Our first gig on the road is in a tiny basement bar called the Rathskeller. It may be small and dark and damp, but tonight the place is packed. I see the crowd and start unsteady, with a little wobble instead of my usual rip. Every night we will get farther from home, I think. Each night will be new, a different place, with a crowd of people ready to clap or boo or, worst of all, have no reaction at all. My fingers fumble. I’m unsure how to find my way. I turn my back on the world and let Ty lead me in. Focusing on his face, I lock my eyes onto his. He wipes his arm across his brow and shakes his head between beats; the pink sweatband he always wears flashes on his right forearm. His rhythm settles into me, and I imagine we are in my garage. It’s just another Saturday night. The song is familiar, the size of the space about the same. My breathing slows as I center myself on Ty. Billie blurs between us: boots and blond hair streaking across the tiny stage as fast as she can go. Jay holds steady on our left with a sound so low and deep I can feel it behind my back teeth, making my throat tingle.
