Page 116 of Until You Say Stay
I smile despite the nerves churning in my stomach. Maren and I FaceTimed an hour ago, and before that I’d called my parents, who were so proud they both got teary, which made me teary. Thank goodness I chose to wear waterproof mascara tonight.
I’m wearing the dress Maren and I picked out weeks ago. Deep blue with silver stars beaded all over it. My hair falls in soft waves, my makeup looks good, and I feel confident about how Ilook. Now if only I felt half as confident about getting through three songs.
The door opens and Maya walks in, phone pressed to her ear.
“Mm-hmm, yes, I understand, but we need the sound levels adjusted before the next performer or—” She spots me and holds up one finger in the universalgive-me-a-secondgesture while finishing her call. “Right. Okay. Handle it. Thanks.”
She hangs up and immediately types something on her phone with her thumbs moving at lightning speed.
“Lark! Thirty minutes,” Maya says, still typing. Then she glances up and actually looks at me, and her expression does this thing where her professional smile falters for just a second. “Oh.”
My stomach drops. “What? Is something wrong?”
“That’s what you’re wearing.” It’s not quite a question.
“Yeah, I thought… you said something elegant and stage-appropriate?” I’m suddenly very aware of every bead on this dress.
Maya sighs. “I sent you a list last week. The stylist picked out options that fit the rebranding aesthetic. This is...” She gestures at me. “Very pretty. Just not quite what we discussed.”
“I didn’t get that email,” I lie, and I’m definitely going to hell for this because I absolutely got that email. The problem was that all the outfits looked atrocious and like something I would never be caught dead wearing. So I may have decided that email was more of a suggestion than a requirement.
Maya studies me for a moment like she’s calculating whether this battle is worth fighting, then shakes her head. “Well. It’s too late now anyway. You look great, honestly. Just not exactly the direction we discussed.”
“I’m so sorry.” I’ve worked in customer service long enough to make that sound genuine.
“It’s fine.” Maya picks up her phone again. “Okay, so you’re third in the lineup. You’ll do your three songs. I heard the sound check went well earlier, so I think you’re all set.”
She glances up from her phone, giving me her full attention. “The label executives are watching the livestream back in LA. This is your showcase, your chance to prove you can deliver this sound live and handle a real audience. You do well tonight and we move forward with an official contract.”
“Right. No pressure or anything.” I try to smile but it comes out more like a grimace.
“You’re going to be great!” She squeezes my shoulder briefly before her phone buzzes again. “We’re so excited about your potential. Just remember everything we talked about—big energy, connect with the crowd, really sell these songs.”
Her phone rings and she’s already answering it as she heads toward the door. “Yes, hi, I’m dealing with that right now—” The door closes behind her and she’s gone, swept back into whatever crisis is happening.
The room feels smaller without her chaos filling it, which is probably better for my nerves. Just me and the bass thumping through the walls from the main stage.
I walk over to the corner and open my guitar case, reaching inside the pocket for my phone charger. My hand closes on crumpled paper instead.Shit.I pull it out and smooth it flat, my throat tightening.
It’s the first draft of “Until You Say Stay.” I wrote it about Jack the day after our huge fight, and I’d completely forgotten I’d shoved this in here. The finished version is better now, polished, refined. I’ve played it dozens of times at home, even recorded it a few times without posting anything.
But seeing this handwritten first draft brings every second of that fight flooding back. The way he looked at me. The things we said. How much I miss him crashes over me like a wave I wasn’tprepared for. I trace my finger over the crossed-out lines and frantic rewrites.
Two in the morning, tears streaming down my face, but my fingers flying across the guitar strings like they knew exactly where to go. The words pouring out raw and honest and completely mine. That’s what my music is supposed to feel like.
Not the versions I’m about to play. The ones that have had every piece of me stripped away and replaced with something generic. Something safe. Something that isn’t even my style, that I don’t even like.
I shove the paper back into the pocket, but the feeling won’t go with it.
My hands are shaking.
I don’t know if I can do this. Walk out there and perform songs that aren’t mine, smile and sell something I don’t believe in, prove I’m willing to erase everything that matters to me.
A knock on the door. “Twenty minutes, Ms. Reyes.”
Twenty minutes to decide who I want to be. I look at the pop versions sitting in my case, then at the pocket where I shoved that first draft.
Maya’s going to kill me.
