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But Reese is frozen, save for her hand rubbing at her wrist. That fucking tattoo.

“I can’t,” she whispers.

“Reese,” I say. I’m about to tell her she doesn’t have to do this. But I stop myself. Because that’s not true. This night, no matter how small, is a moment of truth for her. It’s the moment she’ll either break through the final layer of self-doubt that asshole caused her, or be kowtowed by it for life.

And I’m not going to let that happen.

“Go buy us a minute,” I tell Jude.

My brother, at least, knows how to use his gifts. He nods, jumps up, and swaggers down to the booth, giving a few high fives and “how’s it goings” as he passes the other tables. Then he leans in and lays the charm on the guy standing there, who blinks, his eyes going wide as he recognizes who’s standing in front of him.

The crowd murmurs.

“Reese, I know this feels hard,” I say, turning to her. I grasp her hand with mine, bringing her knuckles to my lips. “Remember what you said to me, about feeling? That’s all this is. You’re helping people feel what they’re dying to feel. That’s your gift, baby.”

Her eyes are still wide, but she blinks, nodding almost imperceptibly.

She looks back down at her wrist, then flips it over onto her knee. “I fucking hate him.”

“Right,” I say. I do too. “But if you can overcome this—what he did—you can handle anything, Reese. All those years of him needling into you—that’s harder than any amount of quiet from a crowd, and any amount of heckling.”

I’m struck with a sudden idea, and pat around my coat. When I don’t find what I’m looking for, I flag down a passing server. “Can I borrow that?” I ask, indicating her pen.

She hands it over and I take Reese’s hand, holding it up so her wrist is exposed, those letters sitting there like branding. “Do you trust me Reese?”

Reese’s eyes flutter up to mine. “Yes,” she whispers. “I do, Eli.”

I take the pen and write the rest of what it needs to say tonight.

Then I let go of her hand.

Reese pulls it toward herself and when she reads it, she sucks in a breath.

I can see the pulse throbbing at her throat.

“Okay, Eli.” She nods, kissing me hard, and I hand the pen back to the server. Then, Reese Franco gets up, picking up her guitar, and walks with her shoulders back toward the stage.

This time, when Jude starts whooping and clapping his hands, I join him. Even shy, quiet Nora does too, before picking up her camera again and training it toward the stage.

It takes Reese a minute to get settled, and when she looks up, she squints into the bright light shining on her. My chest tightens as she goes still, like she’s freezing up. But the moment passes, and she sets the guitar on her lap and leans into the mic.

“My name is Reese,” she says. “And I’m going to sing you a little song from a very special woman from Port Arthur, Texas. She was voted ‘the ugliest man on campus’ by a fraternity at the University of Texas. But she showed them. She was a queen. And her music makes me feel. I hope it makes you feel too. This is ‘Me and Bobby McGee,’ by Ms. Janis Joplin.”

The crowd cheers while Reese tunes her guitar.

Then she strums the opening notes, and we’re all lost, falling into the twang of her guitar and the notes of Reese’s voice, which seem to thrum right down to my bones.

Before I know what’s happening, I’m on my feet—we all are, as the woman I love takes down the room with the most heartfelt rendition of that song since Janis herself. She kills that song—destroys it. With each crescendo her fingers fly more confidently over the strings of the guitar. With each high note, she soars.

And when she’s done, nobody sits. Not for a whole minute. The crowd is ecstatic, and I’m moving before I can stop myself to the stage. Reese is crying, I can see it, but the tears are happy, and when she sees me, I see the sob, though I can’t hear it. She reaches down with her arms outstretched, and I see the words I wrote on her wrist.

SH-OW THEM EVERYTHING.

I take her hand and then Jude has her guitar and I have Reese in my arms, whispering in her ear that she did it. She showed them everything she had.

“I’m so fucking proud of you, baby.”

She looks at me with tears in her eyes, then I’m kissing her, lifting her up. I know, in my heart, that this girl is fucking stardust, and it’s my privilege to be the one holding her up.