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I come back into myself with a start, to a smattering of polite claps and a group of overzealous hoots, which I’m pretty sure are from Mom and Dad—the only people here who love me enough to cheer for such a horrible flop.

If I weren’t already so embarrassed for myself, I’d be embarrassed for them, too.

I should get offstage. But, for the life of me, I can’t seem to get my feet to cooperate. Before, they functioned perfectly on their own even though they were unsteady, but now they absolutely refuse to move at all.

A rough cough.

A loud series of snickers.

My mortification is practically complete.

Kirk Hoenig walks out with a pained smile plastered on his face. “Let’s hear it for Paisley Morgan.”

“Uh, thank you,” I manage to croak into the microphone to another tepid round of pity applause.

“Thank you,” the emcee says, like he’s just as relieved as everyone else that my set is finally over. Suddenly, my feet become unstuck and my guitar no longer feels like a crushing lead weight.

The lights dim and Kirk hustles me offstage as the set crew rushes on. My legs are as wobbly as a newborn reindeer’s, and I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.

“That was—” I’m about to say “horrific,” but Clint cuts me off.

“Truly something,” he says, lifting his bushy eyebrows. “But you know what they say: The first cut is the deepest.”

“I think that’s supposed to be about your first broken heart,” I mutter.

“Same thing,” Clint says.

“If you say so.” I’ve never been in love, so I wouldn’t know.

I pull the wireless pickup from my Fender and hand it over to Clint before slipping my guitar into its beat-up case, covered in random stickers and Sharpie doodles. Once I’ve latched it, I take my notebook from him and run my fingers along the spine.

“The next gig will be easier, now that you’ve gotten this first one out of the way,” Clint says.

“What makes you think there’ll be a next one?” My voice warbles and hot tears fill my eyes. Who would want me on their stage after this?

With all the jumbled feelings roiling in my stomach, now’s the perfect time to channel them into an angsty song about getting knocked down and getting up again. Or maybe an epic breakup song.

And then my heart sinks even more. Will Exit 12S still want me to write for them after this fiasco?

One of the greenroom’s doors bursts open, and a group of guys in faded jeans and dark, fitted T-shirts tumbles out, jostling each other as they make their way toward us.

“Talk about awful.”

“Totally,” one of them says with a laugh.

“Who even was that?”

“Probably some chick who thinks she’s the next Taylor Swift.”

“Don’t they all?” one of them asks with a bitter edge.

“I think her name starts with a P. Penny?”

“Pansy?”

“Panties?”

That sends them into a round of riotous guffaws.