Page 115 of Forbidden Lyrics

“I’m sorry. I just… You were made to shine, Gibson––”

“No. You were made to shine.” He brushes a few strands of hair away from my cheek, then toys with the ends of them right above my left breast. “You’re gonna do great tonight.”

I fold my arms and drop my gaze to the ground. I wish I had his confidence. Right now, I feel like I’m going to puke.

“I’m freaking out, Gibson,” I admit.

“Don’t.” He lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him. “I also read the video comments, you know. They love you too.”

“They love us,” I clarify while attempting to block out the crew backstage who are working around us. It doesn’t work.

“Fine, they love us, but that includes you, Dove Walker. You’re gonna do great tonight.”

My breathing picks up as I shake my head. “I feel like I’m about to be fed to the wolves. I’ve never sung to a crowd before, Gibson.”

“You sang at SeaBird––”

“I froze at SeaBird. Remember?” I fist the sides of my dark tank top as another wave of anxiety threatens to get the best of me. “You had to get on stage and help me.”

“What about church choir?” he mentions.

“Church choir was like fifty people. And I was singing with half of them. This”––I motion to the audience only one wall away who are already screaming at the top of their lungs––“is a little bit different.”

A large guy with a headset on silently orders us to step out of the way, and we follow his request before Gibson turns back to me. “You’re gonna do great, Dovey.”

“What I’m going to do is puke,” I tell him.

He laughs, pulling me into his chest, finding my mini-meltdown way more amusing than I do. He doesn’t get it, though. I’m not strong. I’m not brave. I’m not confident. I’m terrified out of my freaking mind. The only things keeping me from collapsing into a heap on the ground are his strong arms holding me in place. Heck, I wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for his support, trust, and confidence that I actually have the talent to pull this off.

But the idea of doing it alone?

Not so great.

He rubs his arms up and down the back of my dark tank top rhythmically as if his touch might ease my nerves but doesn’t say a word. And even though I’d never admit it out loud, his silent comfort’s kind of working.

Jerk face.

The rest of the band is already on stage and have played two songs in their set. Which means I’m supposed to go out there in about three minutes. My stomach churns more violently, and I close my eyes, clutching Gibson’s black T-shirt like my life depends on it.

“You’re gonna do great, Dovey,” he repeats, his tone a little more empathetic this time around. Like he can feel my nerves. My anxiety. My fear. My excitement. All of it. But he still doesn’t get it. None of this matters if he isn’t with me.

Squeezing my eyes shut, terrified of his rejection, I whisper, “Come out with me, Gibbs.”

“Dove––”

“Please?” I peek up at him.

“Fen’s going to sing with you.”

“I don’t want to sing with Fen. I want to sing with you. I want to be with you. Please?” I beg, still buried into his warm chest as if I belong there.

The cheering heightens as the last few notes are played. Then Fender’s deep, booming voice echoes throughout the arena.

“And now, ladies and gents––” he starts, but I don’t register a single word after.

Panicked, I look up at Gibson. “Come with me, Gibbs.”

“Dove––”

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