Page 81 of Sunrise Arrows

“Yes, I can perform.”

“Do you need a minute? We can delay a handful of minutes and no one will know if you need to.”

“No, I’m good. I just have to brush my teeth,” I answer, standing back up.

I smooth my hands over the outfit for my first set, fluffing the layers of the emerald colored dress’s short skirt. In the corner of the room, I check myself in the full length mirror from several angles, shaking my hair to be sure the matching bow that pins it out of my face is secure.

“Are you sure?”

The color is slowly coming back to my face and everything from before is a soft echo to be heard later.

“Yes. Let’s do this,” I assure, turning around in a puffy cloud of tulle, a serene smile firmly in place.

When I’m minty fresh again, we make our way down the impossibly long hall in a golf cart to where my band and dancers are waiting for our pre-show ritual. Before I hop out, though, I put my hand on Briar’s arm.

I don’t have to voice my plea. She simply puts her hand over mine and promises, “I will,” sending me on my way, no one but her the wiser that as I chant, jump, smile, and laugh with everyone, that I’ll be faking my way through tonight’s show.

* * *

I comeoff the stage and, immediately, I’m swarmed by people. One to touch up my hair, another my makeup, one at my feet helping me take my boots off and step into a set of heels, and yet another helping me yank off the white dress I wore for Ellie’s birthday so I can shimmy into a pink one that ties in a bow around my neck.

Over the ruckus, I hand over my microphone and guitar, take out my in-ear monitor, and ask Briar, “Did he see?” having just finished the part of the show that starts with Archer’s songs.

Someone—I’m not sure who—shoves a straw between my lips, and immediately I sip the room temperature water.

I know the answer before she says anything, the look poorly masked on her face. “No. I’m sorry, babe. I’m still trying.”

“I know; thank you.”

Thirty seconds. That’s all I get before I’m running down a set of stairs, following stage technicians underneath so I can come up from the ground at the stage’s forefront. I pop my monitor back in, accept a new microphone, run my fingers along my tattoo to ground myself, close my eyes, and breathe as I crouch down, ready to continue on.

* * *

As the lastfan from the post-show meet and greet leaves, I fall back into an armchair and yank off my shoes. Right away, Briar’s there dropping a pair of sheep lined slippers on the ground and grabbing the custom red bottom heels and handing them off to one of the amazing women whose job it is to maintain my wardrobe on tour. I stuff my feet inside the plush shoes, taking a minute to enjoy sitting before I stand back up.

Even though John is in the room, Anya comes over and helps unzip my dress. She catches it before it hits the ground, and while she hangs it up and tags it for cleaning before I start my Paris shows, I peel off the matching tiny shorts and shimmering, opaque, flesh colored tights I wear beneath all my clothes.

I don’t immediately dress—modesty a thing of the past—and instead flop back onto the leather couch letting the fans cool my sweaty, flushed skin. This and ice water are the best experiences every night following a show. On a table, my strawberry cased phone mocks me while I try to ignore it.

When I’m no longer burning up, I dress in one of Archer’s t-shirts—breathing in his fading scent as I tug it over my head—and knot the excess length up at my waist and pull on a pair of leggings. Hair piled in a lopsided nest on my head, I remove my makeup and wash my face.

Once done, I let myself pick up the offending phone. I’m despondent and unsurprised to find I don’t have my usual text let alone any missed calls or new voicemails.

Accepting the pint of chilled strawberries and a massive tumbler of water that are handed my way, I shuffle toward the door, already hitting ‘call’, and say, “I’m ready.”

In the back of a Land Rover, London passes me by, the historic city lit up for the night. When we pass the turn I’ve come to know as the one for the hotel, I sit up in my seat.

“Where are we going?”

“Airport,” Mikey answers from behind the wheel on the right side. “There’s an issue with fans in the lobby so we’re taking you to Paris now.”

It’s not uncommon that, after several days in the same city, where I’m staying will get leaked to the press. It comes with the territory. But I wish it hadn’t been tonight. I was supposed to get to tour the Tower of London in the morning and see the Crown Jewels. Not that I would enjoy the arrangements Archer made for me if I still haven’t heard from him.

I can’t help but wonder if maybe nothing has happened at all. If maybe the longer he’s been back home, he’s begun to rethink things. Rethink us and what being with me now truly means.

“Don’t go there,” Briar scolds. “I know you’re concerned, but I promise you, whatever it is you’re thinking that has that look on your face, it’s not true. So don’t go there. I’m sure Archer has a reason for not answering your calls.”

“Like what?”

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