged note.
Something inside Pasha fractured before setting firmly. He straightened in his seat, resolute and decided as the audience applauded.
Ed didn’t have to be a one-man army.
It was past time he knew that.
Only a few minutes later, Pasha stood where Ed had sat on his stool, facing bright lights of his own. He looked up, praying that Charlie would come through right at the end like he had for them at the beginning. His heart rate sped when the intro music to his own song was cued, sending pulses of energy around his body so acutely, he wondered if sparks were visible.
He’d worked for this moment for so long.
So long.
He’d practiced as a kid, lip-syncing to a CD he about wore out.
He’d paid every spare penny as an adult to expensive vocal coaches.
All to thrust the first prize in the face of someone who didn’t matter.
He stood on anXtaped to a stage he’d dreamed of, and he drew in a steadying breath.
The song he’d chosen—familiar, catchy, and fun—could be a sure-fire winner if he sang like Ed had ordered. And if he added the flourishes he’d secretly perfected, it could stay top of the charts until Christmas at least. The intro picked up pace, and Pasha danced a few steps, drawingoohsof admiration for his moonwalk prowess, then laughter when he pressed his fist to the center of his chest twice before pointing to where he knew Ed waited. He saved his biggest smile for Gerry, who lingered in the wings like a particularly bad smell.
Right at the crucial moment when he should have opened his mouth to sing, the music abruptly cut out and the venue filled with silence.
Pasha glanced in the direction of the control box before he started singing a different song entirely.
Perhaps he mangled the pacing at points.
Maybe he made up a few lines of his own when the correct lyrics escaped him.
But Pasha sang from the heart, and he hoped that made up for any mistakes. More people than him would win if the voters loved it. That was a result he could live with, even if it cost him two years.
The audience joined in when he got to the chorus—Nowhere I’d rather be than home with my true love, baby—and he bowed low when he was finished.
For the final time, applause was a tide that swept him from the spot at center stage that he’d wanted so bad, but it washed him to where Ed waited. He shrugged off the host, and pushed past a furious-looking Gerry, before stepping into his embrace.
Ed’s voice was gruff. “What the hell?”
Pasha pulled out his earpiece so he could hear over the sound of Charlie laughing. “Gerry can send me wherever the hell hewants if I win. I can take him being an arsehole.” He didn’t want to, but he would if he had to. “But I’ll be fucked if Steve’s son doesn’t get something out of it.”
“You did it for Steve?”
“No. I did it for you. For all of you. And for me,” Pasha admitted. “Now it’s up to the voters. At least if either of us wins, Mandy will end up with more than an army pension. And if Anya wins, then….” He blew out a huge breath. “Then maybe I could go home with you? For a while? Until I figure out what to do next?” They must have call centers in Cornwall, surely. What was one more accent to learn? He’d go to work happy every single day if he had Ed to come home to.
Ed’s face described emotions that even the shadow of the wings couldn’t keep hidden. He shook his head, like ‘no’ might be his answer. Then he quickly nodded. “Not ‘for a while’, Pash. You can come home for as long as you want. You’ve got to know that taking you home for good would suit me fine.” His eyes were bright, catching the lights that suddenly flared as Anya’s turn to perform came.
After the host spent a few minutes reprising her time in the competition, Anya turned and blew two deliberate kisses their way. She took a moment to gather her courage, just like she’d done every single week of the contest, and then she nodded.
There was no musical accompaniment.
No dancers as distraction.