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I’m still sweaty from the stage when Mom catches me first and wraps both arms around me.
“You were wonderful.”
“You’re a little biased.”
“Obviously.” Mom squeezes me tighter. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Dad stands just behind her, shaking his head with a smile.
Lachlin gets to me next, followed by Briar, and then Conlin tells me the third song was decent, which from him is basically a standing ovation.
For the next twenty minutes, I move through the crowd of people I’ve known most of my life.
Teachers. Neighbors. Guys Dad worked with years ago. People who remember when Hollow North played tiny bars with bad wiring, a handful of people paying attention, and everyone else talking loud enough to make us wonder why we’d bothered to show up.
It’s good.
Better than good.
But I keep looking for Ruby.
I finally spot her near the merch table with Nell and two women I don’t recognize. One of them is holding up a shirt while Ruby points out something in the design, and another has somehow talked her into signing the inside of an album cover.
Ruby looks like she doesn’t know whether she wants to engage in conversation or hide.
I grin when she catches me watching. Her eyes narrow in warning, which only makes me enjoy it more, but before I can make my way over to her, someone steps in front of me.
A woman around my age, smiling as she lightly touches my arm. “Great show. I saw you guys here a couple years ago too. You’ve gotten really good.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
She keeps talking about the tour and whether we’ll be back before the end of the year, but my attention has already shifted past her. Ruby has escaped the autograph situation and is standing alone now, looking directly at me.
The woman asks me something else, and I realize I missed half of it. I glance back at her. “Sorry. I need to go see someone.”
She follows my gaze toward Ruby, smiles like she understands exactly what I mean, and steps aside as I head across the room.
Ruby watches me approach, her eyes sliding past me toward the woman for half a second before coming back to mine. The slight lift of her eyebrow tells me she caught the whole thing.
“Busy?” I ask.
“Apparently I’m famous now.”
“I saw.”
She glances toward the merch table. “Someone asked me to sign an album.”
“You saw that. I hope you know that I’m ridiculously proud of you.”
Her expression softens.
I slide an arm around her waist and look toward the merch table, where her work is disappearing into shopping bags and under people’s arms.
“You did this.”
“We did this.”
“The music is ours.” I look back at her. “That part is yours.”
