Breaking South (Turner Artist Rocker #3) - Alyson Santos Page 0,65
in your hand
Do you see it?
Do you feel it?
Did you lose it so soon when you stepped away?
It’s okay, here’s another
And another
And countless more to uncover
For no matter what you do
My heart will keep shedding for you
GENEVIEVE
He’s not coming. Tears collect in my eyes, threatening all the work we’ve done on my makeup in the last hour. He’s not coming. I try to tell myself it’s okay. That the fact that he wants to be here is somehow an acceptable substitute for the fact that he’s not. My mom’s smug look when she figures out he stood me up is more than I can handle, and I march from the dressing room, letting the door slam shut behind me. Brett and Walt leap into action in my wake but I ignore them as I accelerate my pace, headed somewhere. Anywhere. I don’t even care. Maybe I’ll get lost in the back halls of this casino and won’t have to make an appearance at all. What was supposed to be one of my most anticipated performances, where I finally showed Oliver the side of me he could admire, is now a chalky mist in my throat. I cough it out, the old anxiety he’d spent weeks helping me tame flooding back in violent waves.
“You don’t need me. You don’t need anyone.” Maybe that’s true for the girl in the mirror. She might be a badass who can face her demons, but tonight I’m Genevieve Fox, the girl who can’t face her own shadow. Since the moment we met, he’s seen how she can’t stand on her own. It was going to be okay because he’d be here this time. He promised. He promised!
I know I’m not being fair. Even when he said he would come I’d been skeptical. Gosh, it must be so hard going through his rehab. I can’t imagine the physical and mental toll he faces every day he shows up to battle back. I’m not mad at him. Just… heartbroken. Scared. Afraid of what’s going to show up on the stage tonight now that I have no idea who or what I am anymore.
Keep it together. You are in control.
“There are times in each of our lives when we have to choose,” I say, leaning into the mic at the baby grand piano as I begin the transition into “My Eyes.” It’s the final song of the mini-acoustic set in the middle of the show. I’ve performed it dozens of times, given the carefully scripted speech even more often. I should be on autopilot, but today my brain is involved. Overactive and intrusive. B-flat to E-flat to F. Wait no. G-minor. Crap.
“Are you going to…”
A bum note at the change to the G-minor chord shivers through my body, leaving a jolting chill in its wake. My blood pressure surges, my pulse thumping loudly in my ears. “Are you going to…” To what?! B-flat to E-flat… My reckless pulse makes my fingers shake as they work the keys. Everyone’s watching. Waiting. They must have heard that missed note. Don’t screw up again. You can’t afford another mistake. Don’t screw up. Don’t screw up. Don’t screw up. My hands are trembling. I blink into the glaring stage lights by accident and now I’m left with a sharp blind spot as well. What was my speech? The transition time is almost over. The mechanical voice in my ear is already calling for the intro to the song.
I release a slight chuckle that I hope is endearing. “Well, anyway, you didn’t come to hear me talk. Instead, maybe you’re ready for a peek through ‘My Eyes.’”
A cheer erupts from the audience as I launch into the familiar intro. With a few deep breaths, I calm the adrenaline back to functional levels and force my mind quiet. Instinct. That’s what I need now. At this point, tonight is about survival. Just get through this show and then I can regroup. Maybe we work out a simpler transition for the next… stop it brain! Focus!
“Every little crack I hide is another lie for my disguise
Every little piece you break is another hit I take…”
My voice sounds tinny in my ears. After getting used to the rasp of my new sound, it’s like I can hear the lack of heart in my old one. Doesn’t the audience notice? I force more emotion into my face, hoping it will reflect in my voice as I sing.