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CHAPTER THIRTY

LENA

A cloud of cloying hairspray fills my lungs as I sputter into a coughing fit.

“Oopsie, sorry, sweets.” My mother hasn’t called me “sweets” in ages.

She prattles on with Antonia like she didn’t asphyxiate me, too chipper for my liking, considering she protested until last week about my Super Bowl gig.

I think the shift has something to do with the fact that I’m nominated for five Grammys this year, and next week we’ll find out which ones I’ll be taking home.

Nothing like focusing on the next awards show to distract you from your current woes.

Mom’s ring-studded hand smoothes my bangs, just like she always did when I was a little girl.

She’s the last person I would normally want behind the vanity with me, but with what I have planned for my halftime performance, I’m sucking up as much as I can now.

The humidity in Florida has never been kind to the natural wave of my hair—any attempted style needs the ten pounds of hairspray she insists upon—so I’ll let her have this win.

For a moment, I’m back in our prefab home in Lake County, Florida, sitting on a creaky stool as my mom yanks and pulls my hair into pigtails.

I shudder. I always hated that time with her.

I had no idea the Super Bowl is what would finally bring me back to my home state, but I’m grateful it did.

My stomach flips. It also brought Decker here.

It’s been weeks since I last texted him, but knowing he’s in the same stadium tonight has me wondering if I should reach out.

Part of me hopes he’s planned something big, that he’s been waiting for tonight to finally forgive me, but it feels silly to hold on to that.

Decker is busy. He’s got an entire game to play. He isn’t thinking about me.

The Orlando Pit Vipers vs. the Vista City Kings is estimated to be a close one, but I have faith in the Kings.

I grew up in a Pit Viper family, but after my time with Decker, my loyalty lies with him.

If I don’t see him tonight, I worry this is it.

My schedule before the tour this summer is chock full, and if today isn’t the day we reconcile, I fear it will never happen.

Maybe I need to let him go. I had him. He was mine, and like always, I was too caught up in everything else to see what was right in front of me: Decker Trace, falling in love with me when I didn’t deserve it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering the last time I saw him.

How somber his eyes were, how cold I was.

Why did I do that to him? He’s right. I pushed him away.

For what? A career I barely recognize anymore?

Someone dressed in all black with an earpiece and a crackling radio darts into the room, signaling to me that it’s time.

“Do you remember the new choreography?” my mother asks.

I nod.

“Don’t forget the last two eight counts of So Demure have changed. Do you want to mark it?”

My eyes flicker to Antonia, who clears her throat and steps forward with her tablet. “Blythe, will you please take a look at tomorrow's itinerary? I wasn’t sure when we should try to squeeze in lunch.”

My mom’s eyes linger on me a second longer before she reluctantly takes the tablet from Antonia.

I give myself one last look in the vanity, checking to ensure the clips of my volumizing extensions are fully blended before smoothing out the pink-mirrored fringe of my skirt.

Moments later, I’m being hauled through a wide concrete tunnel below the stadium stands in a golf cart.

When our wheels hit the astroturf, my pre-show nerves kick in.

A stage is set up in the center of the field that connects to the stadium by its own tented tunnel, completely concealing any crew or performers for my show as we maneuver to the mainstage.

Shrouded by the massive cream colored canvas, I’m guided toward backstage, assisted out of the cart, and handed my favorite guitar.

The guitar Decker watched me cry into that night in the studio.

I push the memory from my mind as I step into yet another tent center stage—this one gauzier, sparklier, and a fraction of the size of the tunnel tent—exactly as we’d rehearsed days ago.

The cheers pick up as the announcer comes over the speaker, finally stating my name.

Everyone loses it. Vipers vs. Kings, who?

It’s something I’ll never get tired of, despite how draining it can be.

My band is already on stage. They begin the intro to Not Goin’ Nowhere from my first studio album.

I strum my first chord, a second, and a third, and then the curtain drops, spilling silky swathes of fabric in a circle around me.

It pools, leaving me in a glittering ring of pale pink chiffon.

It’s a play on my first album cover. It was a simple picture, one snapped during a photo shoot of me peeking between a rack of assorted prom dresses. I was so young.

During each tiny break between songs, I can’t help but peer off to the side, to the tunnel I know Decker and his team disappeared through.

I didn’t text him, didn’t tell him to meet me, but he knows I’m performing.

I’m not sure why I think he’ll suddenly materialize.

This is the Super Bowl, not some high school football game.

He has a lot riding on this, and the game is tied.

Deep down, I know the last thing he’ll be looking for is a distraction.

The last thing he’ll probably ever look for is me.

I plow through my set, switching out guitars, costume pieces, and bedazzled microphones along the way.

When it comes to the last song, I make a surprise announcement.

This one will be acoustic. I thank my band and dismiss them, only asking for the piano bench before they leave.

They exchange confused looks as they step away from their instruments and funnel offstage.

A couple of my dancers carry the bench to the end of the runway, planting it directly behind me.

I sit and pull in a deep breath. Even if Decker isn’t listening, I need to do this as much for myself as I do for him.

If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have had the self-respect to honor my abilities. My artistry.

I close my eyes, strumming the opening chord to Pretty Hard to Find, my first single.

The one I played the night I met Decker backstage at Late Night with Lanza .

Except this time, I’m playing it the way I originally wrote it as a lovesick teenager in the quiet of her modest bedroom, only a few towns over from the massive stage I sit on now.

I perform it the way I’ve always intended for it to be presented.

Soft, acoustic, lovingly. No heavy beat, no breakneck tempo.

Just me, my guitar, and the song I wrote about a love that I thought I’d never experience in my lifetime.

One that seemed, well, pretty hard to find. Until I met Decker.

When it’s over, I stand to a stunned-silent crowd.

My pulse picks up, my palms sweating as I consider that maybe this was a mistake.

I quickly discard that notion. This is my music.

I can’t be what everyone wants me to be.

If there’s one thing Decker taught me, it’s that I can be loved and accepted for who I am.

It isn’t always about appeasing the masses.

It isn’t about meeting others’ expectations.

I just need to be me. Lena Lukowski. Musician.

Singer. An imperfect person who is still deserving of love and good things.

The moment I’m certain my career is over, the crowd finally explodes in whoops and cheers, and relief snuffs out the doubt.

I hate that I’m still so swayed by what everyone thinks, but it’s hard not to be when you’re standing alone in front of an audience.

A smile breaks across my face as I take a quick bow and jog offstage, my eye on Decker’s team tunnel the entire way.

I don’t know what I expect to see. Decker is done with me.

He isn’t going to be there. As I climb into the golf cart, I pop my head out of the tent one last time. Decker still isn’t there.

It’s time I let him go.