Page 110 of Until You Say Stay
I groan, rolling over in bed and burying my face in the pillow. I should get up and be productive. Instead I’m lying here like a tragic heroine in a Victorian novel, probably about to die of a broken heart.
I’d had a whole plan about how I’d talk to him. In my head I’d pictured this serene version of myself who would sit him down calmly and explain why I felt hurt, ask him why he didn’t tell me everything, have this mature adult conversation where we both communicated our feelings like emotionally healthy people.
The reality was me building up a fuming rage as the hours went by without sleep, refreshing social media obsessively andreading comment after comment about how I was probably just another conquest. And then the second I saw his face, I exploded into accusations and yelling. Not my finest hour. But it definitely wasn’t his either.
And he hasn’t texted. Part of me wants to reach out. To apologize for some of the things I said, for jumping to conclusions so fast. But the other part is still so hurt and angry that he walked away, unsure of whether or not to believe him, and pissed that he said maybe we should have kept it fake.
Maren came over yesterday and we’d talked it all out over an entire bottle of wine. She thinks I should call him, that we both said things we didn’t mean. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
My phone rings and Maya’s name flashes across the screen.
Shit.She’s probably calling about the demos. She’d told me theylovedthem and would be in touch soon about next steps, which should be great news. At least if my personal life is actively burning to the ground in spectacular fashion, maybe something good is happening with my career. That’s what I should be focusing on. Except for the fact that Ihatethe demos.
“Hey Maya,” I answer, trying to inject some energy into my voice. Trying to sound like a functioning human instead of someone who’s been living in emotional wreckage for three days straight.
“Lark! I have news!” Her voice is so bright and excited it’s almost painful. Like she’s operating on a completely different emotional frequency than I am. “Are you sitting down?”
“Uh, yeah, I am,” I lie, still horizontal on my bed in the same pajamas I’ve been wearing since yesterday. Or maybe the day before. Time has lost all meaning.
“Well, as we talked about briefly at the meeting, we at Tidal handle entertainment contracts for various sports venues and events across the US. One of our biggest partnerships is with Formula One.” She pauses, clearly for dramatic effect. “Andwe’ve had a last-minute dropout for the Las Vegas Grand Prix. We want you to fill the slot.”
My brain stutters, trying to process the words. Formula One. Vegas. Las Vegas Grand Prix. My stomach flips and twists like it’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.Performing live.
This is huge. This is massive. This is the kind of opportunity that could actually change everything. And then, approximately one second later, the second thought hits me like a truck:Jack will definitely be there.
“You still there?” Maya asks.
“Yes! Sorry, I’m just…” I sit up, my brain trying to catch up. “Wow. That’s incredible. When is it?”
“Two weeks. I know it’s incredibly short notice, which is why I need an answer right away. These opportunities get planned months in advance usually, but one of the new artists we booked had to drop out at the last minute and we immediately thought of you.”
“I’m so honored, really, thank you,” I say. My heart is racing. Two weeks to somehow fix stage fright I’ve been battling for years. Two weeks to become the performer I used to be, back when I loved being on stage instead of being terrified of it.
This is everything I’ve been working toward, everything I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid singing into a hairbrush in my bedroom and pretending I was performing at the Grammys.
“It’s more than huge, Lark. This is the kind of platform that genuinely launches careers. You’d be performing Sunday morning, one of seven artists in our emerging talent showcase. Small morning stage, three songs, but the coverage is national.International, actually. Between live TV, streaming, replays,millionsof people will see it.”
I ignore the part aboutmillions of people,choosing to focus on the small morning stage part. Only three songs. I can do three songs. I’ve done three songs before without completely fallingapart. Sometimes. When the crowd was tiny and half-drunk and not really paying attention.
But those demos. Those smoothed-out, polished versions that sound like they could be anyone. That had everything unique about my music stripped away and replaced with something marketable.
And Jack. Jack somewhere in that same city, in that same world, existing in the same space as me while we’re not speaking. While we might be broken up. While my heart is still shattered into approximately ten thousand pieces.
“The songs would be from the new demos, right?” I hear myself ask, pushing the Jack thought away. “The pop versions?”
“Exactly. ‘Wildfire,’ ‘Burning Bridges,’ and ‘Late Night Calls.’ The new arrangements, the updated production. We want to see you deliverthatsound live, prove you can connect with this kind of audience.” She pauses, and I can practically hear her smile through the phone. “And Lark, if this goes well, if you show us you can perform this material the way we envision it, we’ll sign you. Official contract. This is your showcase. Yourmoment.”
My heart stops, then restarts at double speed. I’ve been working so hard the last two years to give this a real shot, the whole time wondering if I was delusional for thinking I could actually make it in this industry. And here it is. Being handed to me on a silver platter. My childhood dream wrapped up in a bow with a contract attached.
But those fucking demos. The lyrics they gutted and replaced with generic phrases that could mean anything to anyone. The production that smoothed away every edge, everything that made them mine. Maya had sent over “style guidance” for my social media last week with suggestions about my aesthetic.
“Lark?” Maya’s voice pulls me back to the present. “I need an answer. I know it’s fast, but this is extremely time-sensitive.”
“Yes,” I say, and the word feels heavy in my mouth. Final. Like I just agreed to something I can’t take back. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”
“Wonderful!” Maya says. “I’m so thrilled, Lark. This is going to be incredible. You’re going to absolutely kill it.”
We spend the next ten minutes going over logistics. Flights, hotel, stage times, what to expect. My brain is only half-processing the details, the other half still stuck on that word.Yes. I’m committed. Like I just signed away something important without fully reading the contract.
