Page 91 of That Reunited Feeling

At the speed of a snail with a lead weight on its back, her head turns until she looks me right in the eyes.

She bites her bottom lip. Sighs. And lifts her hand off my phone.

27

HANNAH

“Y

ou’re going to be just fine,” Dominique Sebastian, the lead singer of Four Thousand Medicines, whispers to me at the back of the dark stage.

In the black void in front of us, random whistles and claps burst out of the otherwise murmuring crowd. Almost forty-five minutes after the previous band left the stage, the headliners are finally ready to go, and the air is electric with anticipation and sweat.

“If you can hit that big one, you’re golden,” she says, referring to the long high note right before the guitar break in “Get the Hell Out.” She had me practice it with her a couple times backstage before agreeing I should fill in for their regular singers.

It was a bit shaky the first time. I mean, I was singing with Dominique Sebastian, for heaven’s sake. But the second time, I nailed it.

The feeling of hitting that perfect harmony with my all-time favorite singer sent a whole new type of thrill throughmy body. A thrill of excitement, of accomplishment, of knowing there’s something I’m good at, and that other people think I’m good at. But not just any old other people—Dominique fucking Sebastian. The three other members of the band even gave us a little round of applause. Tom joined in too—but he’s biased.

It will go down as the second high point of my life, alongside the moment the midwife put Dylan in my arms. No matter how good eventually having sex with Tom will be, I’m not totally certain it will beat hitting that note with Dominique.

She ran me through how a few things in their set work, but Tom assured her as long as things didn’t stray too much from the recordings, I’d be fine.

Another whoop erupts from the crowd.

“Tom would never steer us wrong,” Dominique says, squeezing my shoulder. “Enjoy.”

And with that, she jumps off the platform where I’m standing behind a microphone next to the drummer and runs to her spot at the front of the stage.

I didn’t know it was possible for my heart to race like someone flipped the overdrive switch and stomped their foot on the gas pedal at the same time, for my chest to tremble like this as I breathe, for my hands to shake so much I have to clamp them on the mic stand so I don’t look like I’m mid-seizure.

Every part of my body and my brain is the most awake, most alert, and most absolutely fucking terrified that it’s ever been.

Hellfire, I do not belong here. I got carried away, swept up in the adrenaline of the concert and in Tom’s belief in me. But what the holy fucking hell was I thinking? I should not be standing on this stage about to sing with a world-famous band. How did I let this happen?

I’m a thirty-three-year-old mother from Boston who’s never had anything more than unskilled jobs and who gave up all her singing dreams the day Dylan’s dad left. Just weeks ago, thechance to clean the Dashwoods’ toilets and live in their guest suite felt like the opportunity of a lifetime.

And now here I am. Consumed by a burning, quaking panic.

My heart bangs against my ribs, my hands turn to ice, and the pounding of my blood pulses in my ears.

The drummer bangs his sticks together for a count of four.

I glance at the wings, where people in headsets and other venue staff and crew have gathered, all eager for the show.

If I ran across the dark stage right now, I could slip between them virtually unnoticed and head straight out the back door. The band wouldn’t even miss me. In fact, they’d be better off without me. Because this is fucking absurd.

It simply can’t be possible that I get to perform a set with the band whose music has cheered me up in my toughest of tough times. I’ve done nothing to deserve this.

The drummer slams down his sticks with a bang that rocks me like an earthquake. Simultaneously, I’m hit by lights brighter than the sun, sending me stumbling backward, totally off-balance, losing all focus, unsure which way is up.

My trembling hands grab the mic stand again to keep me upright as the guitarist and bassist in front of me on either side of the stage spring to life and Dominique punches the air.

“Good evening, Royal Coliseum Hall,” she shouts at the crowd, which is now a roaring mass of loud cheers.

If they’d become fed up and frustrated with the long wait, you’d never know it. With just those few words, Dominique has won them over and has them eating out of the palm of her hand.

And in the same instant she has me there too. I’m as much of a fan as anyone in that audience, more than some. And there isn’t one of them who wouldn’t want to be where I’m standing right now.

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