Page 42 of Wildfire
Reluctantly, I pull my feet out of the water. As much as I love sitting here, I must prepare for tonight. This is it—my moment.
I shower and pull out a few outfits to choose from. I decide to go with a sleeveless black cotton top and tight black jeans with my engineer boots. I leave my hair down and wear slightly heavier makeup than I'm used to.
Zoe comes home just as I am finishing up. She wraps her arms around me from behind and looks at me in the mirror.
"You look fine tonight! Cole won't know what to do with himself!"
"This isn't for Cole."
"You can tell yourself that, but he will go nuts."
"Zoe, we're just friends."
"Uh-huh. I'll believe that when you text me from the road on Sunday morning."
I turn to look at her. "I'm not staying for a man. Not like my mom did."
"Do you really think your mom regrets her decision?"
"She had to have, Zoe. I can't imagine choosing to live in Downsville and raising kids instead of singing and playing. The high, you know?"
"Maybe she did. And maybe you'll find out soon that is what you want too."
"Downsville?"
"Not in the strictest sense, but yes. Being in one place. Being in love and raising a family."
"But she never got to raise us."
"Renée, your mom died too young. But that has nothing to do with giving up her music."
"Maybe it does."
"Okay, are we going to do this now? You're being irrational."
"No. I don't want to talk about it. Get dressed, and let's go to the Grange."
"Alright, but we aren't finished with this conversation." Zoe raises a brow at me, and her lips are a thin line.
"Fine."
"Fine."
She showers and puts on a cute little black dress with boots that match mine. I had to admit we looked smokin'.
I grab my guitar, and we drive into town. The Grange's parking lot is already starting to fill up, but we find a spot along the side near the door leading to the stage. We file inside, and I get set up while Zoe finds her way to the makeshift bar.
Voices and laughter mask the thundering in my chest. As people pour in, I chat with the band and do the sound check with them. My palms are damp, and my guitar pick slips from my fingers as I check my guitar levels. No one notices heat flash across my cheeks, and Georgia offers me a smile when I catch her eye. She walks over and squeezes my shoulder.
"You've got this."
I nod and finish my sound check.
We file off behind the curtain on the side of the wooden platform stage and sit in the fold-up chairs. After a few minutes, Callie comes on to give opening remarks. My mouth feels like it is stuffed with cotton as I hear her speak about the festival before she welcomes us on stage.
I can feel my pulse hammer in my chest. This is it. This is the moment. I step out from behind the curtain as the crowd roars for Frayed Edge. The room is packed like sardines, each looking up at us.
I step behind one of the microphones, and Jordy, the drummer, kicks us off with a countdown. With each beat of his stick, I feel my body relax. The bass player, Trevor, joins in, and it is like a call to arms. People start to clap to the beat— they know this song— and I get swept up. When Georgia opens hermouth to sing, I am right there with her, ready to harmonize for the chorus.
