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He quickly gives in with a sigh. “On you, Lena. Don’t make me regret this.”

“Thank you.” I kiss his cheek and pull Tess inside. She glances around in awe, taking in the low lighting, intimate booths, and small, inviting stage.

“You sit here,” I warn, guiding her to the backstage area. “No wandering, no trouble. Promise?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Good.” I narrow my eyes. “Stay put.”

Tess lets out a dramatic sigh, already bored, before flopping onto the couch and pulling out her phone. I leave her to it and head for the stage to coordinate my set list with the band.

∞∞∞

On stage, my anxiety melts away. The soft glow of the lights, the low murmur of the crowd, and the warm hum of music wrap around me. It’s like stepping into a version of myself I only find here. Confident. Sure. Untouchable.

The first chords ofWicked Gameby Chris Isaak pulse through the room. Song after song follows, sliding from my lips with practiced ease until I’m completely lost in it, drifting between memory and rhythm, heartbeat and harmony.

Halfway through my set, I step down to grab some water.

Arlo, the resident bartender-slash-persistent flirt, leans casually against the polished oak bar. “Another flawless set. Need anything other than hydration tonight?”

“Just water, Arlo.”

“You sure you don’t want something stronger later? Maybe some quality time with yours truly?”

Okay. Wow.

Arlo and I went on exactly one date, and there was zero spark on my end. Unfortunately, Arlo seems convinced sparks can spontaneously generate through sheer persistence.

“Thanks, but still a no,” I say firmly, taking thebottle from him. I hate any confrontation, and saying no usually involves me cringing about it for hours later, but it’s the only way to handle Arlo.

He shrugs and throws a towel over his shoulder with a flick of his wrist. “You know where to find me.”

My lips smack together, fighting the urge to say what’s really on my mind. “Sure do.”

As I step up to the mic again, a flicker of memory stops me. It’s of my mother, barefoot in the kitchen, swaying to the crackle of her old vinyls, and singing like the whole world was listening even when no one was. Her voice had that kind of magic that made people pause, but she never sang for them. She sang because it made her feel alive.

That’s what it feels like for me now. Like I’m reaching back through time, threading my voice through hers, and holding on to the parts of her that haven’t faded.

By the final note, my heart’s racing and my breath is thin from the adrenaline. Applause breaks over me as I step away.

Backstage, Tess is still curled on the couch, scrolling her phone like this is just another Tuesday.

“Ready?” I ask.

She nods and unfolds herself. “You sounded amazing, by the way. I haven’t heard you sing in a long time.”

I grab her shoulders and smack a kiss on her cheek. “Tess? Is that you? You’re letting your emotions show. Should I check for a fever?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s the tiniest smile tugging at her mouth. Victory.

Once we’re back at my place, I hand her a pair of spare pajamas. She changes and climbs into my bed,curling up and pulling the blanket tight around her. I slip in beside her, careful not to take up too much space.

She’s quiet for a beat, then shifts slightly, her voice small. “Hey, Lena?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you tell me a story about Mom? Like you used to?”