and pulls out a short black T-shirt dress and a fitted purple-and-green flannel. Here.” She says. “It’s called a compromise. Still the flannel and boots but put on some leggings and a dress. You deserve to look good. This is your night.”
“Technically, it’s Phil’s night.”
“Technically,” she repeats louder, “it’s your best chance at saving the club and Liberty Live. So”—she shakes the dress—“put this on, and you’ll look like you care.”
“Fine,” I say. “I happen to love this dress,” I grumble. “It’s comfortable. I just forgot about it.”
“That’s the spirit,” Meg says, not bothering to hide her exasperation.
After getting dressed, I put on a little light makeup and pull my long hair to one side, braiding it loosely enough that strands fall around my face, how I like it. I’m pretty sure it’s how Luke likes it, too. Not that it matters. I don’t even know if he’ll show. After blowing him off, I deserve it if he goes to his dad’s club instead. Thinking of him at the Bad Apple, listening to (Not) Warren without me, is depressing, though, so I push it away.
“Perfect,” Meg says, and I nudge her shoulder in our reflection, grateful she’s here. For better or worse, whatever happens tonight, I’ll still have Meg.
“Let’s get this over with,” I say.
* * *
We arrive late. Okay, not late. On time, but it feels late. I wanted to run the show, but Phil put his foot down. My purpose tonight is to watch and write and talk it up tomorrow on my blog. All my work was in the prep and marketing. By the time we arrive, it’s dark and crowded on the street.
“Holy shit,” I say to Meg. “They closed Liberty?”
Meg shrugs. “They had to. Look at this. People are packed in like sardines.”
“This is incredible. Who knew people loved bluegrass so much?”
Meg lets out a high-pitched laugh and pulls my hand along. We arrive at a barrier, and my mom says, “We’re expected. I’m Mary Josephs.”
“Of course,” the officer says, letting us past. I gape up at my mom. “Did you just name-drop?”
She smiles. “I’ve waited my whole life to do that.”
We push up to the stage right as the lights shut off and the crowd gasps before screaming.
“There are a lot of girls here!” I shout to Meg.
She shakes her head, mouthing, “What?”
I can make out some movement in the dark, the band getting set up, but I can’t make out anything they are saying. It looks like three figures and a piano? I don’t remember Ben’s band having a pianist, but good for them. They’re obviously branching out.
“Turnout’s great, isn’t it?” I look to my left, and it’s Ben.
“What are y—”
The lights flare on, and I gasp.
It’s not Ben and his bluegrass band onstage.
It’s Luke. My Luke. His piano is raised in the center of the stage, a spotlight making his white-blond hair stand out like a halo around his face. His eyes are closed, and his fingers are steady. He inhales once, sharply, a rise and fall of his broad shoulders, and opens his eyes to stare directly at me. He smiles his sideways, crooked smile and begins to play the showcase song.
What if this is all we’re going to be?
What if we just did what they expected
And we let them take the lead?
I’m not sure I have it in me,
More than maybe is all I’ll be
But I know it’s not how I see you,
So, it can’t be what I believe
And if that means that we’re falling short
If we’re missing all the marks
Then our potential, we abort,
Then, baby, quitting’s just the start
We weren’t meant for ordinary,
We weren’t meant to wait
Our lives aren’t supposed to be ordinary
I’m no longer leaving us up to fate
The crowd is breathless in anticipation. His voice echoes through downtown like it was meant for this. For all the times I’ve heard Luke sing, I’ve never had the privilege of watching him play, and mercy, it’s the most sensuous thing I’ve ever seen in my life. His entire lithe form pours into the movement, from his legs pumping a perfect rhythm against the pedals to his long fingers dancing confidently along the keys. And the way his face scrunches up at the words? His intensity terrifies and thrills me. I know this beautiful, talented, awkward boy. I’ve kissed that face. I’ve loved that face.
And he wrote this for me.
Oh God.
Luke’s shoulders bunch and sway along with the chorus, and he barely sits on his bench, as if he’s incapable