This time, instead of his music bringing her to tears, it stopped them. It reminded her that she was strong, that she had survived so much, and that she could do it again.

She asked Alexa to play the song on repeat.

xviii

We had a gig planned for a month after my cast came off. It was a huge one. One I’m still not sure how your dad made happen. We were playing the Bitter End—one of your dad’s goals before graduation, and one of our favorite places to hang out even when we weren’t playing. It was epic. And I really wanted to be in perfect shape for the show.

But in the week leading up to the gig, I was worried. When I played too long, my hand hurt. It throbbed like nothing I’d ever experienced before. And my fingers didn’t move as quickly as I wanted them to, didn’t press down as hard on the keys.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered one night, in the dark, while I was icing my hand in bed.

“Of course you can,” your dad told me. “You’ve put in the time, you’ve let yourself heal. You’re ready for your comeback.”

I laughed, but I knew that my hand didn’t know I was ready for my comeback. My hand could only do what it could do.

—

The night of the show, I dressed in what had become my usual performance attire—black pleather pants, a tight black tank top, and heels. Your dad gave me a good-luck necklace to wear, with a four-leaf clover charm on it that fell right between my breasts. I braided my hair into its half crown, the rest of it long and wavy.

“You ready?” he said.

“So ready,” I told him. I flexed my fingers. They ached. But it would be okay. I kept telling myself that it would be okay. I popped two extra-strength Tylenol before I left the room.

—

The guys and I all downed a good-luck shot before the show, and then we started playing. For the first forty-five minutes, everything was great. Then my hand started to throb. By an hour and ten minutes in, I couldn’t stand the pain anymore and started playing one-handed. Your dad noticed the difference in the music and looked over at me, raising an eyebrow as he kept singing. I lifted my hand and shook my head. Sympathy radiated from him to me, but we both knew we had to keep going. The set went on for another twenty minutes, and we’d make it to the end.

When that song finished, your dad looked at all of us and nodded twice. That meant he was adding something to the set list.