The Spotlight

Chapter 18

The automatic doors of Fountain Studios slide open with a soft mechanical hiss. The familiar smell of the studio—a mixture of industrial cleaning products, electronics running hot, and the faint lingering scent of hairspray—should be comforting by now. Instead, it only heightens my awareness that something fundamental has changed. I've walked this same route to the rehearsal rooms dozens of times over the past few weeks, but today my footsteps echo differently against the walls, marking the absence of the man whose opinion has somehow become central to my experience here.

Three days since Gary vanished from the competition with no explanation beyond Nicole's vague "urgent personal matters." Three days of rehearsing with Robbie, whose larger-than-life personality fills rooms in ways completely different from Gary's measured presence. Three days of checking my phone obsessively, hoping for some message or sign that might explain the sudden void.

Tomorrow is the live show. Tomorrow, if Nicole was telling the truth, Gary will return—to judge my performance, to sit across the stage while I sing the song we chose together, to look at me with eyes that might hold regret or relief or something else entirely.

Robbie is already inside, his back to me as he gestures expressively to a lighting technician. "No, no—think dramatic. Think about the Bond film opening sequence. I want light that builds like a slow burn, yeah? Not this—" he waves dismissively, "—department store fitting room nonsense."

The transformation when he turns and spots me is immediate—his serious expression dissolving into a wide grin. "Riley Scott! Perfect timing. We were just sorting your lighting cues. Come here!"

He springs across the stage, his feet barely touching the ground. Reaching me, he wraps his strong arm around my shoulders and guides me to the center of the stage, where the spotlight beams down on us.

"Now, I've been thinking about your entrance. Gary had you starting center stage, which is fine, very safe, very—" he makes a face, "—Gary. But what if—" his eyes light up as he spreads his hands in front of us, framing an imaginary scene, "—you start in darkness, just your silhouette, and then as the music builds..."

For the next hour, Robbie and I work through the staging for "Skyfall." His suggestions are theatrical without being over-the-top, each designed to enhance the dramatic power of the song rather than distract from it.

"The audience should feel the tension in their bones before you hit that chorus," he explains, demonstrating a subtle shift in my positioning. "It's all about building anticipation."

I try to focus, to absorb his guidance and translate it into my body, but Gary's absence keeps pulling at the edges of my attention. Would he approve of these changes? Was he thinking about tomorrow's performance wherever he was? Did he miss this—miss being here—miss me?

"Earth to Riley," Robbie waves a hand in front of my face, his expression curious rather than annoyed. "Everything alright?"

"Sorry," I shake my head, forcing myself back to the present. "Just thinking about tomorrow."

He nods, though his eyes hold a knowing look that makes me wonder how transparent my thoughts really are. "But nervousness is just excitement without the breathing. So, take a breath, and let's try that bridge again."

We perform the part of the song where it reaches its emotional climax, a section that had challenged me in past rehearsals but is now seamless since I discovered my emotional link.

"Again, from the top of the bridge," Robbie gestures to the sound engineer, and the backing track starts.

I close my eyes, finding my way back into the song.