Taylor sat very still. She thought about all the people who had sung her songs back to her over the years—stadiums full of them, arenas packed with flashing wristbands and screaming voices. She loved every single one of those moments. But she couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her feel the way she felt right now.
Like her music wasn’t just heard. Like it was held.
“Thank you, Mike,” she said, and her voice came out rougher than she meant it to. “That was… that was really special.”
Mike wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—I never do that. I don’t even sing in front of Ella.”
“You should,” Taylor said. “She’d love it.”
He shook his head. Smiled a little. “She’d tell me to stick to the day job.”
They talked for another fifteen minutes. Twenty, maybe. Taylor lost track. Mike told her about the night shift and the second job he’d worked until six months ago, when his knees finally gave out. He told her about Ella’s school play last spring, how she’d been too nervous to audition until he promised he’d sit in the front row and embarrass her as much as humanly possible. He showed her the folded paper he’d been holding—a drawing Ella had made, marker on construction paper, a stick figure with a microphone standing in front of a crowd of tiny hearts.
Mike kept it in his pocket. Every shift.
“She gave it to me for Father’s Day two years ago,” he said, smoothing out the creases. “I told her I’d throw it away so it didn’t get ruined. But I just…” He shrugged. “I couldn’t.”
Taylor wanted to say something. Something perfect. Something that would make Mike understand what this moment meant to her. But the words wouldn’t come, and then her manager’s voice crackled through her earpiece—Taylor, we need you in hair and makeup in ten—and the spell broke.
She stood up. Mike stood up too, suddenly awkward again, suddenly aware that he’d just poured his whole heart out to a woman whose face was on billboards.
“It was really nice to meet you, Mike,” Taylor said.
“You too,” he said. “And I’m sorry again about the singing. I’ll be more careful.”
“Please don’t be,” she said. And then, because she couldn’t help it: “What section do you usually work?”
He looked confused. “Two-twelve, mostly. Sometimes two-thirteen if they’re short-handed.”
Taylor nodded. Stored it somewhere deep. “Take care of yourself, Mike.”
She walked back down the stairs, through the tunnel, past a security guard who held the door for her. Her team swarmed her the second she stepped into the light—questions about staging, about sound check, about the meet-and-greet list that had grown another thirty names since breakfast. She answered on autopilot. But her head was still in section 212.
