Imani was just supposed to make sure that the lost dog got home safely, come back, and pretend like the mere thought of the owner with doe eyes and an armful of tattoos didn't make her question her entire belief system. Sounds simple enough...right...
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(two days until the show)
It's never been a secret to the rest of the band that I begin to grow painstakingly panicky around the last few days leading up to our performances. They start to make it a point to check up on me ("Did Imani sleep enough?" "Is Imani eating well?" "Imani, babe, you always do so well. But it's okay to be nervous!"), and I keep it to myself that I very strongly believe calling it 'nervousness' is a bit too kind on their part.
A horrible understatement is what it actually is. Because what I really feel is pure, unadulterated unease—the kind that shows on my face and churns uncomfortably in my stomach every time I so much as even think about playing in front of a crowd. There's nothing new about it, but the thought that for once, we are invited because of how much the regulars there had liked having us... it doesn't help. At all.
So, all things considered, anxiety is a real bitch to live with.
The fact that Kaia and I have been texting non-stop should be grounding me, considering that it's a wonderful distraction and it's really, really (embarrassingly) hard to think about anything else every time she's around—in person, or not. But she's going to be there to watch us perform. And for that exact reason, the mention of her name and every ping of my phone only agitates me further.
At least it can't get any worse than this. Or so I had thought. Sean insists that we open with a calm, soothing song for once instead of diving headfirst into our usual rock pieces and Okay, I think again. That actually does sound like a good idea.
Change is good. Change is important. Change makes you grow.
But then he asks me to stay back and sends everyone else away after we finalize the setlist.
"What's up?" I ask casually, but internally, I'm thinking back on how I've spent every breathing second of the past week to pick out where I messed up enough for Sean to sit me down to speak to me about something serious.
I don't really dwell on how my first assumption is that I'm about to get scolded, even though I'm not exactly a troublemaker. In fact, I'm probably the second quietest person in the band—the first place was, and always will be reserved for Sean—and I mostly keep to myself. In the years that I have known all of them, I've been held back by Sean for a talk in private for maybe a total of about two times.
And even then, it wasn't because he thought I was doing something that needed to change.
It was because he was worried. I was too quiet. Too hesitant. Too distant.
He gestures at the empty chair before his desk with an open palm so I take the hint and sit down, very likely looking like a deer caught in headlights when he stands in front of me and crosses his arms across his chest.
"The first song. Spring Rain?" I nod, fingers only slightly digging into my thighs with uncertainty when he pauses. "I want you to do it. With Ved."
