Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,15

my dressing rooms. Tonight went great, hardly a hitch except for a two-second delay on the trigger for “Barely There.” I’m sure no one noticed except me and the crew, but there will still be a meeting on that before tomorrow’s show. That brief pause will be treated like a global crisis, requiring a task force and urgent investigation. My performance was flawless, however, and I left the stage as a goddess, revered by thousands of new followers. I should be on a high, and yet, as I crash into my dressing room, those thirty-thousand friends are already forgotten in favor of one who wasn’t even here—the one person who won’t accept my sacred status.

I stare at the empty couch against the wall, wondering what it’d be like to find him here after a show, waiting to soothe the near panic that’s been simmering lately after the adrenaline rush wears off. Just one smile. That’s all it would take. One glimpse of that dimple in his cheek and the light in his eyes, and I’d be able to breathe again.

But he’s not here. I’m alone. Stranded on my gilded island that’s been steadily shrinking for weeks.

I grip the back of a chair in front of the wall of mirrors, trying to catch my breath. There’s no hope of that with the sticky reflection of a mannequin staring at me, so I quickly turn to lean my back against the stool instead. Crap, the other wall is mirrors too, and I clench my eyes shut, fighting the urge to smash them with my water bottle.

I have to get myself together. My mom is probably already on her way here to the dressing room, and I’m in no state to handle her right now. I’m lucky she wasn’t the one waiting on the couch.

It’s just a mirror. What is wrong with you? You’ve done this hundreds and hundreds of times. They love you. Everyone loves you.

But they don’t. They don’t even know me. Where’s Hadley with my phone? I need my phone!

Breathe. You’re okay.

I count in my head, quickly at first, then intentionally slowing the pace to time each inhale and exhale. My therapist’s voice filters into my head. I visualize her calm expression as she explains anxiety and the many weapons at my disposal to battle it. I am in control.

I am in control.

I am in control.

Hadley’s signature knock brings a wave of relief, and I let it settle over me. Still balanced against the chair with my eyes closed, I force in more steady breaths.

“Gen? You okay? What is it?”

“Fine.” I release a long exhale to match the inhale.

I am in control.

“Here, drink this.” She hands me a custom tea blend designed to soothe my vocal cords and frayed nerves. I’m drinking it more often now, lately multiple cups when one is no longer enough to calm the storm. This isn’t my first bout with anxiety after a performance, and it’s been getting harder and harder to stave off the panic that always seems to buzz just below my breaking point. But I can’t break. I won’t. I am in control.

When I finally brave a look at Hadley, I don’t like the concern on her face. It means I’m not doing a good job with my mask anymore. She always reads me better than anyone, but usually it’s because I want to show her more than the others, not because I can’t hide it. A rush of panic surges through me at the terrifying thought that maybe I’m not in control. I swallow a gulp of tea to block it out.

“Do you have my phone?” I ask.

She pulls it from her pocket and hands it over.

“Thanks.”

“Your mom called. She ran into Loren Hollinger from Fleur Noir Magazine and will be late. This is the one Sam was—seriously, Gen, what’s going on?”

“Nothing!” I force a laugh and even wave my hand. “Tell her not to worry about meeting me back here. I’m going to shower at home tonight. One of the perks of a local show!” My joke is weak and doesn’t provide the distraction I was hoping for. I’ve totally lost the ability to fool Hadley. What about Oliver? Another person I can’t seem to fool. Speaking of, I stare down at the screen, filled with notifications, but none from him. Maybe I’m even disappointed by that. It would be crazy to call him, right? Of course. We just met. Then again…

“You’re not a popstar, Genevieve. You’re my friend.” Friends