“Everyone except Penny.”
Dean nods, but Blake lets out a loud grunt. Every move he makes seems heavy with reluctance, but eventually he shuffles out of the door after Dean.
Once we’re alone Noah turns to me, and his body seems like it’s overflowing with nervous energy. Then I realize he’s not excited. He looks really worried.
“Penny, I don’t know if I can go onstage.”
Chapter Six
Those are the last words I expected to come out of Noah’s mouth. His trademark dimples are gone, his jaw tight. His face is drained of colour, and he’s biting his fingernails. I’ve never seen him like this before. He stands and paces up and down the dressing room, running his hands through his shaggy brown hair.
I get up and race over to him. To stop his nervous pacing, I take both of his hands in mine. He stands still, but I can feel his hands shaking. Our foreheads touch and we breathe together for a couple of moments. Then I lift my hands to his face. “You’re amazing. Of course you can do this. You’re Noah Flynn. You can do anything.”
He leans down and kisses me. It’s a different kind of kiss to the one in the car. He presses his lips to mine and they feel fuelled by a desperate kind of energy, as if he’s hoping our kiss will transport us to a different world, one where he doesn’t have to worry about performing in front of a crowd of 4,500 screaming fans.
When we finally break apart, he says, “Penny, I really, really don’t know if I can do this.” His voice is so quiet I can barely hear him.
There’s a pounding on the dressing-room door. “Your minute’s up, Noah!” says Dean, who sounds slightly on the verge of panic—but not in the same way as Noah.
Noah slumps down onto the sofa, burying his head in his hands.
Seeing him like this makes my heart ache. I want to reach out and wrap him in something warm and comforting, like my mum’s old sweater, but he can’t exactly walk out onstage wrapped in a blanket (although, thinking about it, he might start a new fashion trend if he did). That’s when inspiration strikes me. Maybe that’s what he needs: his comfort object.
I cast my eyes around, and they land on the one thing that I know always makes him feel at home: his old guitar. The one he brought from Brooklyn. The one with the message from his parents on the back:
Stay true, M & D x
I pick it up and walk over to him. “Here. Take this.”
“My guitar? How’s that going to help?”
“Just do it,” I say, more firmly.
He sighs, taking the guitar from my hands and lifting the strap over his head. As soon as it’s nestled in his arms, he strums a chord. Music fills the room, and it feels like we’re transported back to the basement of Sadie Lee’s house in New York, just the two of us in our own world. Instantly I see the tension leak from his shoulders.
“You should take it onstage with you,” I say.
“What do you mean?” He stares down at the guitar.
“That’s the guitar you wrote your songs on, right? Take it with you and play the first few chords with that guitar. Then, during the buildup, you can switch to your stage guitar.”
The room is silent for a few moments, and I wonder if I’ve suggested something really stupid. But then his face lights up. “Penny, you’re a genius.” He jumps to his feet and kisses me again.
“Careful of the guitar!” I laugh.
“Come on. Let’s get out there before Dean has a heart attack,” he says, slinging the instrument over his shoulder.
He holds his hand out to me, and I take it. Then, with his other hand, he opens the door.
Dean is leaning up against the wall outside, his head in his hands. He looks up as we emerge. “Oh, thank the Lord. Are you ready?”
“Yep, Dean, I’m coming.”
“Good. You worried me for a moment.” Dean starts striding through the backstage area. Noah and I hurry after him, dodging wires taped to the ground with thick black electrical tape and people wearing headsets who are frantically running around. I crane my neck to look up; the set for The Sketch is suspended above us. They’re using giant screens that they’ll bring down to the stage during their first act. Noah told me that they’ve hired live illustrators to draw onstage while the band performs, and the pictures will be shown on-screen. I almost trip on one of the wires, but Noah’s hand tightens round my own, steadying me.
Dean looks over his shoulder. “What are you carrying?” he asks Noah.
“It’s my guitar. I’m going to use it for the first part of the song—sing it a cappella—and then Blake can come in with the drum intro and I’ll switch to the main-stage guitar.”
Dean stops us all in our tracks and turns to face Noah, cocking his head to one side. Then he nods. “That sounds great. Not what we rehearsed, but, hey—it will be like a throwback to how you used to sound on YouTube. Let me go tell the rest of the guys and the crew. You never make my life easy, Noah.”
“And yet you wouldn’t have it any other way.” Noah grins.
Before we know it, we’re in the wings of the stage. I can feel the pulse of the audience, everyone waiting with bated breath for Noah to appear.
He turns to me, his dark eyes sparkling. I can see now that his nerves have gone—replaced by sheer adrenaline and excitement. “Thank you, Penny. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
I smile. “See you after the show,” I whisper.