Wait For Me

“No matter how badly you want it to be true, I’m not Nora Jo Mitchell. She’s a fictional character. I’m Eleanor “Nora” Hayes, and there’s so much more to me than this.”

Everyone backstage goes silent.

All eyes are on me as the crowd continues to chant.

Nor-a!

Nor-a!

Nor-a!

Becky shakes her head. “You’re nothing without your persona. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose your fancy record deal and your fans.” The look on her face is grim as she grabs the jacket and thrusts it back into my hands. “Cover yourself up and get out there.”

She’s

crazy. This is crazy. It’s a freaking jacket, for crying out loud, and my arms are bare. It’s not like my boobs and ass are hanging out of my dress.

I look around at the other people in the room, but they all turn away. They’re either afraid of Becky’s wrath or they agree with her, and damn, if that doesn’t sting.

I grip the jacket in my hands and look at the stage. I get where she’s coming from, but this is my life too. Who worries about me and what I want? Who wonders if I’m happy with my life and the things in it?

No one, that’s who.

I’m about to step into the spotlight when a surge of confidence rushes through me. I drop the jacket to the floor and strut back onto the stage, determined to give the crowd what they want.

But this time on my own terms.

Cheers and cries fill the arena, drowning out Becky’s growl as she throws a fit from the wings. I tune her out, grab the mic, and toss a fist into the air.

“Do you want more, LA?”

My fans go wild. Girls’ screams pierce my ears as I shimmy across the stage and belt the lyrics to three more of their favorite songs before I end with one of my own.

I sing about a girl becoming a woman and finding her way in life as she yearns for the love of a good man. It’s slow and soulful, and by the time I finish, the place is lit by lighters and flashlights on phones.

Eat that, Becky.

Sweat drips down my forehead and between my breasts, and for the first time in years, I feel alive.

With a smile on my face, I say goodnight to the crowd and trot off stage. The crew immediately starts tearing down the set as my fans file out of the arena. I grab another bottle of water and chug it as I walk down a long corridor toward my dressing room. I’m desperate for sleep, but I know it won’t come easy tonight, because I’m high on adrenaline.

I’m stopped by a hand clamped around my elbow. “Change clothes and meet me in the green room. We need to talk about your behavior.”

I yank my arm out of Becky’s hold. “Stop talking to me like a child. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Tell that to the people who sign your paycheck.” Becky shakes her head in disgust and stomps off.

Once in my dressing room, I peel off the sequin dress and hang it on the clothes rack. I put on my favorite jeans, tug a cozy sweatshirt over my head, and slip my feet into my Chuck-Ts.

There. Much better.

My phone vibrates from its spot on the vanity, and I pick it up, smiling when I see a text from my brother.

Nick is six years older and my second-biggest supporter, the first being his wife, Jessa.

Nick: Break a leg.

A quick check shows he sent the text an hour into my show. I laugh I as I type out a reply.