Page 23 of For One Night Only

Caleb was always so great with fans. He could hang out for hours after shows, signing merch and taking selfies and just getting to know the people who loved our music. Hell, he used to lecturethe rest of us when we’d get tired, reminding us to honor the fans who made all of our success possible. And I’d sign tickets and posters and pose for photo after photo, no matter how my feet hurt, because he was right. We owed it to them.

Something is wrong.

“Thanks, everyone, have a good night,” I say quickly into the microphone. People rush up to the stage.

“Keep your pants on, kids,” Keeley shouts from her place near the stage, where she must have shouldered through the crowd, but her voice is drowned out by the commotion in the room. We’ve really done it now. People aren’t just pointing at us—they’re taking not-at-all-subtle photos of the rest of the band too. I blink when I notice Mary Kate Hampton fromBuzzwordnext to Riker. When did the press figure out we were here?

Glancing around frantically, my pulse steadies when I don’t recognize anyone else. And maybe MK’s presence is totally innocent—I know she and Riker are friends. Still, as much as I wouldn’t mind some decent headlines, I can tell Caleb needs to get out of this room.

Setting my jaw, I square my shoulders and turn to the emcee. The guy is broad-shouldered, maybe late fifties, wearing a black bar T-shirt, black jeans, and an LA Kings cap. He looks like every reliable sound technician I’ve ever worked with, and it makes my muscles soften a little. “I’m so sorry about all the fuss.”

He shrugs. “It’s good for business. But I do have to get to the rest of the karaoke list at some point.”

“Do you have another exit?” I ask. I don’t blame him for wanting to get on with his night. We made a spectacle of ourselves.

He turns to us, grimacing. “We do, if you can make a run for it. Head left past the bathrooms through the door that saysStaff Only.”

“Thank you,” Caleb says.

I shoot a desperate look at Keeley behind the fans, and instead of ignoring me the way I deserve after rehearsal today, her eyes fall to Caleb and light up in understanding.

I got you, she mouths, and I want to cry as she makes a beeline for our table.

“Hey, who wants a picture withRiker Maddox?” she shouts. “If you’re really polite, he’ll sign your tits!”

“No, I won’t!” Riker squeaks, but the crowd starts to shift toward their table in the back. The commotion pulls enough attention away from us that we’re able to escape into the hall.

We turn the corner past the bathrooms, which leads us into a concrete storage room with a dull greenExitsign out the back. There are boxes stacked haphazardly, and several are open to reveal napkins and condiments and bottles of alcohol. If anyone followed us, the last thing I’d want to do is hang out back here, but Caleb doesn’t hurry for the exit. No, he’s leaning against the brick wall, panting.

“Caleb? We should really get out of here.”

He nods but keeps his eyes closed. “Yeah, just…give me a second to catch my breath. God, I forgot how much I hate this.”

I blink, confused by this revelation. “What do you mean?”

Caleb opens his eyes, and he glances over at me, something guarded in his gaze. “I didn’t just leave the band because of you, you know.”

I flinch. “Wow, okay.”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, it was just…things were fine when we were onstage, but then when I saw the crowd at the end, I felt trapped.”

“You were always so good with fans,” I say carefully.

“You’re not the only one who can act,” Caleb says, laughing dryly. “I have anxiety attacks. It’s been a while, and they’re mostly under control, but…between school ending and planning to bedown here for the summer, I forgot to refill my prescription. Just give me a minute.”

“Do you need me to…” I trail off, because I don’t know how I can help him. In the dim lighting, he’s ghostly pale. I mirror his posture and rest against the opposite wall, the rough brick clinging to my damp T-shirt.

He clears his throat. “No, I just need to do a couple breathing exercises.” He pulls out his phone, and for a moment I think he’s texting, but we’re close enough for me to see he’s watching the clock. Counting his breaths.

Jesus. He wasn’t ready for this. I brace myself, unsure of what to expect, but after a few minutes, color returns to his face.

“Okay, I’m good now.” He still looks a little shaky, but I don’t want to push it. Almost of its own accord, my hand reaches out to comfort him, but I think better of it. Instead, I wipe pretend dust off my jeans.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t realize…you were always so natural at all of this. It always seemed like youlikedthe promo stuff.” I thought we were close, once upon a time. If I didn’t know he had panic attacks, what else was I missing? We were supposed to take care of each other. I can’t believe I was that wrapped up in my own shit.

He shrugs. “I was good at hiding it. I might know how to socialize, but I only ever wanted to make music that meant something to people. I never really felt comfortable with the attention.”

“Oh.” This surprises me. Maybe I really don’t know Caleb at all. When I asked him to do this, I didn’t even ask how he might feel about it. I asked him to jump in headfirst.

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