Page 128 of Pack Me Up
The first note is supposed to be me, alone, but I can’t move. My hands are locked. The strap’s twisted again. I’m going to throw up or pass out or both.
Tommy shoots me a look and counts it off.
One.
Two.
Three.
I step onto the stage, and the sound is a physical wall of noise that pins me to the spot. The crowd sees me, really sees me, and the scream goes up, a thousand voices howling all at once.
I want to shrink, disappear. I want to run.
But then I spot them.
Saint stands dead center in the pit, arms crossed, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing that matters in this entire universe of chaos. His face is carved from stone, but the bond pulses with a wordless praise that turns my spine to steel. Fox is perched on the side rail, red hair a beacon in the crowd, grinning and giving me a thumbs-up so intense I feel it in my molars. The twins are flanking the stage, mirror images with their arms folded and legs braced, like they’re daring anyone to try and come between me and the stage. Hunter is three rows back, fist in the air, mouth open in a war cry. He looks so damn proud, I want to burst into tears.
The pack is here. I’m not alone.
The first chord comes out rough, but Tommy’s in instantly, layering in and taking the pressure off. My hands find their place. My throat opens. I sing.
And the world doesn’t end.
It starts.
The sound pours out of me like it was waiting for this moment, biding its time behind a dam of fear and pain and thekind of love that could end a civilization. My voice cracks on the first chorus, but the crowd doesn’t care; they scream louder and sing along.
I lose myself in the rhythm, let the music pull me forward, and by the second song, I’m sweating through my clothes and laughing into the mic. Tommy is at my side, pounding out harmonies and making faces whenever I start to doubt.
After the third song, I finally look up, right into the glare. Saint catches my gaze and nods, the tiniest shift, but it hits like a drug. I grin back, and the bond flashes, a warm, honeyed surge that knocks the last of the fear clean out of my head.
There’s a moment, between songs, where the whole world holds its breath. I close my eyes, let the silence land. My heartbeat is slow and steady now, the tremor in my hands finally gone.
The only thing that matters is the pack. The music. The way it feels to be seen, and loved, and alive.
I lose track of the set list after the opener. The tempo goes double-time; my hands blur across the guitar, sweat painting streaks down my arms. Tommy is a monster on keys, flipping from note to note, goofing off with one hand while he mouths the words with me. Every time I look at him, his smile dares me to go harder, higher, further. I match him, note for note. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the fact that I’m still alive and the world has to just fucking deal with it, but my voice sounds better than ever.
We swap instruments for the midset ballad, just to flex. My knees almost buckle at the piano, but the crowd roars when I plunk out the opening chords. My fingers land on the keys, and the first note is so clean it makes my teeth hurt. Tommy stands to the side, working his guitar like it’s an extension of his body, eyes never leaving me.
For a second, it’s just the two of us. The crowd fades. The lights melt away. All I see is Tommy, grinning, nodding, keeping me upright by sheer force of will. The song ends, and we let the silence ring.
That’s when the crowd starts chanting my name. Not the band’s name. Not the song’s. Mine.
The sound is a tidal wave. I never knew my own name could be a weapon. I can see Fox in the side wings, literally jumping up and down, punching the air every time the chant gets louder. Saint is stoic as always, but his eyes are fixed on me, never wavering. Colton and Cody have migrated to the front of the stage, arms around each other’s shoulders, shouting louder than anyone else. Hunter is pressed up against the barrier, still in his oversized hoodie, a giant among mortals, face split wide in a whoop that could shatter glass.
The next song is pure energy. Tommy and I trade solos, winding around each other, every note a dare and a promise. The pack is right there with me. I can feel them at the back of my brain, buzzing with pride. The bond thrums, a heartbeat that echoes in my hands, my throat, my skull.
When we finish, the crowd explodes. Every phone flashlight is up, every hand in the air.
I look at Tommy. He mouths, “Told you so.”
The set ends on a high, but I’m not ready to let go. I put down the guitar, walk to the very edge of the stage, and reach out my hand. The crowd surges forward, but they’re gentle, like I might shatter if they’re too rough. I touch fingertips with a few fans, all of them grinning or crying or both. Someone yells, “We love you!” and the rest of the crowd picks it up, until it’s a chorus, a chant, and a confession.
Tommy throws an arm around my shoulder. “You fucking killed it,” he whispers, half-laugh, half-sob.
I just nod, because if I say anything I’ll start crying too.
The crowd refuses to calm down, still chanting, still clapping, still holding their lights high. I close my eyes and let the sound fill me. I think about every moment I almost gave up, every night I tried to claw my way out of my own skin, every time I doubted I could ever be enough for the pack, the music, or the world.
