Page 76 of Pack Me Up
Tommy calls a break, tossing his sticks onto the snare with a flourish. “We sound amazing,” he says, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Are you ready for a thousand screaming fans?”
I force a laugh. “Do you think they’ll scream, or just, like, stand there with their phones out?”
He grins. “Both, probably, but if you keep playing like that, they’ll scream. Trust me.”
I sit on the edge of the drum riser, wiping my forehead with my sleeve. My heart is racing, not from the rehearsal but from the idea of the crowd, the lights, and the possibility of messing up in front of everyone. I glance over at the security cluster: Fox is deep in conversation with man-bun, both of them gesturing wildly, and Saint is watching me, arms folded, a faint smile on his face.
That smile means more than all the applause in the world. I can feel his pride down the bond.
Tommy flops down next to me, stretching out his legs. “You know,” he says, “sometimes I forget you used to be scared of your own shadow.”
“Thanks,” I say, with mock offense.
He nudges my shoulder. “No, I mean it. You’re the bravest person I know, Britt. You’re killing it.”
I want to say something cheesy, like “I couldn’t have done it without you,” but the words get stuck in my throat.
Instead, I say, “Let’s run the transition from ‘Evenings’ to ‘Broken Glass’ one more time. That’s where I always mess up.”
Tommy stands, back in work mode. “Your wish is my command.”
We set up for the transition, counting off the bars, making eye contact right before the switch. This time, I nail it. Thetempo holds, the chord change is perfect, and when Tommy cues the downbeat, we both hit it so hard the cymbals crash for what feels like a full minute.
Saint claps, slow and deliberate, from his seat by the wall. Fox whistles, and even the tattooed security guy gives a holler.
I look at Tommy, and we’re both grinning like idiots.
Tommy bows, sweeping one arm out like he’s on Broadway. “Thank you, thank you. You’ve been a wonderful audience.”
I unplug my guitar, letting the last note hang in the air. The rehearsal space feels smaller now, less empty, more like the start of something than just a room we didn’t use until this last rehearsal.
We pack up while the security teams gather at the door. Tommy lingers, waiting for me.
As we walk out, he bumps my shoulder with his. “Friday is the big day,” he says. “You nervous?”
I try to smile. “Extremely.”
He manages a grin. “Me too.”
Brittney
PACK EM UP GOSSIP COLUMN
DID WE SEE MATING MARKS ON BRITTNEY RYAN?
May 3rd
I’m cross-legged in the center of the nest, cradling my phone, picking absently at the frayed edge of Saint’s T-shirt, which smells so powerfully of him I can barely concentrate, and pretending I don’t feel like the luckiest omega in the world.
My phone vibrates in my hand, a wicked little shudder that makes me jump, and for a split second, I expect it to be my father, or worse, my mother.
It’s not. It’s Oli. Of course it is.
I hesitate. Thumb poised over the accept button, I feel my body flood with a new, different kind of panic, less survival, more stage fright. But it’s a good panic, sweet at the edges, tinged with the kind of hope I’d forgotten how to want.
“Hey,” I say, voice barely above a croak.
“Britt!” Oli’s voice explodes through the phone, so loud I have to yank it away from my face. “Holy shit, girl. How do you feel?”
