Page 157

“They do an open mic night on Saturdays,” Kit whispers in my ear. “All musical acts welcome.”
The realization of why we’re here hits a second later. “What? No!”
“Yes.” He steers me toward one of the open tables closest to the stage.
No one wanted to sit right in front, and I don’t either. But Kit isn’tasking. His grip on my hand is sure and firm as he leads me over to the central spot.
“Want anything to drink?” he asks once we’re seated.
“What Iwantto drink isn’t an option until May.” If there wasanychance of me getting on that platform, it’d be higher with alcohol involved.
Kit leans closer. “C’mon, Collins. Play for me.”
“And”—I tabulate a rough estimate of the room—“fifty other people?”
“You’ve played for a larger crowd.”
I have. Recitals at Yale were attended by hundreds.
But that was different. I was one of dozens of students performing. And it was a piece I’d practiced for weeks or even months. I don’t even have sheet music with me. I’d have to play from memory, and who knows how that will sound?
Aside from Kit, everyone here is a stranger. People I’m unlikely to ever see again. It’s silly that I’m preoccupied by what they’ll think. But I’m a perfectionist by nature. Making mistakes or messing up never feels natural.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Kit asks, like he’s reading my thoughts.
Maybe he is. He knows I’m not impulsive or reckless. Jumping onstage to perform in front of strangers is something he would do, but I wouldn’t.
“I mess up, everyone laughs, and we can never come back here.”
“Then we go home. When you can drink again, we’ll head to one of the other thousand bars in this city instead of this one and its humiliating memories.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re making fun of me.”
“I’mencouragingyou, Monty. You don’t want to play professionally again? That’s fine. It’s your decision, and I’ll respect it. But I know you love playing. So, play.”
I gnaw on my lower lip, glancing at the stage. The man is still up there. Now, he’s kneeling in front of an amp. I watch as he stands and returns to the microphone.
“All righty, we’re open for business, folks. You know the drill. If you’re new here and you don’t, first come, first serve. Five-minute max per performance. Second shifts if the stage sits empty, but not before. Happy Saturday.” He hops off the platform and heads for the bar.
No one rushes toward the stage. It sits, empty and waiting, right in front of me.
I feel Kit’s eyes on me, but he says nothing else. If I stood up and walked out of here, he’d drive me home. But I’m suddenly sick of playing it safe. I want to be worthy of his faith in me. Whatisthe worst that will happen? Nothing I can’t recover from.
I stand and start toward the stage.
I take a seat in front of the studio. It’s brown, not black, the wood surface scarred with years of use instead of flawless. I’m too proud to bang out the series of single notes I played in Kit’s living room earlier. Sitting here, I know I’m going to commit to a full piece.
I glance at Kit. He’s reclined in his chair, relaxed and smiling as he stares at me. A few other patrons are glancing this way, but their attention is fleeting, not focused. Passing interest, not intent.
There was a time when I dreamed that performing in New York would mean playing at a famous venue, like Carnegie Hall. But watching Kit wink at me, a confident grin on his handsome face? I decide that who’s in the crowd matters a lot more than its size or location.
And then I start to play.
41
“Stop stressing.”
“I’m not stressing,” Collins insists, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.