What I hope for, though, is that somewhere around three this morning it became perfect. I think it did, but I was also deliriously sleepy.

  “I can’t believe this is it.” Jesse stands behind me and rubs up and down on my arms, warming me. The studio is so cold.

  “Me neither,” my stomach keeps doing flips. There are five performances, and we’re last. The producers have seen a sample of our act, and I don’t know if they slated us last because they know we’re the best or because they like the drama that will build up when we lose.

  I’m sure this is rigged. I just hope it’s rigged in our favor. We’re marketable. We have a look, a sound, and a style. We have something to hook people. I sound like my mother in my head; she’s been nothing but the queen of positivity for months. She’s been right every time, though.

  My parents are out there. They’re staying at the Hilton down the road, and they supplied the never-ending stream of soda and pizza last night and the night before. Like the rest of us who live at the Gardens Apartments, I’m sure they’re sick of what we’re about to perform. But we can all handle this one last time. If it wins, I’ll play it forever—until my fingers fall off and they stop making Solo cups.

  The band before us is a trio of girls. They’re really good. They’re pop, and their name is Sassy Sasquatch, which I truly freaking love. I think they’ll do well even if they don’t win. They’re all really nice, too. And they’re killing it right now.

  I feel guilty, but I wanted them to suck, just this once.

  They finish, and the crowd stands, cheering loudly. Lights flicker around, cameras move, and there are long pauses while judges get mic’d up. This part is always the longest. They take so many different shots, and the feedback they give in real life is so much more in-depth than the blip they end up cutting together for TV.

  Everything they’re saying about Sassy Sasquatch is glowing. It’s deserved.

  Shit.

  It’s finally our time to set up. I usher everyone out to the stage while the hands move out the things we won’t need and Jesse and Rag tune and set up our gear. This is it. We were perfect at this just five hours ago, and our hands haven’t stopped doing it since then. I know so, because I have heard Josh’s palms slap his legs, and Darcy, the new girl on the line who took over my snare—she hasn’t stopped playing either.

  I get everyone to circle up when Rag tells me they’re ready. We all have a cup in our hands, each a different color.

  “This is going to break the Internet.”

  Josh smirks at me.

  “Hell yes, it is,” he says, holding his cup in the middle. We tap them together lightly and then I nod, sending everyone to their places.

  The lights drop when I signal to the stage crewmember to my right. She says something in her headset and I see the lights counting down for my time to go live.

  We start in the dark.

  It’s my rhythm, the one from the diner. Soft and slow, picking up volume and speed with every pass until the spot comes on and there are suddenly three of us. Josh to my right and Darcy to my left. We’re all looking straight ahead, kneeling at the floor, our hands working by muscle memory through the slide, the tap-tap, the pop and turn and pound. The slide. The tap-tap. Pop, turn, pound.

  More spots come on. And now we’re five. The audience is starting to get it, and even though my eyes are staring straight ahead and my face is expressionless, I can’t help but notice the way the judges have all leaned forward to watch closely.

  Five becomes seven.

  Slide.

  Tap-Tap.

  Pop. Turn. Pound.

  Nine.

  Eleven.

  Fifteen.

  The sound is like heavy rain falling in perfect coordination. I don’t have to look down the line to know we’re all in sync. I would hear it. That’s what makes this so tricky. If anyone slips everyone will know.

  Slide.

  Tap-Tap.

  Pop. Turn. Pound.

  Jesse’s voice hits the mic, and I feel the heat of the bigger spot behind me from where I’m sitting on the floor at the front of the stage. He begins to sing. “It’s Time,” and yes, it is…it is our time.

  The crowd’s roar is authentic. There aren’t signs telling them to feel this, to get on their feet. They just are. They’re clapping, but we’re careful. We can’t follow them. Our rhythm is the pulse, and we need to lead.

  The song is building, and we’re hitting the end of the first chorus. The lights will go as soon as my cup flattens to the floor. I get my legs primed. I’ll have a second…maybe two. Jesse’s voice lingers in the air and my pop sounds. It echoes and the set goes dark. I feel the cords under my feet, the tape on the floor glowing just enough so I don’t trip.

  I find home, my sticks right where they should be.

  Wall. Of. Sound.

  My hands fly, and all of the lights come up. Everyone is still perfect with the cups, each beat matching mine. I tear at the drums, feeling the soul of the song and the passion and heartache and prayers in Jesse’s voice. Goddamn is he beautiful.

  We build and build until the song has a natural break again and everyone holds their cups to their chests, the four of us find our mics and we sing in harmony.

  The golden stage lights are blinding and bright. The heat is welcomed against the freezing cold stage. My body is on fire because I’ve never been more motivated and scared at the same time in my life. I feel like I’m running a marathon while holding a fragile egg about to hatch. I just need to drive this home—we need to bring this home.

  It comes back to the acoustic sounds. I only click my sticks. Only on the taps. Jesse’s guitar swings free to his back, and his hands cup the mic while his eyes close and he pleas to be loved.

  The world is going to love him.

  I love him.

  He loves me, and for me…that’s more than enough.

  Epilogue

  I think, for Jesse, there are two moments in his life that will always have a permanent mark on his soul—the day he proposed and I said yes, and this moment right now.

  It’s rare for a twenty-two-year-old to be able to give their parent something so big, but that’s what all of this was about. It’s what it’s always been about.

  His mom. His love for her and his siblings. Jesse’s way of making sure everything was okay.

  “I hope she likes it.” His hand is wringing mine on his thigh. He’s wearing my skin, and he keeps twisting my engagement ring around and it’s making me raw. I want to say something but I know his nerves are eating at his insides.

  “Of course she’ll love it,” I say. “And Conner is going to freaking flip his mind.”

  Jesse’s mouth curls, an excited grin spreading into his cheeks.

  “He is, isn’t he?”

  I nod and squeeze over the top of his hand with my other one.

  The car pulls up to the front gates. Rag and Logan said they’d meet us there. Rag and Sam are bringing the baby, so they wanted to drive on their own and Logan is just…Logan. He’s our wanderer.

  When they announced us as runner’s up, there was a part of me that thought this ride—my time with Jesse and the boys—was over. I was more upset over that than over losing to Sassy Sasquatch. Funny how respect can take you a long way, though.

  We were genuine when we congratulated those girls. We became real fans of their sound. Turns out, they became fans of ours too. It was natural to tour together when we both finished out the contract deals from the network. It was also the best idea ever. Our shows have been sold out for two years solid, and we’re about to drop our second album.

  The songs on this one are all Jesse’s. He wrote a masterpiece. This one also features the song—the one that is going to get a lot of attention from the critics and the fans that still linger out there for Alton. Jesse’s ready for the hate messages, though. There are plenty of love notes mixed in. For many interviews now, he’s told his story, even the ugliest parts. I’ve shared mine, too—or most of it. There are some pieces that are just for me and my parents. It will always stay that way.

  The greatest gift has been the people who have reached out who are just like us. Everyone has their own lake. It was true when Jesse said it, and it became overwhelmingly apparent when the letters began to pour in from people whose lives paralleled our own.

  Shitty parents. Struggles with depression, repression, and fear, and figuring out how to talk about diagnosis. It’s become our passion as a couple—something we dedicate a portion of our earnings toward: mental-health causes, counseling, advocacy; the hands that are out there ready to lift people up need to be made stronger. It’s our vow that they are.

  Sam and Rag pull up just after we get out, and Logan follows soon after. It’s hard to hide most of the things we do, so it’s not shocking that photographers are staking out the sidewalk across the street. At least they’re giving us enough privacy not to be right in our faces.

  I look from them to Jesse and offer a crooked smile.

  “I’m sorry. They follow the cars,” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “It’s fine. I’m proud of what they’re going to see.” He looks at them over my shoulder and waves. A frenzy of clicks sounds in the distance. I laugh and shake my head.

  “They’re like fish. You shouldn’t feed them,” I say.

  He holds my face between his hands and chuckles.

  “Aren’t you supposed to feed fish?” he says.

  I laugh because he’s right.

  “Bad analogy, but you know what I mean.”

  “Ducks. I think you meant ducks. Or pigeons. Yeah…they shit up the patio, so that’s what you meant.”

  I close my eyes and lean my head into him with a breathy laugh.

  His hands move around my back as he brings me into a hug then pats nervously at my body.

  “They’re here,” he says.

  His mom and siblings are led out of the car Jesse sent for them; they’re wearing blindfolds. My parents know what’s coming. They rode along for support and they had to pretend they were blindfolded too.

  “Jesse? I’m pretty carsick, so if you could just let me know what this is?” Amanda’s hands are reaching out into the nothingness. Jesse grabs them and he puts his arm around her, his smile beaming.

  “I assured her that you weren’t pregnant…yet,” my mom whispers at my side.

  I flare my eyes because jeez! Let a girl be engaged for a while. Holy night!

  My mom is shameless though. She purses her lips. It’s weird to have a parent rooting for you to have lots and lots of unprotected sex because they want grandbabies. Soon enough. And we want lots of them.

  “Mom, you have been my rock for everything.” Jesse’s words have made his mom stiffen, and I can tell she’s getting nervous. She’s starting to realize this is about her. I move over to stand with Conner and AmberLynn, and I help them with their blindfolds but hush them so they don’t ruin it. They’re eyes are so wide; I can tell that my seventeen-year-old future sister-in-law is on the verge of tears just looking at her future home.

  Future as in…minutes from now.

  “You’re scaring me,” his mom says.

  Jesse chuckles and turns her so her back is to the house. He pulls her blindfold off but keeps her hands in his and makes sure her eyes stay forward.

  “You put up with loud music in the garage, and you spent your first checks on things like guitar amps and new strings. And you never once resented the fact that this was the life I wanted even though…” He pauses to take a deep breath. His mom lets a tear slip out. Jesse dries it with his thumb. It’s so sweet.

  “Even though this life was nothing but ugliness for you. You saw something different in me.”

  “Because you are different. You’re so special,” she says. She touches her son’s face, and he holds her hand against his cheek. They both cry, sweet happy tears that reach into me and pull them from my own eyes.

  Damn.

  “I wanted to say thank you, so…” He spins her slowly, and I feel her nerves plummet the moment she realizes what he’s done.

  It was two-point-three million; it isn’t the biggest one on the street, but it’s close. It’s near the best school in this area, and it’s guarded by cameras and the guy Jesse put on salary to keep his mother safe.

  Four thousand square feet of Tuscan style, enormous tiles, winding gardens and plenty of soft, trickling water. It’s an oasis. It’s what he always wanted for her.

  She falls down to her knees and starts to cry harder. I catch the boys all wiping away tears of their own. It’s hard not to be moved and overwhelmed by this.

  “Jesse!” She stands with his help and clings to his body. He towers over her, her protector then and always. My protector. All of ours, really.

  “I love you, Mom. If you don’t take this key and go explore, I’m pretty sure Conner is going to shit his pants,” Jesse says, placing the new home key in his mom’s palm.

  She shoves at him playfully.

  “Your mouth,” she teases.

  “As if you didn’t teach me that word,” he says.

  “Shhhh,” she hushes, holding a finger to her lips. I see it tremble, along with her mouth. She’s stemming from the shock of this. I did the same thing when, at the end of our last tour date, Jesse got down on one knee and held out this ring. I’ve never heard a crowd roar so loud in my life.

  My own voice came out with them.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s go see what your brother’s done.”

  Jesse’s mom takes Conner’s hand as he drags her through the gates. AmberLynn walks slowly behind, her body jolting with cries at every new thing she sees. Everyone follows them in but Jesse and I remain behind. He needs this moment to let it all sink in, to let the experience make its mark and become a part of his new story.

  “I told you she’d love it,” I say, tucking myself under his arm and holding onto him tightly.

  “You told me a lot of things,” he says, turning me to face him. He dips his hands in my back pockets and I step on his shoes. He winces. “You’re gonna dirty the kicks.”

  I twist my feet to be mean.

  He sighs, but he lets me stay where I am.

  “So what’s next, future Mrs. Barringer?” He nips at my lips, and I bite at him to try to make him stay. We smile through our soft kiss.

  “Well, according to my mom, we’re supposed to go make babies…stat.”

  He squeezes my ass, and I squeal.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I turn my head because I’m not ready for that just yet. He knows it too.

  “Practice, I mean,” he adds.

  “Ahh, practice. You mean…rehearsal,” I say.

  He laughs and moves his hands up my arms to my face, kissing me until the weight of the earth flattens my feet and our lips part.

  “Yeah,” he says, tethering our hands. He leads me through the gates to catch up with the others. “I mean…you’re really shit at drums.”

  I pucker a smile and laugh quietly. There have been so many laughs over the last two years. So few tears. And so few lakes.

  I know the day will come when I may find one again, but the difference is I found the perfect swimming partner. And with him, I can tread forever.

  * * *

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  I have so many people I want to thank for this book. I want to thank my family, first and foremost, for being open to the conversations about mental health and for supporting me through ups and downs and sideways moments. I grew up in an environment where talk is often, open and embraced, and for me, it has made tough conversations so much easier. It’s a practice I try to continue and spread, and a cause I advocate for. The perception of mental health can’t be taboo; if your heart is unwell, you seek help. You have conversations. The same must be true for your brain and mind and mental wellbeing.

  If you are having a hard time talking, or you need help taking those first steps toward mental wellness, please consider reaching out to the resources available through www.nami.org or www.afsp.org.

  We all have lakes, and nobody needs to swim alone.

  There are several people who helped me bring this story to life. Thank you, Alyson Santos, for being a wicked awesome friend, musician and author, and for reading to keep me authentic and on point. Your drum/band expertise was invaluable! Thank you to TeriLyn, Shelley and Jen for reading early and often, and in bits and pieces lol! You drive me to the finish line time and time again, and I love you so much for it! And to my summer writing group girls – JB Salsbury and Rebecca Shea – you girls helped me birth this baby!

  My words are nothing without the careful gloves and eagle eyes of my editors, BilliJoy Carson and Tina Scott. And my writing cave would be terribly dysfunctional and lonely without you, Autumn. Wordsmith Publicity is quite literally my safe space. I’m so grateful that the bookish gods saw fit to put us together!

  For those who may not know, I do my own cover design. This one was a joy to work on, and the credit for the energy that wraps this story in loveable arms goes to photographer Chuck Weber and model Kelsey Strandberg.

  If you like the name Arizona, that credit goes to my son, Carter. When I started this book, I asked him to pick a name—a cool name, for a cool girl who was quirky awesome and finding her confidence. He said the name so fast I was shocked. Then he said he wants to meet an Arizona someday and date her. That’s a side conversation. I’ll worry about it when we run into an Arizona.

  Lastly, I want to thank my fellow band geeks. My band journey started with a flute in fifth grade. I picked it because it was the cheapest instrument on the list. I played it until high school when there were just too many damn flutes in our marching band and Mr. Z, the world’s greatest band teacher, asked for volunteers to take on another instrument. I rose my hand first, and I shouted drums. I got to play a little of everything, and my time in band still remains my favorite part about high school. There’s something special about us band geeks. Our friendships are permanent, and our wall of sound will knock you over. Oh, and watch our sticks, yo!