Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Sunday, November 29th, 2017▪️
▪️Nashville, TN▪️
Bridgestone Arena—that says it all. How did I get so lucky? It's not the Carnegie Hall of my childhood dreams, but I'm on my way. The soundcheck goes well. Maybe a little too well, because after playing through my set twice, I'm still the only one on stage, and The Whats haven't arrived yet. When I toured before, occasionally a band member I was on good terms with would accompany me on the keys or the guitar, but with the time crunch, I'm at the piano for all of my songs. Because of my injury, that's more than I should do on a good day. On a bad day. . . I'll deal with it if that happens. I refuse to live in fear or plan for the outcomes that are as likely to never come to be.
While I wait for the band, I spend the extra time blocking potential movements. The stage is huge and far too large for one person. I know I have a great voice—I've been told enough times to believe it—but I'm used to performing in small venues, with outdoor festivals being the biggest crowds on my record.
To most fans who are here to see The Whats, my keyboard and I will be but a speck. The four giant screens that magnify my image are supposed to bring me closer to them, instead they make me feel like I'm a cell under a microscope we used in high school. Like the sole purpose of them is to expose me as a fraud, as the inexperienced broken wannabe.
My breaths turn rapid and shallow. A cacophony of voices in my ears booing me is almost too real. Three years ago, singing for ten people was cause for trepidation, and signing one autograph made me happy for a month. But that was then. I learned. I got better. I got braver. The me I am today is no longer a prisoner of public opinion.
I bring my attention back to what I can do to prove this is not a fluke. I do the stretching exercises for my wrist my physical therapist insists on to help with the dull ache that's not going away. The soundcheck is over. The lights are set. My timing is impeccable. There is a first for everything, and today my first will be singing to more people in the same spot than I've sung to in the last year. Live. My pinkie throbs. I can't afford for my pain to show up in my voice or to compromise my act. I take my box of mints, pop another one, and shove it back into my pocket.
"Uppers or downers? If you've got any going spare." Neil's voice comes from the audience seats close by. I'm blinded by the lights and can't make him out. How long has he been there?
"I was popping a mint. The breakfast burrito had a bit too many onions in it. Don't want to alienate the crew on my first day." There's nothing illegal about my pills. I have to visit my doctor every quarter to get refills, or sooner if I have to adjust the dose. But answering questions about them leads to questions about the car crash, and that is not an area I discuss with strangers—especially hot, famous, and the definition of a bad-boy strangers like Neil, who might as well have 'trouble' tattooed on his forehead.
