“Hey, you might not be sitting in a cubicle or standing in a factory line, but I bet you guys work pretty hard,” I smile, no longer surprised every time she understands something without me having to explain it to her. “What’s your favorite thing about it?” she asks.
“About what?”
“Your… work.”
“That it’s not work, I guess. As glamourous it might sound, as much money as we make, as many benefits as we get from the fame, if it felt forced or like work for a moment, I’d be the first one to cut loose, followed very closely by the rest of the guys. It wasn’t about the money or fame when we were thirteen years old and sneaking out of our houses to jam in any abandoned house, hall, side alley we could find. And even then we knew if we had to work ten hours shifts at the local fast food store so that the remaining fourteen hours of our day could be spent doing what we want to do, we’d do it. The important thing is that it never feels like we have to. I think it comes through in our performances, too.” I smile, in a rare moment of reminiscing that doesn’t plunge me into a pit of doubt about my future. “We’re just lucky that there are people out there willing to pay us to do it. But we couldn’t do what we do if the end goal was the money. Our music doesn’t work that way. Our creativity doesn’t work that way. The money and fame kill it, really. It’s important to not let it do that.”
I take a breath.
“Huh, I’ve never really said that out loud before.” I look down at her, and she’s listening, her eyes closed, her head on my chest.
“I love listening to you,” she says.
“Talk?”
“Well, yeah. What else?”
“I’m not really used to people wanting to listen to me talk. My cello playing, yes. Talking, not so much.”
“That’s stupid.” She crinkles her nose up and I reach out and touch it, making her yelp quietly.
“Maybe that’s why they don’t want to listen to me talk.”
“No, not ‘you’re stupid,’ though that last comment wasn’t so smart. I meant, you thinking people only want to listen to your music and not what you’ve got to say, is stupid.”
“It’s a little bit true.”
“I think you’re underestimating people.”
“Hmmm, I don’t like this conversation. I’m not coming off too great.”
“You started it,” she finishes, knowing I’m not going to argue since it’s clear I’m in the wrong.
I scrunch up my face which seems to trigger something in my brain and I get an idea. A fucking brilliant idea.
“Then I’m ending the conversation.” I jump out of bed and throw the robe at the end of the bed to her. “Let’s go!”
“Where?” She sits up, rubbing her eyes.
“Somewhere neither of us have gone!”
“Balls,” she mutters under her breath as she drags herself out of bed, and I have to restrain myself from dragging her back to it. “I was just getting comfortable.”
“Then you’re going to hate this. Now, come on! And trust me, you’re going to want to brush your hair for this.”
“Ba. Double balls.”
“That’s how they usually come.”
***
“No. Absolutely fucking not in a million years of pigs flying through a frozen hell filled with snowballs. No.”
“Noemie, you said to pick something neither of us have done.”
Her eyes shift from side to side, trying to think of an argument, and coming up empty.
“Well, this seems a little more like something I’ve never done and you watching.”
“Well, technically, it’s true. I’ve never watched you do this. Totally fits.”
She sighs and puts her hand on my shoulder, “Ok, so listen super carefully, okay?”
“I’m listening, baby,” I say, leaning for a kiss.
She lets me kiss her and rolls her eyes before yelling, quite emphatically, “For the last time, NO!”
“You’re cute. Even with your clothes on. You ready?” I hand her her ukulele. “You might want to check the tuning. That thing runs sharp.”
“Die,” she hisses, taking her ukulele in hand.
“Not yet, maybe after this,” I chuckle. My cheeriness is annoying her. Which is, in turn, amusing me considerably.
“I don’t think you’re hearing me, Jez.”
“Actually, my hearing was the one thing that wasn’t affected at all. You can do this. I heard you play Bumblebee on that thing, so I know you can do anything. Which, by the way… insane. But we’ll talk about that later.”
“JEZ! I can’t do this! I’m not…” She stops, mid-sentence.
“What? Good enough? I say double balls to that and you know it.”
“Why? Why did you do this?”
I calm myself, and pull her into me, squeezing her tight. “Because, I want to prove something to you.”
“What’s that?” she asks, her voice small and scared.
“That I don’t underestimate people. And least of all you. You can do this.” I kiss the top of her head. She can do this. I have no doubt in the world.
The sound of loud applause drowns out my words.
“Ready?”
“Hell,” she sighs.
“Good girl. You’re doing this for me,” I add, to give her that last dose of motivation but I can tell from the way her shoulder pushes back and her heads tilt up, that she’s in. She really does have a set of double balls.
“Double hell,” she curses under her breath, and her hands grip the ukulele so tight, I can see the individual crevices of her knuckles.
The voice over the speakers have us turning to the stage from our spot in the wings.
“I’d like to introduce a very new friend of mine. Her name is Noemie, and she’s going to join me on stage for this very special song. Noemie?”
She doesn’t move, I look down at her feet and they’re rooted to the spot.
“Why don’t we all give her a little encouragement!”
The cheers and claps fill our ears and I give her a soft kiss on the cheek and whisper into her ear, “For me, please.”
She takes a breath and walks on to the stage.
A star.
NOEMIE
Celine Dion is smiling at me, and touching my hand.
And I haven’t fainted yet. She’s so beautiful I think I might be falling in love. But I can’t.
Because she’s saying something and I think should listen.
“My very good friend Pink wrote this song for me, in the toughest time in my life,” she’s saying. Her voice full of emotion, of memory.
I know exactly what song she is talking about. And now I know why I’m here.
“The name of the song is Recovering.” She nods to me, and smiles and I nod back. A nod of understanding. Of people who’d known what it’s like to break.
And have recovered.
I count it in, and play.
Play with everything I have.
Everything I want to be. Everything I want to say to Jez, in this moment.
Who gave me this moment. I don’t know how he did it, but he gave me the one thing I needed.
Belief in myself again. The song is over almost before it began. Celine’s voice soaring over my last chord and then it’s done.
And I soak in the applause.
The moment.
And then I walk off the stage and return to my life.
My new life.
With Jez.
“You were phenomenal,” he’s yelling at me over the cheers as I walk into his arms.
“I can’t believe what just happened!” I scream, trying to make sense of what I’ve just experienced.
“It happened. Every single fucking moment.”
“Ahh!!!!” I yell, pumping my fists into the air.
“Quiet!” Someone with a headset shushes us and Jez grabs my hand and we run giggling out of a side exit.
“Is that… is that how it always feels?”
He nods, his eyes sparkling. “Yeah. It is.”
“Thank you. My sugar guardian angel.” And I wonder if I’ll ever be able to repay him.
***