Page 13 of For One Night Only

Keeley ordered a truly unhinged amount of pizza, and we eat it on the floor while passing around the Costco-sized bottle of rosé and talking through Valerie’s proposed set list. Once we’ve gone over it a few times, the time and care she put into it is evident—she’s trying to feature everyone’s talents and explore our discography as widely as possible. Other than swapping a few songs around for instrument changes and tech requirements, we’re all in agreement that it’s a good set.

I’m not surprised. Valerie’s always been smart about this industry in a way I wasn’t. The media calls her calculating, but I think she just knows her shit—and doesn’t take any.

I gloss over the acoustic portion that has Valerie and me singing “Every Touch” and “Making Memories” back-to-back. My neck heats, and I wish I could just volunteer Riker to sing those for me. If it were any other concert, we could get away with changing up more parts, but the fans will want to see Valerie and me together. I’m not prepared to sing with her the way we used to, though, sharing one microphone like we were trading secrets.

We’re all a lot more relaxed after stuffing ourselves with pepperoni, pineapple, and jalapeño pizza and habanero wings—and plenty of rosé.

“My sinuses haven’t been this clear in years. I’m ready to go sing,” Valerie says.

“Ugh, after all that dairy?” Keeley asks.

“You’re the one who ordered pizza!” Riker adds.

Jane smiles. “We can rehearse more in the morning, but want to play through something? I have a little studio in the basement.”

“No time like the present!” Valerie says.

“I vote for ‘Making Memories’ because I don’t have to sing on that one,” Keeley says.

I open my mouth to protest, but Riker’s already clocked my discomfort. “I can’t do a ballad or I’ll fall asleep. That yummy wine is making me all warm and fuzzy.” Riker’s always had a hilariously low tolerance for someone built like Chris Hemsworth.

“Fine. Let’s do ‘Midnight Road Trip,’ then, since we can play it blindfolded,” Keeley says.

The others head downstairs, but Riker hangs back with me to tidy up the dishes. “Thanks for that, dude,” I murmur, when everyone else is out of earshot.

“I wasn’t going to let you clean up on your own. That would make me look like a dick.”

I roll my eyes. That’s Riker, always deflecting. “I’m talking about the song.”

Riker shrugs. “Figured ‘Memories’ might be a bit heavy for day one. Baby steps,” he says.

“Appreciate it.”

Once the kitchen is clean, we gather water bottles and head downstairs. I hadn’t paid much attention to the space when I lugged my instruments down here earlier, but it’s practically a shrine to all of Jane’s work—including Glitter Bats.

There are official photos and candids, framed vinyls of each album, even her statuette from the one major award we won: an MTV Video Music Award for “Ghosts.” My chest tightens. All of my own Glitter Bats memorabilia sits in plastic storage containers in the back of my closet, packed neatly away where it can’t remind me of old dreams.

Veryold dreams. I’ve moved on from all of this. There’s no way I’m giving Label another album, and I hope the others are on the same page.

Suddenly, I’m nervous to get started. But even though my hands tremble, I go sit on a stool next to Valerie and pick up my bass. The usual pre-rehearsal ritual begins: Riker hooks a guitar into his amp and starts to fiddle with pedals, Jane plugs a laptop into her Korg and launches her MIDI controller, and Keeley fiddles with her drum kit and cymbal setup. I hum a soft vocal warm-up while I tune my bass, and Valerie joins in like it’s second nature.

“Maybe just the original arrangement to warm up?” she asks as everyone finishes their adjustments.

We’re all in agreement, and after we turn on the amps, Keeley counts us off, sitting jauntily on her throne.

It’s been a while, but the chords come to me like riding a bike. Still, I have to really focus on what my fingers are doing—I play more piano than bass or even guitar these days, and my calluses are gone. It also doesn’t help that every inch of me shakes with anxiety.

And when Valerie opens her mouth to sing the first verse, I nearly fumble the bass line.

It’s not like I haven’t heard her sing in years—Carrie made me watch some episodes ofEpic Theme Songthe last time she visited, but that’s different. Valerie has a great voice for the musical theater style, but she was really made for rock. Her warm mezzo-soprano is rich like honey but sharp as a knife. Something about the way she sings our songs has always captivated me, and tonight is no different.

When we get to the chorus, I don’t even have to think about it—I jump right in with her.

midnight road trip, windows down

let’s go now and leave this town

It feels almost too easy, singing these words. They’re cheesy—I mean, what song isn’t when you wrote it at eighteen—but hearing our voices together after so long gets my heart racing.

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