Love Songs & Other Lies(79)
Each week I felt more comfortable onstage, talking with the crowd, sharing little stories about the songs. When I’d written them, and why. I told myself I was playing for friends and started to treat them that way. After the first show I stopped wearing my Dakota Gray wig. When I sit on the stage I imagine I’m sitting on Cam’s bed playing a show for one. And every time I play, there are chants for “This Girl,” but I can’t bring myself to play it by myself. Something about it feels wrong, so I always apologize, playing something upbeat to wrap things up.
Four weeks after getting back to Chicago, I’m waiting offstage as my opening act—my opening act!—finishes her set. I don’t care that I’m playing in a bar that only holds three hundred people and not an auditorium that seats five thousand. I’m playing my own shows, facing my fears, moving forward. I’m chasing something. As my opener exits the stage and I enter, she gives me a strange, nervous smile. I’m the one who should be nervous. Taking a seat on the vintage wooden chair, I’m tuning my guitar, just about to begin, when a voice interrupts over the house PA system.
It’s the club’s music manager, Kevin. “Before we hear the musical talent of Vee Miller, aka Dakota Gray, we have a quick presentation to make.”
What the hell?
The crowd is lighter than usual tonight, and I sit in my chair—continuing to fiddle and tune as I wait for the go-ahead from Kevin—while a steady stream of people begins to enter. They’re all wearing white. White tank tops, white polos. Is this a tour group of some sort? Maybe a nearby convention? I squint, trying to look for a name badge or logo, but don’t see anything. The small tables are quickly filled and by the time everyone has entered, the entire bar area is standing-room-only. Other than my performances with Cam on tour, this is the biggest group of people I’ve ever played for. It’s far from small and intimate, and I begin to feel my nerves building. Deep breath.
The PA system crackles to life again, but instead of Kevin’s voice, music begins to play. It’s a guitar, and it sounds live, not recorded. Are they seriously playing another musician right before I go on? It’s probably the manager’s girlfriend, who has been pushing for a spot in the lineup for weeks. She’s practically tone deaf. I don’t recognize the song, but then Cam’s voice pours out of the speakers and I’m frozen in place. I look around the room, straining to see over and around people. He must be here somewhere, but there’s no sign of him. Except for his voice. It feels like it’s been ages since I heard it, even though it was less than twenty-four hours ago that I heard him sing on national television. The last words I heard him speak were words of thanks, to everyone that made it possible for the band to win. I had screamed and shouted, dancing in Cort’s living room like a maniac, when they won. And when he thanked his parents for watching over him, through it all, I lost it. The words drifting out of the speakers right now are even better. As the first verse begins, all I can do is listen to the words that I know are only for me: She’s the high and the low,
the waves and the shore.
She’s nights in the dark,
and toes in the sand,
she’s the voice in my head
saying try it again.
Try it again.
As he finishes the chorus, a girl in the front row, center stage, turns her back to me, revealing the black letters across her white shirt that say: “When we met,” and as Cam keeps singing, another person turns around, revealing a second message: “I was broken.” As the song goes on, person after person shows me their messages as I listen to Cam’s words: WHEN WE MET I WAS BROKEN
She’s the words on the page that tell me to stay.
She’s the start and the end
to all my favorite days.
She’s the start and the stop, she’s the start and the stop.
Don’t make me stop.
AND THE FIRST TIME I HEARD YOUR VOICE
I FELT ALIVE AGAIN
This is my serenade,
this is my second chance.
This is my serenade,
my second chance.
YOU STARTED PUTTING ME BACK TOGETHER
BEFORE YOU EVEN MET ME
She’s the cure to my pain,
she’s the sun and the rain.
She’s the sun and the rain.
I SHOULD HAVE STAYED
BECAUSE YOU ARE THE ONLY FUTURE
I HAVE EVER IMAGINED
This is my serenade,
this is my second chance.
This is my serenade,
you are my second chance.
I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE
WITHOUT YOU
As the song ends and the last girl turns back around, another approaches the stage with a gift-wrapped box. She hands it to me with a giant smile. It’s wrapped in shiny purple foil, with a silver bow and a tag that says OPEN ME. When there are hundreds of eyes on you I don’t know that there’s really a choice, but at this point I want nothing more than to know what is in this box. I shake it just a little for effect and it rattles like it’s full of glass. What the hell is it? I choke back the building tears as I rip open the paper and pry open the box flaps, revealing a pile of tissue paper. I fish each piece out, dropping it around me on the stage like it’s Christmas morning.