Page 135 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
I lower the camera, defeat settling in my chest.
I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.
Faded Warriors exits the stage, and around me, the crowd surges forward in anticipation. Everyone is pressing closer to the stage, except for me. I’m pathetically frozen against the wall and hidden in the corner like a coward.
Maybe Miranda was right. Maybe I was doomed to cause a scene.
My eyes burn with tears I refuse to let fall.
But it isn’t my fault if there’s a scene.
My eyes flick back to the meanie duo. I don’t fixate on them too long because Sky Chaos takes the stage to thunderous applause.
Ryder walks out first, and he absolutely owns it. Shoulders back, head high, and a confident stride of someone born to be in the spotlight. The stage lights hit the silver chains at his throat, and he lifts one hand in acknowledgment of the crowd’s roar.
“Oh my gosh, he’s so hot,” a girl near me squeals to her friend.
“Right? Like, how is he even real?” her friend replies.
Behind me, a group of burly guys raise their drinks, cheering with drunken enthusiasm.
Chase and Brooks follow their leader, waving to the crowd with comfortable confidence. But all eyes are on Ryder as he slings his guitar strap over his shoulder and steps up to the microphone.
Looking at him, no one would know he’s fighting anything. He looks completely in control, as if he’s done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.
But I see it.
From my hidden position in the shadows, I see what the crowd can’t. The slight tremor in his hands as he adjusts his guitar. Theway his chest rises and falls too quickly, and the way the muscle in his jaw jumps.
He scans the crowd with commanding stage presence. His gaze sweeps right past my corner without stopping. He doesn’t see me in the darkness, and for just a fraction of a second, panic flashes across his face.
Brooks hits his drumsticks together over his head, counting them in. They launch into their opening song, but Ryder’s hands fumble on the guitar. The opening chord comes out jarring and sharp. He tries to recover, but his fingers slip again, and the second chord is even worse.
The crowd’s cheers falter, and confusion ripples through the front rows.
Chase and Brooks keep playing, trying to cover for him, but Ryder’s completely in his head now. He misses his vocal entrance entirely, and when he finally comes in, he’s a full measure late.
My stomach drops.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Across from me, Miranda’s expression is carefully controlled, but there’s visible tension in her shoulders. After Ryder’s opening stumble at The Jameson Late Show, Miranda didn’t stop bringing it up. She kept guilting Ryder to do better.
But guilt won’t help him do better.
On stage, Ryder’s confidence is shattering. His hands shake, and his voice wavers as he continues to scan the crowd.
He’s looking for me.
I step out from behind the equipment case without thinking, moving closer to the stage. The motion catches his eye, and recognition floods his face. Ryder’s shoulders drop and his chest expands with a real breath.
Our eyes hold for just a beat.
I lift my camera and give him a small nod.
Something shifts in his posture. His grip on the guitar steadies, and his next chord rings out true and clean. His voice comes in stronger on the next verse, finding the melody and matching the emotion. He’s still a little shaky, but he’s finding his footing.
I start photographing, moving slightly along the edge of the stage to get different angles. Every few measures, Ryder glances my way, and each time he does, I’m there. Camera raised, steady and present.
