Page 6 of AMS.TER.strum

I step into the pool of light where the mic waits, surprised at how steadier my voice sounds now—so different from the nerves that used to party through my body and brain during our first performances. ‘Good evening, everyone.’

Corrie

‘Mum says hi.’

Johan has just stepped into our spare room/office, where I’m reading some work-related emails about the upcoming events. He’s gotten a few days off from work, just to relax, which is fine. Or it would be, if lately spending more time together hadn’t started becoming like walking through a field covered in eggshells, and I don’t understand why. It’s not like our life is lacking anything, more like he’s looking for flaws in everything. I’ve ended up meeting his praise with surprise, bracing myself for what will follow, almost in disbelief when it doesn’t. And this comment about his mum falls into the too-good-to-be true category.

‘Oh, really?’ I’m still facing the screen to hide the lifting of my brows. ‘Is she also curious to meet me, finally?’

His laugh is as fake as his mum’s greetings. ‘You know how they are.’

I turn to look at him. ‘I would, if I had actually gotten to know them.’

‘Babe, they’re very set in their ways, I’ve told you so. They wanted to hitch me with the daughter of their best friend, and they hope that if they put their foot down, I will come round.’

He says it as if talking about two pouting toddlers and not the adults his parents are supposed to be. ‘Have you told them it won’t happen?’

He cackles, as if I’m talking nonsense. ‘I did, but I’m sure they’ll change their mind when they see their first grandchild.’

I don’t allow the toffee-like warmth in my belly to stifle my words. ‘Too bad he or she will have a mum that’s not their first choice.’

He squints for a second, his eyes searching mine, then leans to plant a kiss on my lips. ‘What matters is that you are my first choice.’

I’m about to say that this should be one more reason for his parents to accept the said choice, but I prefer to focus on the positive words. ‘So you want us to try?’

‘Let’s get started, make the process a lot of fun.’ Johan’s mouth travels down my neck.

‘Now? I have a couple of things I need to finish here.’

He stops, seemingly unpleased at the mild rejection, and I wonder why I’m pretending that the emails are so urgent, why we can’t even have one of the fun quickies I used to seek.

Probably because I don’t want sex to be the answer to every sore patch of our relationship. Still, the idea of a baby, of us becoming a family is too good to dismiss. Johan isn’t that convinced of the emailing urgency either, because he’s still behind me, leaning in to have a look at my screen.

‘Did you get the email about that country music group coming back?’

‘Hm-hm,’ I reply. ‘The Fiddlers, right?’

‘Apparently, their opening group cancelled, parting ways or something. It’ll be that kid with his musicians from last time, the half-om-half. What was his name?’

‘Luuk Meiers, I believe.’ I pretend there isn’t a jolt somewhere in my chest, keep my voice level as I pretend to not be sure about the name. Of course I made good on my word and have been cyberstalking Luuk since I offered him coffee in my cracked mug, three months ago. We’ve been exchanging short messages on posts or videos, mostly of his gigs, and I’m glad to see his crowd of fans growing.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’

Johan heads for the living room and I quickly scroll through my emails, scanning for the name and the date. Yes! In four months! I’m about to go to his Instagram profile when an alert pops up on my phone. If you’re gonna be a fan, you have to be a proper one, right? I’m certain it’s about his European gig, but I’m up for a surprise.

There’s a sequence of photos, taken at a packed venue last evening. At first, it’s the usual stuff: the crowd, the vibes, the stage with the musicians during the performance. Normally, I would zoom in to catch a closer glimpse of the facial expression, the hand holding the guitar, the fingers striking the strings. But I want to see what the title of the post meant, so I keep scrolling. And there it is, captured at the perfect moment, mid-air, a generously cupped bra, flying towards the stage, fully justifying the title: Rising country music’s hottie gets an interesting present while performing.

Chapter Four

Now

Luuk

‘There’s plenty of speculation regarding your relationship status, given your prolific dating history.’

Gwen Maloni pauses before prolific for effect, insinuating what goes round on the grapevine—that I fuck anything that moves. But political correctness comes in the way of how much she would like to push it, so she’ll explore every alternative phrasing possible in order to find out and be able to brag about exclusive information on her YouTube channel.

I send her a dazzling, fake smile; the glint in my eyes a warning. ‘A journalist shouldn’t believe every rumour, Gwen.’