Page 14 of Knot Their Opening Act

“I’m—fine,” I manage, as I straighten up. Before I can wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, Caylee’s arm flies out to grab mine. Then she pulls a wipe out and dabs at my mouth, reapplies the lip gloss, and feels my forehead with the back of her hand.

“Please tell me you ate today.”

I look pointedly at the floor. “There’s the proof.”

She nods. “Okay. Just nerves then?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve felt nauseous in waves since last night.”

Another nod. “I think that’s normal. Like I said, get this one done and you’ll be laughing.”

My hand goes to my stomach as I’ve seen Viv’s do so many times since her pregnancy began. It is physically impossible for me to be pregnant. But I can’t help but feel I’ve forgotten something. Something that might’ve helped me feel more ready, less anxiety-ridden.

I replay taking my anxiety meds as usual last night, my morning workout, the fresh air before soundcheck … Apart from hearing from Viv tonight as I’d hoped—and I cut her that slack because she’s probably currently vomiting in a more appropriate place than backstage at a Glasgow stadium—I can’t think of what it could be.

“Just nerves,” I say quickly, then take Caylee’s proffered elbow as she leads me to the side stage beside my bandmates. We all glance at each other, and in natural light flooding us from the arena now, I nod vigorously to show my worried-looking musicians that I’m fine.

“And—time!” says the stage manager.

“Let’s fucking go, team,” Ash whispers, and at that, the four of us stride to our positions. A tech’s placed my guitar around me and I step to the microphone.

“Hello, Glasgow!” I say, grinning from ear to ear. At first it’s forced. I raise my hands to my brow, looking out over the teeming crowd. Beach balls and balloons fly around the forest of arms bouncing around below. The catwalk is a single long, thin section of stage, which I’ve been told I can use or not, depending how I feel at any given time, but of course, security’s heads are all visible surrounding it. Stage lights show the edge, and the brightest lights above make it hard to make out many faces. But as I look down at the front row just before me, the forced grin becomes real.

My fans. Some of my fans arehere.I’ve never played Glasgow before, though I’ve played Edinburgh and a small outdoor festival in Inverness. There, right in the front, are three girls in their early twenties or so, holding signs with my name in glitter. The girl in the middle has cotton-candy-blue hair just like mine, and she’s done her eyeliner in impeccable wings—far better than my own job.

My heart feels full. If this is the only moment and the only fans that I get, I will take it.

Murray counts us off loudly. “Two—three—four—” and my first song of the night,Jagged Heart, takes my mind away from anyone who might be standing directly behind my fans. In my mind, those three women are the only ones here. And I’m going to play the best damn show just for them.

Time means nothing as I perform two fast numbers and then settle in to two ballads, one which ramps up during the bridge into an explosive final chorus.

I have zero expectation that anyone will sing along except my three fans, and it’s honestly so hard to pick out individuals once I’m in performance mode. Harder still with the bright lights and the overwhelm of the sea of bodies all attached to ears and eyes that are taking in my show.

But I hear them. Voices. Singing my words back to me, in this enormous stadium, in this giant swaying, dancing, turning ocean. It might be ten, it might be a hundred, but I hear them, and my face feels like it will crack in two from the smile creasing it.

The nausea has held off, but as I’m just about to dive in to my fourth of eight songs, it niggles at me. Adrenaline’s kept it in check, I guess. I turn to face Murray on drums and take a breather, hiding my face from the crowd for a second. And that’s when I hear the male voice yell:Bring out Fable!

To be fair, it’s notYou suck!orGo home!orYou were disqualified for a reason, you talentless breathy HACK, but it still makes me cringe inside.

Murray doesn’t blink. He just stares serenely into my eyes as we nod the count-off together before one of my favorite songs to perform,Demon.

I strum the opening chords and hear Ry’s hypnotic bass line set the mood, and a few more shouts about Fable go off, but my fans in front are waving their posters and screaming at me with glee, so I tell myself I don’t care. Even as my stomach lurches and feels like it’s folding in on itself.

It’s when I reach the line,I tried to suppress you but I couldn’t guess you were aiming your hate at my heart.And that’s when it hit me. What’d I’d forgotten.

Because Viv has always been there, because she insisted I focus all my energy on the music, the writing, the performing, the practicing, and getting exercise and sleep. Because I allowed her to for so long that we slipped into this habit, this relationship, this routine. Because Viv has always done so much admin for my life, down to filling my prescriptions.

And because my anxiety meds are filled every month, but my heat suppressants are only once a year.

Because I had the email reminder a week ago to refill, and I’d put it off, too frazzled by tour prep. And then I forgot completely.

I haven’t taken any for three days.

Three days.

A sudden sweat breaks on my forehead as I sing the next few lines, flubbing one word but jamming another in the line to make up for it. No one will notice but those three girls.

I finish out the song and my heart beats double-time. My anxiety dumps the adrenaline back into my system that I’d gotten over with those opening tunes going so smoothly.

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