Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(9)

Delilah silences her guitar strings with her palm, and looks right at him. “You mean bring back the dudes, right? You think only a penis can rock?”

The crowd laughs uneasily.

“You know what I mean,” the drunk grumbles. “A girl and a guitar. It’s not the same.”

She adjusts the mic one more time, not even bothering to glance back at him again. “You, sir, are why I write music. You go ahead and say whatever you want, because I enjoy it when people underestimate me.”

The room is silent now as Delilah begins to strum her guitar strings in a pronounced rhythm. It takes me a second to realize that she’s already got everyone’s attention, and she didn’t even need a decent introduction to get it.

Her fingers pick up speed on the fretboard. The chord progression isn’t complicated, but goosebumps climb up my spine. What’s she playing? It’s familiar, but I can’t place it until she opens her mouth and starts to sing.

That’s when I experience a full-body shiver. Because that voice. It’s husky and full of texture. It vibrates through all the empty parts of my chest. Delilah is covering “Black” by Pearl Jam. Maybe she picked it as a great segue from the last band’s nineties sound. Or maybe she always opens with this song, because in her voice the lyrics are even more interesting than in Eddie Vedder’s.

I mean—goddamn. You can’t hear that and keep up your conversation at the bar. You can’t text your mom or grope your girlfriend or scratch your nuts anymore, because that smoky, wild voice is crawling through your soul and you have no choice but to listen.

The music washes over me in waves. Every line is ecstasy. If I wasn’t already fascinated with Delilah after a short conversation at the bar, I would be right now. Note by note she takes the room apart with a song about anguish and a lost love.

Man down. Seriously. She’s magic.

And it doesn’t let up. After she wrings the whole room out with Pearl Jam, she goes on to cover Bonnie Raitt. “I guess it’s a nineties kind of night,” she whispers into the microphone after her second song.

The audience laughs warmly, as if they’re old friends of hers. And by now I guess they are. That’s her gift, apparently. I’m surely not the only one in the room who feels a strange connection to the amazing woman on the stage.

Crowds are part of my world, too. When the fans are on your side at a game, there’s nothing like that roar of support. It’s like the best hug you ever got, coupled with a high-five from God himself. It feeds your soul. I feel the most alive when I’m having a good game in front of a good crowd.

Or I used to. I feel pretty fucking alive right now, too.

“Now this is a little song I wrote for some of the women in my life. You know who you are,” Delilah says. She’s strumming her guitar gently, and the expression on her face is almost private—as though she’s playing this for herself. As if the audience is just an afterthought. She lifts her face and closes her eyes. Then she begins to sing.

You shouldn’t wait around for him

Men don’t have a lock on praise

Show me how you lift your chin

Show me how you own this place

Sparkle on, honey, sparkle on…





She takes a breath, and I realize I’m holding mine.

Don’t let him tell you lies

He doesn’t get to write your story

You’re not his to minimize

Own your flaws and mine your glory

Sparkle on, honey, sparkle on…





The song weaves the tale of a woman who’s lost herself. But at the end of every heartbreaking stanza, Delilah looks up and tells the audience to sparkle on.

She’s the one who shines, though. The room is still so quiet that I can hear the scrape of Delilah’s guitar pick against the strings. I scan the crowd, and all their faces are rapt. Drinks are forgotten on the table. My gaze lands on the woman in front of me—the one whose boyfriend left in a huff. She’s wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

Delilah has been playing that guitar for less than fifteen minutes. And she’s already made someone cry.

Now that’s power. Jesus. What a total babe.

The song ends way too soon. But at least there’s more. The tempo picks up as Delilah swings into another original song. She does this thing with her hand—slapping the body of her guitar to beat out a rhythm. It gives her a bigger sound, and gets the whole room moving subtly with the beat.

I can’t help wonder what she’d sound like with a band behind her. Amazing, probably.

The club is packed again. Every chair is taken, and it’s standing-room only at the bar, hundreds of people leaning forward to get a little closer to the little girl with the big sound.

Then it’s over. Before I’m ready, she’s rising from the stool and saying goodnight while the audience hollers their approval. I’m still standing there clapping, mouth open, cycling through every possible human emotion as she’s stepping off the stage.

That’s when Brett Ferris comes out of the shadows to claim her. He throws a victorious arm around her while the audience still applauds.

Then he pulls her into a hard kiss. It’s a caveman move.

And I am… Crushed isn’t even a big enough word. Horrified. Defeated. Pick one. The idea of him touching her makes me want to barf.