“We’re ready now.”
I hear a low, bitter laugh rumble from Ryder’s throat as we step out on stage together, walking to our microphones. The house lights come up, illuminating us in twin spotlights, and the audience detonates in a bomb of applause and adoration. The big smiles we’ve slapped on our faces never waver.
Showtime.
* * *
The show passesin a rush of color and sensation. Looking back, I recall it only in flashes, the way you do a car wreck or a fall down a flight of stairs or a mandatory public speaking performance in front of your high school English class.
The stage lights, scorching like distant suns. The pulsing crowd, swaying in their seats like one massive living organism. Lincoln’s drumsticks moving so fast, they’re a mere blur in my peripheral. Aiden’s dark grin, as girls scream his name from the front row.
And Ryder.
Ryder,everywhere, in every breath and beat. Sharing my mic, gazing into my eyes, singing along with me in undeniable sync. The audience sees two performers moving in tandem, crooning in perfect harmony. They aren’t close enough to recognize the anger burning so brightly behind our eyes as we gaze at each other like lost lovers, singing words we no longer believe in. They aren’t near enough to see the hands that reach for each other would sooner curl into angry fists than clasp in a tender hold.
“You’re the moon, I’m the sun, stuck in distant skies,”I sing, the ultimate fraud.
“I’d gladly burn out, to see the light in your eyes,” he echoes, an equal deceiver.
I’m too pissed off to be nervous about my performance, anger still simmering white-hot in my veins. I don’t brush it aside or bury it under a rug. I feed on it, channeling every raging ounce into the music as I belt out the words, sounding better than I ever have during rehearsals or soundchecks. Song after song, note after note, I pour myself out until I’m a hollow ghost, striding across the stage in a night-sky dress.
We close the show withFaded, of course. Our final song of the evening, the one everyone in the crowd knows so well, we could probably get away with lip-syncing while they sing the words for us. They go crazy when Ryder and I leave our guitars and mic stands behind, traversing the catwalk toward the pit stage in the center of the crowd. This close, I can see their faces, half-hidden by cellphone screens as they live-stream our every move to social media. When we reach the end of the platform, I bend to brush my fingertips to theirs, skimming eager hands and smiling when they scream with delight. I hear happy shrieks from behind me and know Ryder is doing the same on his side.
The intro starts to swell in the air around us. We take our places: back to back in the center of the platform, our eyes averted. I’m relieved I don’t have to look at him. I don’t want to be at war — at least, not while we’re singing this particular song.
’Cause love don’t burn out, even though you’re gone
And hate don’t come just ‘cause you write it in a song…
The platform beneath us begins to rotate in a slow circle, giving us a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the entire arena as we stand there like statues, looking out over the crowd. A cosmos of cellphone lights blink back from the inky darkness, swaying along to the tempo as we spin.
Sure it’s sad, but it isn’t complicated…
You’re the only memory that never faded…
Oh…
We singour final notes and the lights go dark, plunging the stadium into utter blackness. The sky explodes as the fans’ voices fill the void ours left behind. Breathing hard, I lower my mic and listen to their cheers undulating from all sides, wave after wave of exaltation with no end in sight. Ryder’s back is pressed tight against mine; I can feel his breaths coming just as rapidly as my own, his muscles corded with tension under the fabric of his shirt. I resist the urge to lean back into him as the platform beneath us jolts into motion, descending down into the floor — a vanishing act fit more for a magician than two musicians, if you ask me, but the crowd can’t get enough of it.
“I LOVE YOU, RYDER!”
“FELICITYYYY!”
“ONE MORE SONG! ONE MORE SONG!”
“WE LOVE YOU, WILDWOOD!”
“ENCORE! ENCORE! ENCORE!”
The platform glides smoothly to a stop beneath the stage and then, in the blink of an eye… it’s over. Our first show, officially on the books. We step off into the narrow space that runs beneath the catwalk, crew members there with flashlights to guide our steps in the darkness. It’s eerie, walking in the bowels of the arena as screams echo all around us.
Two gladiators making their final trek from the barracks to a bloodbath.
It takes a long time for the applause to peter out, even after the stadium lights flicker on. They’re still clapping as we make our way up the dark flight of steps that lead from beneath the stage into the wings. I’ve barely made it two steps when I’m enveloped in a sweaty hug.
“You rocked it, Fee!” Lincoln smacks a wet kiss on my cheek.
“Me? What about you?” I grin at him. “You were on fire! I thought your drums were about to start smoking when you did your solo duringOrbit.”