Page 94 of The Overtime Persuasive

I laugh. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” He points toward the arena as if the answer is still thundering through the walls. “I’ve played in front of loud crowds. I know what twenty thousand people sound like. That was different.”

“It’s the acoustics.”

“It was not the acoustics.” He shakes his head in amazement. “Your dad walked onto that stage, played one note, and had the entire arena in the palm of his hand before they could have heard the second one.”

“He’s been doing this for a while.”

“One note, Eva.” His excitement makes me excited too, and it keeps my nerves at bay.

I’ve spent the entire night waiting for something to feel off. It’s usually at this juncture of dating that I start to see the cracks, or I discover they’re here for the lifestyle, for my dad, for the Almost Famous vibes of it all, not for me.

People think touring sounds glamorous. They see the arenas, hotel suites, and photographs taken beside people everyone recognizes. They don’t see a child doing homework on an equipment case or waking up in another city without remembering which one. They don’t understand how every backstage room begins to look the same after a while, or what it feels like to say goodbye to someone without knowing whether you’ll see them again next week or in three months.

So, I’ve spent the evening waiting for Liam to become overly impressed by the backstage passes, the private entrance, the way security guards step aside when they see me coming. For him to look at Dad and start seeing me as an extension of everything my father has built.

This is why I learned early on not to bring many people into this part of my life. Once they see the access, some of them stop seeing me.

Except, Liam hasn’t.

He loved the show. I could feel it in the way he cheered and sang along whenever he knew the words. But during the quieter songs, I caught him looking at me. Not my father, me.

The greenroom door opens, and three members of Dad’s band come through, followed by two people from the touring crew. The room fills quickly with post-show energy. Everyone is talking louder than necessary, still running on the rush of the performance.

“Eva!” Dad’s longtime tour manager crosses the room and pulls me into a hug. “You made it.”

“I said I would.”

“You also said you’d visit us in Nashville last year.”

He releases me, and I introduce him to Liam. More people come over. Musicians I’ve known since I was a teenager. A lighting technician who once taught me how to play blackjack during a six-hour delay in Chicago. Dad’s vocal coach, who still remembers the year I refused to wear anything except orange. That was fun for everyone.

Liam watches each greeting with interest.

“You know everyone,” he says when we finally have a moment alone. “How long have they worked with your dad?”

“Some of them have been around since I was a kid.”

He looks across the room at the people laughing together. “So this was your world.”

The way he says it catches me. Not this is your world. This was your world.

“Yeah,” I say. “For a long time.”

“Did you like it?”

“Sometimes. I loved watching Dad perform. I loved the crew, and there was always someone interesting around.” I lean against the back of the couch. “But we moved constantly. Tour buses, hotels, rented houses. I stopped decorating bedrooms because I knew I’d have to pack everything again.”

“Huh.” Liam’s gaze stays on mine. “That’s why Side B matters so much.”

It’s not a question. I fold my arms loosely. “The store?”

“The building. All of it.” He glances around the greenroom. “It’s yours, and it stays where you leave it.”

The words find the most tender part of me with startling accuracy. “I never thought of it like that.”

He nods, looking around the room again. “I like seeing this part of you.”