Swiping at her dampening eyes, Melody took out her phone and started tapping out a text to him, but she couldn’t see the screen. Too blurry.
“Ladies and gentleman, please welcome Hank Turin to the stage,” Trina said into the microphone, gesturing to a small man with a ponytail who was making his way to the drum kit, the spotlight following his progress.
“He was with us on that final, disastrous tour and he was a gentleman the entire time,” said Octavia. “Even when we were fighting like a couple of alley cats.”
“Well.” Trina winked at the new drummer. “He wasn’t a gentleman the entire time.”
Octavia belted a laugh. “You could never leave those drummers alone.”
Trina gave the lead singer a pointed look. “Neither could you.”
The women were sharing a laugh with the audience when Danielle came up beside Melody. “They are absolutely killing and they haven’t even played a song yet.”
“They’re really special, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are,” Danielle agreed, putting an arm around Melody’s shoulders. “Look what you pulled off.”
“I didn’t do it alone.”
Before Danielle could respond, Octavia spoke again, her voice carrying through the plaza, backstage and beyond. “We’d like to open the show with a tribute to Beat and Melody.” Once again, the cheers rose to a deafening level. “Somehow, we don’t think you’ll mind.”
The stage went dark.
Danielle squeezed Melody’s shoulder, then stepped away, leaving her standing alone to watch the screen behind the stage light up. A movie began to play. No . . . not a movie. It was Melody and Beat. They were sitting at a table. Was it the day of the initial meeting with Danielle? Yes. There were beignets between them. Coffee.
But they weren’t supposed to be filmed. The conversation had been private.
Or so they’d thought.
Obviously Danielle had pulled a fast one.
My God, the way they looked at each other. The way he stared at her, not breathing, like she was operating on his heart. The way she gazed back at him, like she couldn’t believe the honor. Witnessing that visible connection from this point of view, from the outside, was like jumper cables clamping around her heart, electrifying it in her chest.
“Do you need me to do this show with you, Beat?” murmured on-screen Melody.
Beat shook his head. “I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on you.”
“Do you need me?” she asked again.
He hesitated. “There isn’t a single other person in the world I would ask.”
Color bloomed madly in her cheeks. “Then, okay.”
Scenes played one after the other, their initial on-screen interview about Steel Birds, dancing at the Christmas party, Melody falling on her butt, Beat all but carrying Melody out of jail, him arriving shirtless at bocce with a giant “M” on his chest, the snowball fight, the morning after. She blinked back tears, trying desperately to take in every second, all the ways they quietly communicated with each other. Through touches and looks, a language only they recognized.
The final clip that played on the screen made the world spin slower, Melody’s mind struggling to play catch-up with what she was seeing.
It was them—at age sixteen.
There was footage of them meeting at the Behind the Music interview, Beat’s hands closed around her arms, his expression earnest, hers magnetized. Totally dumbstruck. Even though there was no sound to accompany the video, she could still remember what he’d said to her, word for word. That conversation, those fleeting moments, were etched on her soul.
On the screen, they were hustled in different directions. And then she was watching Beat walk into his interview room, the assistant clipping a microphone to his collar while he sat there looking dazed. A sixteen-year-old boy staring off into the distance.
“Is everything okay?” asked the interviewer, getting no response. “Mr. Dawkins?”
“Sorry, I . . .” He looked back at the door through which he’d entered. “I finally got to meet Melody Gallard.”
“Was she everything you expected?”
“No.” His chest rose and fell. “She was better.”
The screen faded to black, spotlights blasting the stage.
Melody shook all the way down to her toes, her heart detonating like a bomb inside of her chest. She couldn’t swallow, could barely see through the wall of moisture in her eyes.
She knew she had to run . . . to find him.
She’d put distance in between her and Beat, because he’d hurt her, not trusting her enough to be honest about Fletcher’s threat against her. But while he might have made a mistake in an effort to protect her, the trust had been there since the beginning.
Do you need me?
There isn’t a single other person in this world I would ask.
After everything she’d learned about Beat during this process, she couldn’t even fathom how difficult it had been for him to ask the favor. To trust her with it. To admit his vulnerability in front of her. And he’d done it on day one. He’d had faith in her at the start. He still did. She’d just been too hurt to recognize it.
“Danielle,” Melody called, turning in a frantic circle, locking eyes with several people in headsets, but no producer. “Did you see where Danielle went?”
A young man pointed backstage and Melody jogged in that direction, calling the producer’s name. Danielle would know where Beat had gone. Maybe a camera had followed him? Was that too much to hope for? Unfortunately, Danielle was nowhere to be found. Melody was beginning to give up hope when she heard a thump and turned around to find a supply closet door shaking on its hinges.
Melody opened the door to find Danielle and Joseph locked in a passionate embrace on the other side, his mouth moving over hers from above. “Oh! My God.” Melody covered her eyes. “I’m sorry. I knew it. But I’m sorry.”
“Can I . . .” Breathless, Danielle hurriedly smoothed her hair, obviously unaware of the lipstick smeared down her chin. “What’s wrong? Do you need something?”
“I need something,” the cameraman muttered, eyeing the producer’s neck.
“I’ll leave you alone to get that . . . something . . . but I’m wondering if you know where Beat went?” Urgency rose like a bubble in Melody’s throat. “Please, I need to find him.”
Danielle’s shoulders slumped. “He asked us not to follow him, Mel. And I didn’t think it was necessary, considering, well . . . mission accomplished.”
“Right.” Oh God, her entire chest was caving in. “I’ll find him.”
The producer laid a consoling hand on Melody’s arm, but she ignored it. And she ran.
She wove through the crew in the atrium and out the side door of the network building—straight into a throng of waiting fans. The ones closest to her did a double take, before starting to scream.
“It’s her! It’s Magnificent Melody!”
Her eardrums protested the blast of noise, throbbing. But the cheers cut out immediately when she held up a peace sign, something her third-grade teacher used to do. And miracle of miracles, it worked. Everyone else held up a peace sign, too, mouths snapping shut.