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I’ve never played with such professionals before, and it was a solid performance. I could jump for joy. The energy was so great out there, and they made our songs sound so good. Barry kept giving me a thumbs-up, and people were actually paying attention. I’m full of post-show endorphins, but there’s a damper on my mood. I don’t have anyone to celebrate this success with.

“Looking forward to playing with you again real soon,” the bass player says, giving my hand a tight squeeze.

Before I can reply, the stage manager comes over, clipboard in hand. “Hate to break this up,” she says. “Kash, you need to head up to the roof now.”

I glance at my watch: 11:45. I have ten minutes until I make my television debut with “Worth the Wait.”

I follow a runner they’ve sent to collect me through a maze of hallways to a service elevator. We take it up to the top floor, and I step out into a narrow room behind the rooftop stage. The band before me is finishing up their set, and I take a moment to center myself.

I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, trying to channel all the positive energy I soaked up downstairs. I can’t get caught up in the cameras or the pressure. I just have to go out there and do my thing.

The rooftop stage manager hands me an earpiece and gestures for me to put it in.

As soon as I do, an unfamiliar woman’s voice says, “It’s been a spectacular night here in Nashville.”

“That’s right, Megan,” says a male voice. “In just a few short minutes, the ball will drop. And then the party will really kick off.”

“It’s an exciting time, Russ.”

The stage manager gives me the signal.

It’s go time.

I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. I’ve spent the past few days working on a new arrangement for “Worth the Wait,” but in my heart, it’s still supposed to be a duet. The song was meant for Paisley and me.

I press my fist over my heart, feeling how quickly it’s beating in my chest.

The stage manager, with an impatient look, gives me another signal.

I nod but don’t move. In the ear monitor, the hosts are making small talk as they wait for me to take the stage.

There’s a bustle behind me, and the stage manager’s eyes narrow. “You’re not allowed back here. This space is for performers only.”

I turn as Barry’s familiar voice says, “It’s all right. She’s with the band.”

“Paisley,” I say, my breath catching in my chest.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. Her eyes dart nervously around the darkened space we’re standing in.

“What are you doing here?”

“Singing?” she says. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, stepping closer to her.

“It’s supposed to be a duet.”

The bass player drifts over and gives me a “C’mon, man, what the hell” look.

“You need to be on the stage now,” the stage manager says.

My heart hammers in my chest. “Are you sure?”

Paisley nods, but the way her lips are pressed into a thin line tells me she’s not sure about this at all. She grabs my hand, and together we step out onto the darkened stage.

The rooftop deck is smaller and more intimate than the main stage was downstairs. Up here, there are disco balls hanging from the rafters and everyone’s wearing party hats and New Year’s novelty glasses. There’s a different vibe, probably on account of the cameras and the fact that we’re only a few minutes away from the New Year.

In the far corner, a mobile camera crew is focused on a blond woman in a long silver dress and the cowboy hat–wearing man in a suit beside her. They’re both holding microphones and smiling at the camera.