“Yes.” She gives a nervous smile. “The girls convinced me. I want to do this. For me.”
“You’ll kill it.”
“I don’t know about that. I want to have fun.”
“Perfect. Have fun. I’ll be there for you.”
“Gah!”
“I like it when you sing to me.”
She grins. “Also…I entered a contest. For buskers.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”
“It’s new. This is the first time they’ve done it here in New York. We have to audition, and only twelve people will make it to the final. It’ll be a public event in Central Park. I don’t know if I’ll make it to that, but…I’m going to try.”
“That’s amazing!” Excitement pulses in my veins for her. “You’ll do great!”
“We’ll see. But thank you. It’s something for myself. To push myself. Just for me.”
“Yeah. I’m proud of you, beautiful.”
“Thanks. I’m proud of me too. I thought about what you said. When you told me I’m an artist.”
Right. On the plane to Aruba.
“I didn’t consider myself an artist. All I did was busk.”
I shake my head, ready to correct her, but she goes on. “But if I believe that being a successful artist means reaching people with your art, maybe…maybe I do that. In a small way.”
“You definitely do,” I say. “I didn’t give you enough credit for that. Busking seems…like not enough for your talent, but you do reach people. You do touch their lives. I’ve seen it.” I press a hand to my chest. “I’ve felt it. Your music got inside me and made me feel things.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes glow. “That’s the best compliment. And I know now that’s what I want. I don’t want to be famous or make a lot of money. I know I can’t change the world, but maybe I can have some small impact with my music.”
I get that. “If you only ever want to busk, I’m one hundred percent behind you on that. If you want to do more…I’m there for that, too.”
She leans in for another smooch. “I love you.”
“Love you, too, beautiful.”
35
Emerie
Here I am at the Mystic Nomad.
What the hell am I doing?
A swarm of bees buzzes in my belly. I haven’t felt like this since I started busking. I take a few deep breaths, trying to relax, remembering how my nerves eased back then. This is no different.
Except people are here to actually listen to music.
Aaaaaah!
I’ve warmed up my vocal cords and tuned my guitar. I’ve practiced the two songs I’m going to sing. Over. And over. I even have a couple of extra songs ready just in case, as Elijah advised me. He had lots of good advice. I’ve gone to a few open mic nights at other places to check them out. That made me more comfortable. I know the Mystic Nomad is a good venue for my music because it’s quieter. It’s cute—an old building with wooden floors, brick walls, the stage in front of an empty fireplace. The wall behind the low stage is draped with strings of little white lights.
Every small, round table is occupied, including two with my friends. And Owen. Although it’s dark, with small candles glowing on the tables, I can see them all from where I stand off to the side of the stage.
Owen. The candle on the table highlights the planes and curves of his beautiful face. I love him so much. I love him so much it scares me. I can’t lose him. But I have to be brave in love as well as my music. Because the happiness he makes me feel is worth it.
The host of the evening, Sebastian Meyer, a well-known local musician, approaches me with a smile. “You all set?” he asks. “You’re up next.”
I nod mutely.
“Stage fright?” he asks.
“Just a little.”
“No worries. We all have it. It gets your adrenaline going. Gets oxygen pumping to your brain. It actually helps you perform better.”
I stare at him. “I never thought of it that way.”
His smile is reassuring. “There you go.”
“Thanks.”
The performer on stage finishes her cover of an Adele song to a round of applause, and Sebastian jumps onto the stage, clapping, thanking her. Then he introduces me.
My friends all hoot and holler, which is embarrassing but also gratifying. I step onto the worn, patterned carpet, lifting the strap of my beloved Martin D-28 over my head. It’s bigger than my Little Martin, which I use for busking. It’s my prized possession, the guitar I always wanted to own after I started learning to play. I love it for its rich, warm tones that complement my voice. I pat it. It will bring me luck.
I step in front of the microphone. Holy shit. Am I really doing this?
I smile.
“These two songs are originals of mine,” I say into the mic. “I hope you enjoy them.” Another small cheer rises from the tables on my left. “The first one is called ‘Without Love.’”
I lift my eyes, and with my signature fingerpicking style, I pick out the opening melody of my song. I wrote “Without Love” after Owen broke up with me, but it wasn’t quite finished. Now I’ve finished it. It’s sad, yes, a song of heartbreak and loss, but it’s also hopeful and ultimately triumphant.
This may be a different venue. The audience may be different. But this…playing, singing… is familiar to me. I sing from my heart, letting my voice soar, telling my story.
The applause when I finish is satisfying. My heart gallops, and I find Owen in the audience. He’s clapping and grinning. Our eyes meet, and warmth spreads through me, settling me.
I play my next song, “Dreams of You.” It’s different than the first. Elijah told me since I can only play two songs to choose ones that are completely different. This one is slower and more romantic. Dreamy.
My eyes are closed when I finish, lost in my music, and I’m startled out of it by cheers and whistles. My friends are on their feet, shouting their approval. I look around the room. Everyone else is clapping enthusiastically, too, smiles on their faces.
I don’t know if I’m any good at reading the room, but…I feel good.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
I’ve been told to leave the stage quickly to make room for the next performer, so I do that. My face is hot, my hands trembling as I set my guitar into its case. I stand to rejoin Owen and the others, and he’s right there, lifting my case for me.
“You were amazing.” He bends down to press his lips to my forehead. “Fucking amazing, Em.”
“Thank you.” I lean into him, into his warmth and strength, breathing in his beloved scent. I’m okay. I did it. I’m okay.
He wraps an arm around me and squeezes then leads me back to the table. I take the seat next to him. A man on stage is playing a violin, and I don’t want to disrupt his performance, so I exchange smiles with my friends. Lilly grips my hand briefly. They all seem just as excited as I am.
Wow.
My mind is racing. I try to listen to the music, but I feel like I’m floating outside my body. Owen clasps his fingers around my hand, and it grounds me.