Page 69 of Falls From Grace
“It’s just two thousand,” Bella had downplayed, “-three hundred.” Brynn had thrown up twice since she’d heard the news. Now, though, she suddenly felt like she could do it. That maybe she even wanted to.
That Friday night, she stood in the wings, hearing the buzz of the crowd. Her hands were shaking, her fingertips felt numb, her stomach whirled. Noah clapped her on the shoulder, hard, giving her a reassuring grin, stepping out on the stage first and waving to the crowd, their cheers increasing. She remembered Savannah, stepping right up into her face, telling her to forget them, just sing it to me. She breathed deeply, then stepped out onto the stage and the crowd roared.
Afterwards, she’d been on a high beyond any drunken bender of her life. Backstage, after the encore was over, she and Noah kept grabbing each other’s arms and shouting. The experience was already a blur of adrenaline, but she’d learned one new thing about herself she would never unlearn: she loved performing. She would chase this feeling for the rest of her damn life.
The band that had slowly grown around them as they’d recorded were equally hyped; they milled around high-fiving and shrieking their excitement. Various industry insiders and the technical support crew all joined to gather around, chatting animatedly and congratulating them. Suddenly, a particularly stunning face Brynn recognised broke through the clamor.
“Congratulations,” greeted Coral, and Brynn forced herself to smile, her brain in total shock. “No, she’s not here,” Coral said drily at the look on her face. “But we had a few nights off and I wanted to come see what you were made of.”
“And?” demanded Noah at her side, his eyes fixed on her face.
Coral considered him. Their eyes seemed to lock.
“You’re living up to the hype, and then some.” She paused, taking them both in. “Keep this up and you’re going to be legendary.”
It was high praise from such an industry stalwart as Coral; Brynn and Noah high-fived like idiots.
“So,” Coral said as they regained their dignity, “interestingly enough, it turns out you’re not married.”
This was ostensibly addressed at both of them, but it was Noah she was looking at from under her lush lashes.
“We’re so not.” He dropped Brynn like a hot potato.
Brynn knew when to make herself scarce.
As the after party continued to blaze, drinks were poured liberally and Brynn had to keep waving away offered glasses of celebratory champagne, sipping on soda water and trying to keep names straight as she was more or less mobbed.
She fielded questions from music journalists, smiled and played nice with various senior record executives with big egos and wandering, proprietary eyes, found herself bluntly propositioned by both men and women, then declining two separate and completely random offers of a congratulatory hit of cocaine. After pretending to consider the options she headed where she’d always been headed, over to the woman she’d seen earlier propping up the bar - with a champagne glass filled with what looked like orange juice - who’d had her eyes on Brynn the whole night. She took a seat next to her, turning her head to smile.
“How’re you holding up, kiddo?” Laura asked.
Brynn just shook her head, her eyes wide.
“Thank you for being here,” she said quietly. “This shit is wild.”
“No problem,” said her sponsor.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Savannah’s hands were shaking. This was ridiculous. She’d been minding her own business: getting on with the exhausting work of touring, press, parenting her son - on a tour bus, airports and in hotel rooms - then pulling out all the stops on a ninety-minute show three to five nights a week. Then, immediately after checking in at their hotel in Manhattan, amongst the usual flowers, gourmet gift baskets and fancy wine, there’d been a brown paper-wrapped vinyl album for her. It wasn’t uncommon for artists to send her their work, as a gift or as part of a request. But the moment she saw it, she knew what it was going to be.
Ripping open the paper, she saw Brynn’s face, close up, in profile. The lighting was dark, a dim forest green overlay that offset the usually warm olive of her skin. Whatever makeup artist they’d used had been genius; while her lips were full and warm, her eyelashes lush and her brows sleek, they hadn’t covered her freckles. Before she knew what she was doing, she was tracing them with her fingers. Then she laughed. Brynn’s dark hair tumbled down her back under a perfectly serious, dark brown, motherfucking cowboy hat. And holy god did it suit her.
Savannah had two hours to herself before it was time to help get Tucker fed and to bed, before heading down to Madison Square Garden. It was the first of three consecutive shows at the massive venue, and she had to be at her best. What she absolutely should do was nap. But the album beckoned to her and when she flipped over the album to the back and read the song titles, she gasped. So many related to her that there was no way she’d ever sleep again without knowing what Brynn had written. She felt lightheaded and incredibly stressed all of a sudden.
Her rooms were always set up to play music; it was on her rider. So she walked over to the record player and, with shaking fingers, let the needle drop. Forty-five minutes later, sobbing, she played it again.
That night she walked on stage, her own makeup artist having had a job to do to make her look like a rockstar instead of a puffy mess, and played what everyone told her later was her best show of the tour so far. She had never thrown herself harder into her songs, and when - as she always did live - she ached through both parts of Longing, the crowd lost their minds.
This tour was a dream come true - her songs, her comeback album - but it was also, at times, a goddamned nightmare. She was wildly proud of the songs, thrilled to be performing again, but there was not one that Brynn had not touched in some way. There were the songs Brynn had literally co-written, then the songs she’d inspired, songs Savannah had written in response to her betrayal, and the songs that she’d sung to her first. And now, every stop on the tour meant a sold-out stadium packed to the rafters with fans singing those words right along with her.
That night she completed her encore, thoroughly farewelled the crowd, briefly celebrated with the band, then greeted, shook hands and exchanged air kisses with the various establishment figures, before fleeing as soon as humanly possible. She wanted to be alone, with Jane.
This time, in her pajamas, she sat on the floor and, as the music played, she allowed herself one choke of laughter and a jolt of unbelievable warmth. Brynn Marshall, Californian lifeguard, med school drop-out and absolute philistine, had written one hell of an alt country album.
She looked at the liner notes. The lyrics were superb and devastating. The artwork understated and beautiful. And after all the acknowledgements, where her name was listed right after Noah’s with no elaboration except a thank you, there was a dedication. She sucked in a breath.
To the Rochester to my Jane. Everything I have and everything I do is because of you and for you, always.
