Free Falling Under by Jasinda Wilder Page B

heard me. And I’m dying here as it is.”
    Nell pats my arm. “You’ll do fine. Just ignore the people. That’s what I did when I first started gigging. I was so scared. Ask Colt. He was there for my first gigs. I thought I’d pass out, I was so nervous. But you get used to it. Eventually, it’s fun. Although the first moment you step out on the stage? That moment never gets any less exciting, or nerve-wracking.”
    “Yeah, not sure that helps much, but thanks, Mrs. Calloway.”
    “My name is Nell.” She pats my arm again. “Do the open mic night. See how it feels.”
    I nod, and then she and Colt disappear up the stairs. I let my inner panic show. “Kylie! Why didn’t you tell me they were there? I was butchering their music in their house.”
    She just laughs. “You didn’t butcher anything. You did great. And I was so surprised by how good you are.” She plays a few notes, then glances up at me. “Are you sure you can’t sing? Have you ever tried?”  
    I shake my head. “No. And no way. I’ll play for you, but there’s no way in hell I’m singing.”
    She gets up off the piano bench and circles around to stand in front of me. “Come on. Please? Just try.” She puts her hands on my shoulders, pulls me in for a hug. I’ve gotten better at hugging, she says. Her voice is a whisper in my ear. It’s tickling and hot and too much to take. I shrug away and grunt. “Just try. Please? For me?” She’s leaning into me, and it’s not just a hug. It’s too intimate for that.  
    I let her hang on me, because the only way to move her away is to take her by the waist, and that’s entering dangerous waters. Dangerous for her, that is.
    “Sing what?” I say, resigned to the fact that I can’t seem to ever say no to this girl, even when it ends up with me embarrassing myself.
    “Anything. Something you know. I’ll sing with you. How about something generic?” She pulls away, but not all the way. Her hands are on my shoulders, held at arm’s length. She pops one hip and thinks. “Hmm. How about…god, I don’t know. What songs do you know that I’d know?”
    Fuck me. She’s really pushing this. I don’t want to sing. I don’t want to go up on stage at all. It’s not that I’m scared, I’m just…okay, you know what? I am scared. I’m just like anyone else: afraid of embarrassment and rejection. If she was pushing me to get up there on my own and rip some metal riffs, pretend I’m Joe Satriani or something, maybe. But this? Singing and playing an acoustic guitar like some coffeehouse hipster dick? Yeah, no.
    But damn it, look at her, sapphire-blue eyes pleading with me, her hands on my shoulders like it ain’t no thing, like her touch isn’t making my pulse pound. Like I have a snowball’s chance in hell of saying no.  
    The problem is, I don’t know any songs well enough to actually sing—at least, none that she’d know. Except one, and I don’t want to sing that one. It’s my mom’s song. Her favorite song. The one she sings when she’s falling down drunk and whatever secret tragedy haunts her is slipping out.  
    It’s the only song I know well enough to sing.  
    I sigh. “There’s one song. ‘Come On Get Higher.’”
    Squeal-and-clap, giddy, eyes bright. “Matt Nathanson!” Shit, she’s gorgeous. “I love that song!”  
    She has her phone out, and she’s scrolling, scrolling, and now it’s playing. Tinny, small, distant, playing through her phone’s speakers. The guitar comes in, and I’m listening close, trying to track the chords and the rhythm. Easy enough, seems like. Yeah, I could play this song.  
    I close my eyes, sink in, delve down. I hear my mom’s voice. She’s got a decent voice, not great, but she can hold a tune. I channel her, because that’s the only way I’ll get myself to actually sing out loud. I mean, I do sing, but it’s alone, in my room, the music loud enough to drown my own voice. I try not to hear myself. I just sing along with