Page 36 of Cadence
She’s a goddamn songwriter; she should’ve known better.
But as I read through her comments, her changes, her responses to my self-loathing scribbles, they were everything I was trying to say and more. I hate to admit how right she was, and with every note in her neat, cursive handwriting next to my scrawl, the more my anger dissipated.
The exact opposite of what would’ve usually happened.
“Whoever she was, I’m sorry. This is hauntingly beautiful. One day, I hope you play it for the world.”
Her words are burned into my skull as clearly as they’re inked beneath the lyrics. Small, careful, almost hesitant, like she knew she was crossing a line. She didn’t just read my song. Sheheardit, understood me better than anyone has in years.
And then the second note…bolder this time, a lot more confident. She took what I had, the part I kept butchering, gutting and rebuilding, and managed to fix it, while maintaining my voice.
She’s been where I am, working to the point of exhaustion, trying to perfect a section until you’re ready to tear it up and start again. And somehow, in the space of five minutes alone with my words, she cracked it, saw what I struggled to say, and instead of adding to the wreckage I’d already left in the margins, she wrote something kind, something hopeful,encouraging.
But instead of admitting that I needed help, I’ve stayed quiet, sticking with the same mediocre lyrics I’ve sung in practice all week, pretending that inside I’m not at war with myself for wanting to accept her suggestions.
But using them now? At tonight’s show after everything I’ve done? It feels wrong. I don’t get to claim them after how I treated her. And yet, the thought of singing my lines again makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The backstage area is crammed with too many bodies and not enough air. Heat clings to everything, the back of my neckalready prickling with sweat, and I drag my hands through my hair, willing my brain to shut up about the new track.
I close my eyes and breathe, trying to tune out Eli’s incessant chatter about the stage lights, or Beau checking the gear. It doesn’t work, though. Off to the side, Paige sits alone on a flight box, tapping a rhythm on her thigh like she’s trying to force the nerves out through her fingertips.
I should say something, be a decent frontman and check on our newest band member. She’s about to step out in front of four thousand Sip Station fans, all screaming our name, for her first ever show, and I haven’t said a damn word to her since we arrived.
I stay where I am, watching her from across the room, like distance might give me back some control. It’s not like before when I watched out of suspicion; it’s not even curiosity.
This is worse.
Because I’m unraveling, and I don’t know how to deal with that.
Eli says something that makes her laugh, but the second he looks away, her smile vanishes. She blows a slow breath from her lips, her gaze dropping to the floor before she stands, wiping her palms on her jeans.
My eyes track her before I can stop them, like they always seem to do. She’s in one of our old band tees, knotted at the waist, the tucked-up hem exposing a strip of skin I have no business noticing. Her ripped jeans cling to her legs and the curve of her hips.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, transfixed as she ruffles her curls with both hands, the strands catching the light, creating flashes of copper, gold, and that deep burnished red that takes up too much space inside my head. Her eyeliner is smudged just enough to make her blue eyes look darker—dangerous or intense, I can’t decide which, but I know it’s sexy as hell.
I tell myself it’s the adrenaline I’m reacting to, the excitement of being back on stage and the promise of what’s to come, but it’s not that. It’s her. The way she bites her lip in between deep breaths, the way her eyes keep bouncing around backstage like she’s hoping no one will notice how hard she’s trying to keep it together.
And I see it all, because I keep finding myself being pulled toward her without even meaning to.
“She looks good, right?” Eli appears from nowhere, nudging my arm, grinning like he already knows the answer.
I blink, eyes dragging away from her and down to my guitar. “Didn’t notice.”
“Sure,” he laughs out under his breath. “And you weren’t just checking her out two seconds ago?”
I don’t respond, instead thumbing the strings and twisting a tuning peg that doesn’t need adjusting. He keeps talking, something about the set list and crowd numbers, but it’s all white noise.
“You ready?” Eli asks, his hand coming heavily down on my shoulder, pulling me out of my head.
With a nod, I step toward the stage, the muffled yells and chants from the other side bleeding through the walls, vibrating through my chest like a second heartbeat. We gather into our circle—Beau, Eli, Paige—three pairs of eyes locking on mine, expectant, waiting.
“We’re about to change everything,” I say, voice steady, my gaze zeroing in on each of my bandmates. “Three months joining Reign Cooper is the break we’ve been waiting for. We’ve worked our fucking asses off, made a shit-hot set list that we’re going to perform in front of thousands. And out there?” I jerk my chin toward the stage. “It’s all because of them. Because of their belief inusthat we’re even standing here at all.”
“Hell yeah!” Eli yells, already buzzing with energy, and if Beau didn’t have a tight grip on his arm, I’d bet he’d sprint out there without us.
“So, let’s give them the show they came for.” I clasp the guys’ shoulders, squeezing hard.
They both nod, barely contained smiles forming on their lips, but their eyes burn, shining with the anticipated ecstasy of doing what we love. Then I look at Paige. Her mouth presses into a thin line, and she swallows hard, shoulders pulling tight.
