He smiles.
Yet again disarming me with his surprise-attack sweetness.
“Hope you change your mind,” he says at the door. “But won’t blame you if you don’t. I’m a handful for most. Call me any time of day or night. I’m up until dead-o’clock most nights. It’s called ‘No Fool For Love Songs’, by the way … that melody you heard that night. It was a new piece, unreleased. Heard he was inspired by … someone very special.” Then he smiles—Austin smiles—and leaves.
I stare down at my hand. His name. His phone number.
His handwriting.
Billy emerges at the office door. “Who was that?” he asks.
I’m not sure what he overheard. Or how to answer. “Just a guy I met,” I reply, gnawing on my lip to keep the smile away.
Chapter 6.
Chase
It’s a totally new day.
It’s a bold, beautiful, totally new fucking day.
I still can’t believe I pulled it off.
“Whose birthday again?” I lean in to ask.
“Esmeralda,” repeats Dee. We’re just offstage in the wings. It’s our next show. Loud as fuck. The opening act is noisier than usual in this venue, something to do with the acoustics. “Es-mer-al-da. Second row in a black sweater with your name on it, your number one fan, can’t miss her. She went to my high school. Could you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her, maybe between the third and fourth songs with the band intros? I can tell Naomi so she can hold the lights. You’ll make Essie’s every last dream come true.”
“The power of a song,” I mutter to myself. “Did Ian okay it?”
“Did he?” she asks with a smirk before slipping away.
And when the third song on tonight’s setlist ends, “Easy Path to My Heart”—one of my recent personal favorites for totally no reason at all that has nothing to do with a guy from a little town called Spruce—I decide to take the requestan extra step and, after an introduction, extend my hand toward the lady and ask her up to the stage with me. She literally won’t stop screaming the whole way—neither does the audience, they really eat this shit up—and then goes as silent as a corpse when I, Fiona, and Wily surround her on all sides and, in the bright key of F, sing “Happy Birthday”. Poor Esmeralda doesnotknow what to do with herself, her hands erratically going from fanning her face to clutching her breasts for some reason as she mouths, “Holy fuck,” over and over. The song ends too quickly, and I can’t help but notice the audience is going nuts over this, so I tell her to hang out for a spell, flag a frazzled Dee in the wings, and get Esmeralda a chair. And it’s there she sits, right next to us, while we play one more song in her honor: “The Big Happy”. She’s crying halfway through the number, even though it’s an upbeat earworm about chasing your dreams, but I’ll take that as a win. Afterwards, I take her hand—she won’t stop shouting, “Thank you, Chase!! Thank you!!” at my face with tears dotting her flushed cheeks—and help her off the stage. Then we’re back in full swing, rocking our next number with the audience clapping along and stomping their feet. I catch Fiona smirking happily at me from the keyboards. Wily’s deep in the feels, banging on his bass, and Raj bounces energetically behind hissing hi-hats and snares.
It’s just one of those shows that reminds you why you started doing this at all and why you still do it, despite everything.
The crew are loading out so much more chill than usual, like the energy in the backstage and loading bay areas is bubbly with infectious optimism I haven’t seen in a while, like it’s everyone’s birthdays. Seriously, no one will stop talking about it. I heard even Rob watched from his post, cackling every time Esmeralda would shout out a sudden curse word of joy. Dee shed tears. Naomi could not wipe the smile off her face from the lighting board.
Someone tells me I’ve got a pep in my step tonight.
A total 180, that’s what this is.
Chase’s back!—That comes from one of our backline techs, the comment accompanied with a cheery high-five.
In a nook by the back hallways near a table of cheeses, snacks, and fruit bowls provided by the venue, I’m with Fiona, Wily, and Raj in a post-show huddle, first one we’ve done in a while. “I did a different bass line in ‘No Love Lost’,” blurts Wily, like a sudden confession, except a note of excitement tickles his voice when he adds, “I just felt in the moment, y’know? I went off a little, and—”
“Keep it, Wiles,” I tell him, patting his back. “It worked.”
“Yeah, definitely worked,” agrees Fiona. “Made the chords so much less repetitive at the turnaround before the final chorus. It’s not like you went and added awhole new songor something.”
I give her a smirk of appreciation. “You won’t let me live that down.” She shakes her head no.
Raj winces. “I hate to cut this short, but I’ve been holding it in since the encore, and I really gotta—”
Another set of arms flops over my and Wily’s backs, inserting a new face into the circle. Ian’s, specifically. I’ve already prepared a reply for when he gets on my case about the invite-a-random-fan-onstage-for-a-birthday-song situation, ready for the heat.
Instead, Ian says, “You guyskilledit out there. Did youfeelthat crowd? They were connected, full-steam until the last encore. I’m so proud of all of you. Truly great show. Bravo, seriously, bravo.”
Ian gives my shoulder an especially tight squeeze.