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“Tyler and I are auditioningtogether.”
The judges exchangelooks.
“Where is Mr. Adams?” the deanasks.
My stomach twists as silence falls over theauditorium.
The thought that rises up is involuntary, andawful.
He left. He leftagain.
When I’m about to open my mouth, the doors of the auditorium burst open, and Tyler strides in, guitar on hisback.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he says loudly enough the judges can hear too as he makes his way up the aisle. “One of our first-floor neighbors was broken into, and he cut himself on the glass. I called 9-1-1 and got him into anambulance.”
My jaw slackens. “Is heokay?”
“I thinkso.”
“We’ll give you a few minutes to warm up,” the dean decides, turning to the admin assistant. “Let’s get the next person,please.”
I shut my eyes, heart still hammering as we head back to the wings together and a ballerina crosses our path for thestage.
Tyler squeezes my shoulders. “I wouldn’t leave you,” he murmurs, reading my expression. “I won’t. Notagain.”
I study him, the nerves warring with gratitude in my body as he quietly tunes hisguitar.
“Mr. Adams,” a voice calls moments later when the dancer finishes. “Are youready?”
We take the stage, and the dean nods. “Miss Jamieson, you can accompany Mr. Adams, but if you make the showcase, you won’t be credited for the performance. It would be unfair to the freshman students who were not permitted toaudition.”
Before I can argue, Tyler’s on it. “She’s not my backup. She wrote the song. She’s in this every bit as much as I am, and if you won’t let her audition, I’m not auditioningeither.”
Could my heart expand anymore?
My gaze trains on the fouradjudicators.
“I say we let them do it. If it’s not good enough, we say no,” Finn weighsin.
“All right,” the deandecides.
I turn and close the distance between Tyler and me. He gives me a nod ofencouragement.
“Thank you,” I murmur so only we can hear before returning to take my place at the othermic.
The song ismagic.
I don’t need to watch the faces in the audience, because in my heart, it’s not for them. It’s forus.
Our performance is a blend of who we were, who we are, who we’re becoming—the imperfect synergy of Tyler and me and what we could createtogether.
It’s poetry. Every lie, every struggle, every moment, makes sense in thisinstant.
When we’re done, the stone-faced adjudicators tell us we’ll hear back as early astonight.
I trip off stage after Tyler, and as he sets down his guitar in front of him, I leap onto his back, throw my arms around hisneck.
“That was so good,” I pant in his ear, loving the feel of his warm, hard body under mine as he catches mylegs.
