Page 69 of Love Scenes

We do not mention it for the rest of our meal.

Powell is thefirst performer of the night. His drag act is an exaggerated version of Mom: Katty Hoarder, a feline-obsessed queen who never lets go of anything. It’s the kind of absurd that circles all the way around to being amazing, and Katty’s performance to “You’re So Vain” has so much going on that everyone is absolutely transfixed. It feels like it’s about Dad because itisabout Dad, and yet the whole time Katty Hoarder also references the infamousCatsmovie—complete with a bedazzled catnip shaker. She has a Dolly Parton–meets–Kitty Porter wig on with cat ears over it.

I look around our table to take in everyone’s reaction. Dad’s stern but not unmoved. Even he has to laugh when Katty starts magically pulling dozens of random things out of the pockets of the gold skirt she wears over her unitard.

Daya and Guy hoot and holler like two rowdy concertgoers.

Mom is actually crying, dabbing her eyes with her napkin. I’m unsure if it’s pride or amusement. Probably both. Tyler and Mara are making the exact same expression—stunned appreciation. Melanie is in hysterics, clutching her husband’s arm. Saraisings along and marks some of the choreography. And Joe bobs his head with fervor, his hand striking down on the table every time Katty nails a beat.

When Katty finishes with a death drop, then revives herself, only to death drop again, the entire room erupts in applause. Everyone gives her a standing ovation, to which she graciously comes to life for a bow and then slinks off to stage left, down the stairs and out a side door to transform back into the Powell we know during the day.

It’s a high that leaves the room buzzing, everyone milling about, heading toward either the silent auction items or the open bar, then swapping sides.

She should’ve been the closer, I think, watching everyone bid on waxes they don’t need or movie night packages for films they’ve produced. At least there will be a good amount of distance between Katty Hoarder and the jam band. Daya’s stand-up will make everyone laugh. Dad’s jazz songs will soothe everyone. Then the jam band will... well, we will definitely be there.

That’s for sure.

One hour andtwenty-four minutes later, I’m standing behind the stage, wearing a green sequined minidress with my hair down in loose curls. It’s nice to be free of the boob tape and the inability to breathe, but all this exposed skin makes me prickle with nervous goose bumps. I rock back and forth, shaking and stretching and hoping that the tension in my throat will dissolve and the notes I’m soon to sing will not sound strained. I spent too many of my conversations tonight trying to casually find out if anyone was not only a drummer, but someone who wouldn’t mind comingonstage during a performance and playing three songs without any rehearsal. No surprise to find that my very niche request was not fulfilled.

One by one, the rest of our jam band meets me on the floor behind the stage. Sarai first, her tambourine matching the sparkly silver mock-neck jumpsuit she’s wearing. She’s got a young Diana Ross look to her, curly black hair big and flowing, a hint of shimmer on her cheeks.

“This is gonna be so fun,” she tells me. I hug her, praying to absorb even a fraction of her candid excitement.

Emmy and Garrett appear next. One of our attendants has been monitoring their instruments all night, and Emmy and Garrett take their guitar and bass respectively, slinging them over their shoulders and then making all kinds of little adjustments.

“Whew,” Garrett says. “No sound check. Okay.” He starts jumping up and down to excite himself.

Emmy closes her eyes, lids bare except for two dramatic swipes of liquid liner, and begins humming. She’s in a full monochromatic ensemble, a burnt-orange flared pantsuit the exact shade of her hair.

I spoke to her earlier in the night, not having the heart to admit we don’t have a drummer. Watching how seriously she prepares, I know it was a mistake. She came here for revenge. For solidarity. For the cause. Above all, she came here because she loves music.

She is not going to love this.

Her eyes open to stare right at me, like she can read my mind. “Where’s Joseph and his dad?” she asks.

“I... don’t know,” I say, because truly, I have no idea where either of them are. Joe was at the table when I went up to my room to change after Dad’s jazz set. He knew to meet me back here.

I peek around the corner to scan the audience. His seat at ourtable is empty. He’s not recognizable among the crowd. There’s fear coursing through my veins. There’s also a sense of longing. All night, he’s been the one person I can spot within seconds. Every time, he’s already been looking for me or at me, no matter our proximity to each other.

Without saying a word, I charge through the ballroom and out the front doors, my gold pumps clomping and sucking against every step, the back of the shoe struggling to stay wrapped around my heel at this speed. I turn left outside of the venue, and there he is, slouched against the wall.

I plant myself in front of him, sitting on my feet with my hands atop his knees. “What’s wrong?”

His face is blank.

“I promise you, it’s okay that your dad isn’t here. We are gonna get through it.”

“No. It’s not that. I’m... I...” He lifts up his hands, which are violently shaking. “I guess I should’ve told ya I have a bit of stage fright.”

“Oh.” A million feelings whirl through my head at once: disbelief, confusion, worry, sadness, determination, pride, fear. I think of him sauntering through life, swaggering into each room. Then I think of all the times he’s been on edge. A constant jitter to him that’s come to be so commonplace I’ve stopped wondering why.

“It’s not so bad when I’m acting,” he explains, answering the question most would ask. Not me. I’ve been around the business long enough to know that more than half of all actors are terrified all the time. “It’s the playing and singing that gets me. The two things at once.”

I take his shaking hands in mine and hold them. “Is that why Ireland was robbed of the opportunity to see Boys a Dear live?”

“We were supposed to do a set at my sister’s birthday party. I passed out before we ever went up.” He almost laughs. “It was in our backyard.”

This is too delicate to rush, but I can hear Glori onstage, prepping the crowd for our performance. Thankfully she can vamp with the best of them. There’s maybe two minutes to convince Joe to find a way to make his courage louder than his fear.