Page 240 of Haunt Me

I want to hug him and punch him on the nose at the same time. He’s holding his beautiful violin, his fingers gleaming with what seems like thousands of rings. The slim slice of silver on his lower lip catches the spotlight as he flashes a rare smile to the crowd, and they explode with delirium.

Behind me, a secret compartment of the stage is brought to the light, revealing a group of James’ students. They belong to the Parisian music academy James works for; they are his class. None of them older than twenty years old, they’re seated in a circle around James, lifting their instruments to their chins, a small string orchestra. The piano seat is waiting for me next to their chairs; I will be playing the piano and James will be conducting, God help us. His students will be playing the operatic piece as I performI’m Counting This As A Date.

I introduce the musicians and talk a bit about my brother, about how he composes my music and produces some of my songs. As the students tune their instruments, I point to my brother:

“A man who needs no introduction, the one the only James Pan.”

James was supposed to be standing in front of his students, by the podium, but instead I find him next to me, completely ignoring the roar of applause he gets, and whispering in my ear:

“You just had to make it sound as if I’m a circus ring master, didn’t you?” Has he forgotten that we’re standing in front of seventy-three thousand people? I think he just doesn’t care.

“My brother, ladies and gentlemen!” I hiss through clenched teeth.

The crowd roars for him.

And we start.

…

We get through the gorgeous piece of music before the first verse ofI’m Counting This As A Date, James, his orchestra, and me, and then I start singing. I did not have the arrogance to expect the crowd to know the lyrics to a song that was released so recently—contrary to my brother, who insisted they would know every word—the entire stadium sings along with me. Damn him, he was right again.

James’ orchestra performs the piece flawlessly, as expected. James plays the solos on his violin while he is conducting. It is exquisite. He is in his element. Lost in the music he himself composed and arranged, doing a million things at once, conducting, performing, and keeping an eye on me in case I keel over again. He is utter perfection at all of it.

I sing my heart out while playing the piano, and the result is truly out of this world. When it’s over, I feel empty. It was that beautiful. That epic. The crowd is subdued too, tired from the deluge of emotion that drowned us all. Depleted from takin in the beauty—but for once, it a good kind of emptiness. A good kind of quiet.

It’s a silence that’s swelling—full. My eyes sting as I think of all the trouble James went to for tonight: endless rehearsals on top of his usually grueling schedule, composing music for a ton of my songs, then changing the timelines of his students’ performances so they could all be here tonight. I have no idea how he found the time to do all this. I know he didn’t do it for the crowd. He didn’t do it for the fame either—he couldn’t care less about it, even though right now it sounds like he has more of it than me. He did it for me.

And I don’t deserve it. Because all this labor, effort and time he sacrificed for me can’t fix me. No one can if I can’t do it myself.

Once their part is over, James’ students are led backstage, after a standing ovation of two minutes. I breathe a sigh of relief. Being on a stage of this magnitude exposes me to all sorts of dangers, and bringing all these college students on it has been giving me anxiety since we started planning this. But it seems to be a success, all around.

Until now.

Everyone is gone. Even Jude and Miki have disappeared, and it’s just James and me on the stage, panting after giving everything, and I do meaneverything, to the performance of the song.

But the crowd can’t see us fighting for breath.

Instead, they start chanting:

“Duel. Duel. Duel. Duel.”

I pretend not to hear them, and they get louder. The chanting picks up from all sides of the stadium:

“Du-el. Du-el. Du-el. Du-el.”

James laughs. I feel the ground sway beneath me. He holds my gaze, still panting heavily from conducting that majestic piece, and lifts his violin. The crowd stops chanting and screams in joy.

James puts the violin under his chin.

“No,” I say to him.

“Scared?” he whispers. He doesn’t have a mic fitted to his mouth, a blessing for all of us, but he does have one on his violin. He plays a quick flourish that sounds suspiciously like the opening notes ofSaint Hope, and the entire stadium echoes with the notes. They know what’s coming. They’ve asked for it.

“No,” I hiss again.

James lifts an eyebrow. The crowd is already singing the first verse ofSaint Hopewithout music, just perfectly synchronized. Seventy-three thousand people.

“Absolutely not,” I say to James, and pick up my guitar.

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