So Not My Thing - Melanie Jacobson Page 0,102
in before I tried to add my vocals. Because right now, my throat was closing like I’d just developed a deadly allergy to the mic in front of me. And the notes didn’t get better. The more I fumbled, the more I fumbled. I was ready to stand up and run when a warm hand touched my bare shoulder and Jordan was back, leaning down to whisper again.
“I can play if it would help. I listened to it a few times yesterday. Could you sing if I do that?”
I nodded. “I think so.”
“Go to the main mic,” he said. “I’ll cue the sound guy to turn it on.” He slid onto the bench and I slid off, walking over to the lead mic on legs that were as shaky as when they’d walked me to the stage. But at least here, I could hold the mic and the stand and keep my hands still.
As soon as I took my mark, the melody I’d been messing with for weeks poured from Jordan’s fingers as flawlessly as if he’d been the one practicing it the whole time, and this time, after the intro, I came in with the lyrics.
Been hard to get over it but I was trying
If I said it didn’t matter I’d be lying
But there’s a point I have to let it go
And now I just need you to know...
My nerves began to settle as I let the words sink in, trying to fill them with the same emotion that had poured from me when I wrote them. The audience had gone quiet again, at least. And maybe, maybe if I could sing this right, wrap each note with the love and longing that I’d been feeling for Miles for months, maybe he could see me standing here, terrified, but doing this. Doing this despite the shaking. Doing this despite the fear. And he would see that I could do this. We could do this.
You make me new, I’m whole with you
You’re all I ever want or need
We’re the love story I want to read
I eased into the second verse, my voice coming a little stronger, the emotion quieting my nerves.
I don’t want us to be a “what might have been”
Let’s turn the page and begin again
This chapter doesn’t have to be our ending
We can write our own brand new beginning
It took me back to the feeling of driving down the causeway, the wind blowing into my car and clearing from my mind everything that wasn’t the truth of my feelings. That I loved Miles. And that was everything.
As the verse built to the chorus, the last of the tension slipped from my body. This was good. This was right. And whatever else might happen next, I had given Miles my truth.
I sang the chorus and the third verse, and as the melody transitioned toward the bridge, giving me a short break from vocals, I turned to beam at Jordan, so thankful he was backing me. I hoped he still felt good about giving me this chance.
But it wasn’t Jordan at the piano. It was Miles.
He smiled at me, his expression soft and gentle. I stared at him, frozen, not noticing that I had missed the entrance for the final chorus until he sang it like he’d meant to do it all along.
“You make me new, I’m whole with you,” he sang. “You’re all I’ll ever want or need...”
“We’re the love story I want to read,” I sang with him on the last line. Our voices blended as effortlessly as they had all the nights it had been the two of us in here, playing together like the rest of the world didn’t exist.
He played an outro and let the last notes fade. I hadn’t turned to face the audience since I’d realized he was there. It was quiet, as if they knew we were all holding our breaths together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Miles said into the mic, never taking his eyes from me, “this is Miss Elle. My Ellie. And every song I’ve sung for the last three months has been to her, for her, and about her. But I’ve never actually said to her that I love her.”
My heart starting kicking snare triplets.
“Ellie Jones, I love you.”
A huge grin split my face, and he pushed back from the piano only to climb on top of the piano bench. He threw his head back and shouted, “I love Ellie Jones!”
The audience lost it. They broke into hoots and hollers and suddenly Jordan was onstage again, this time on the snare, tapping out a drumroll. The hoots grew louder, and then over them, Chloe’s voice, clear as bell. “Kiss her!”
Miles didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped down from the bench, sweeping me into his arms and dipping me like an old-time sailor returning from sea. “I love you, Ellie Jones.”
“Prove it,” I said, grinning up at him.
His kiss made the whole world spin away, and when he set me back on my feet again, the audience was on theirs, catcalling and applauding.
“Now that’s what I call a turnaround,” I said, close to his ear.
“Better give them an encore,” he said.
And we did.
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About the Author
Melanie Bennett Jacobson is an avid reader, amateur cook, and champion shopper. She lives in Southern California with her husband and children, a series of doomed houseplants, and a naughty miniature schnauzer. She substitutes high school English classes for fun and holds a Masters in Writing for Children and Young Adults from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. She is a two-time Whitney Award winner for contemporary romance and a USA Today bestseller.
You may also enjoy Melanie’s delightful Southern romance, Kiss Me Now.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the following people who helped me with story technicalities: Jimmy Hatch for the commercial real estate insights, Lefty at Euclid Records for explaining the Bywater vibe, and Alexis Simms for sharing your insight into the experience of being Black in New Orleans and your clear passion for the city. Thank you to Emily Proctor at Midnight Owl Editors for her sharp copyediting, Raneé Clark for the formatting, and Karen Krieger for hunting out crutch words. Thank you to Camille Maynard for your supernatural proofreading abilities. Thank you to the Zoom sprinters who kept me accountable: Clarissa Kae, Jennifer Moore, Kaylee Baldwin, and Ranee Clark. Thank you to my writing group, Teri Bailey Black, Aubrey Hartman, Brittany Larsen, Tiffany Odekirk, and Jen White for cheerleading and helping to shape these characters into almost real people. Thank you to Jenny Proctor for all the things. Thank you to my patient family, and especially to Kenny, who always gently interrupts if he needs something so as not to startle me when my head is in totally imagined places.