Chapter 107 : Exactly Where We Are
New York, Lower Manhattan, Greenwich Village – Alex's POV
Backstage had its own rhythm, one that never quite matched the noise waiting on the other side of the curtains.
It was quieter here, but not silent. Cables slid across concrete as someone shifted a pedalboard. Fabric whispered when jackets were shrugged on and off. A tech's voice murmured numbers into a headset, calm and precise. The air smelled faintly of dust, metal, and something warm—ozone from the lights, maybe, or just the anticipation everyone carried without naming it.
The Mary Janes occupied the space the way they always did: naturally, without ceremony. No one clustered in the center. No one hovered at the edges either. They spread out, each claiming a small, familiar orbit.
Gwen sat on a folding chair near the mirror, one boot propped on the rung, fingers working methodically at the buckle. She looked focused rather than nervous, brow slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in a line that meant she was counting something internally—beats, cues, timing. Her jacket hung off the back of the chair, forgotten for the moment.
MJ paced, slow and measured, bass strap already slung over her shoulder even though there was nowhere to plug in yet. She wasn't really walking so much as moving, drifting from one end of the room to the other, stopping occasionally to stretch her fingers or roll her shoulders. Each time she passed me, she gave a small nod, like she was checking in without interrupting whatever was running through her head.
Cindy sat cross-legged on the floor with her guitar across her lap, absentmindedly plucking strings muted with her palm. Not playing anything recognizable—just feeling the instrument, testing the tension, listening to how it responded in this space. Every few seconds she'd tilt her head, adjust a knob by a fraction, then try again.
Liz and Betty stood near a rack of spare cables, talking in low voices. Not about the show. About something mundane—food, maybe, or a story that had nothing to do with tonight. Liz gestured animatedly while Betty laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth like she'd forgotten where she was.
And Dazzler fit in as if she'd always been there.
She leaned against a table stacked with equipment cases, adjusting the strap on her mic pack with practiced ease. There was no spotlight on her here, no visible effort to command attention. She chatted with Cindy for a moment about the acoustics of the venue, then drifted over to Gwen to comment on her boots, the conversation light and unforced.
If anyone had walked in without context, they might not have guessed she was the reason the crowd outside had doubled.
I stayed where I was, just off to the side near a coil of thick black cable. Not hidden. Just… present. Close enough to be part of it, far enough not to interrupt.
That was my role tonight. Not to manage. Not to coordinate. Just to be there.
A stagehand passed by carrying a clipboard, nodded once in my direction, then called out, "Ten minutes."
No one reacted immediately. The words landed, settled, became part of the room's background hum.
Ten minutes meant nothing and everything.
MJ stopped pacing and leaned her bass carefully against an amp. "Okay," she said, exhaling. "That's… yeah. That's ten minutes."
Gwen glanced up, finally finishing with the buckle. "We're good," she said, more to herself than anyone else. She stood, rolled her shoulders back, then shook out her arms like she was loosening tension she'd been holding without realizing it.
Cindy looked up from her guitar. "Can we do the opening transition once? Just in the air, no instruments."
"Please," Liz said immediately. "If I have to think about it one more time alone, my brain's going to invent a problem that doesn't exist."
They gathered loosely, not in a tight circle but close enough to share space. No one took charge. They didn't need to. Gwen tapped out the count on her thigh. Cindy hummed the first bar under her breath. MJ nodded along, eyes unfocused, tracking the shape of it rather than the sound.
They stopped halfway through, almost in unison.
"Yeah," MJ said. "That's fine."
"That's more than fine," Betty added. "That's locked."
There was a shared exhale, subtle but real.
Dazzler smiled. Not wide. Just enough to register. "You're solid," she said. "You know that, right?"
Gwen shrugged, but there was a hint of relief there. "We know. It just helps to hear it."
Dazzler nodded, like she understood exactly why.
I caught Gwen's eye briefly. She raised an eyebrow in a silent question.
I shook my head once. Everything was where it needed to be.
She smiled, small and quick, then turned back to the others.
A tech crouched near Cindy, checking the cable connection one last time. "You're hot on channel three," he said. "No changes from rehearsal."
"Perfect," Cindy replied. She waited until he moved on, then glanced up at me. "Hey. If something sounds weird out there—"
"It won't," I said. Not as reassurance, just as a statement. "And if it does, you'll adjust before anyone else notices."
She grinned. "Right. That's why we keep you around."
MJ snorted. "Speak for yourself. I keep him around because he doesn't freak out when I start pacing."
"That's not true," Betty said. "He freaks out internally. He just does it quietly."
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "I feel very seen."
The mood lightened, just enough.
Someone turned down the overhead lights slightly, bathing the space in a softer glow. The noise from the crowd seeped in more clearly now—a low, collective murmur punctuated by the occasional cheer. It felt distant, like weather.
Dazzler adjusted her jacket, then checked the mirror briefly. She didn't linger on her reflection. Just a quick confirmation, then done. When she turned back, her gaze met mine.
"You good?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. You?"
She considered that for half a second, then smiled again. "Yeah. This part's my favorite."
"The waiting?"
"The almost," she said. "When everything's still yours."
That felt right.
Another voice called out, "Five minutes."
This time, it registered more clearly.
Gwen grabbed her jacket and shrugged it on. MJ picked up her bass, testing the strap's weight. Cindy stood, slinging her guitar into place with a familiar ease. Liz and Betty exchanged a quick look—no words, just a shared acknowledgment—and moved toward their spots.
No one rushed.
I watched them, each in their element, each moving with the quiet confidence of people who'd done this enough times to trust themselves.
Dazzler stepped closer to the group, not in front, not behind. With them.
"Hey," she said softly. "Whatever happens out there—just remember, this is your stage too."
Gwen nodded. "We know."
"And we're glad you're here," Cindy added.
Dazzler's smile warmed a fraction. "Me too."
There was a brief lull after that, a pocket of stillness. No one spoke. No one needed to.
I felt it then—not tension, not anticipation. Something simpler. Gratitude, maybe. For the ordinariness of it. For the fact that this moment existed at all.
MJ leaned over and bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. "You're weirdly calm," she said.
I shrugged. "You all look ready."
She studied me for a second, then nodded. "Yeah. We are."
The stage manager appeared at the entrance, hand raised. "Alright. Let's line up."
They moved toward the curtain, forming an easy sequence. Instruments settled into place. Shoulders straightened. Breaths deepened.
Dazzler paused for half a heartbeat before stepping forward, then glanced back at them. At us.
"Let's have some fun," she said.
And just like that, the waiting ended.
They disappeared into the light and sound beyond the curtain, and the backstage space felt suddenly larger, emptier—but not hollow.
I stayed where I was, listening to the first swell of music roll back through the walls, letting myself exist in the margins of it.
The sound was different here—muted, compressed, like it had been folded in on itself. Bass thumped through concrete more than air. The higher notes blurred, losing their edges before they reached me. It felt distant, contained, as if the music belonged to another place entirely.
I exhaled and turned away from the curtain.
The hallway leading out was narrow, utilitarian. Bare walls. Low ceiling. The kind of space meant for movement, not lingering. With each step, the sound changed. Less muffled. More present. Vibrations crept up through the floor, faint at first, then unmistakable.
A door opened ahead of me, and light spilled through the gap—brighter, colder. The air shifted as I passed through it, warmer, carrying the mixed scents of bodies, equipment, spilled drinks. The crowd moved as a single, uneven mass, currents forming and dissolving without pattern.
I paused just long enough to let my eyes adjust.
The room was larger than the backstage had suggested. Higher ceilings. Open sightlines. Faces turned toward the stage, not toward each other. Attention drawn forward, pulled by sound and light and motion.
Here, the music wasn't contained anymore. It spread. Filled the space. Pressed against my chest in steady waves.
I stepped into it.
The backstage noise faded behind me, replaced by the anonymous rhythm of the crowd—shuffling feet, shifting weight, scattered voices rising and falling between songs. No one noticed me. No one needed to.
"Alex—hey. Alex!"
I turned just in time to see Darcy waving at me from the front rail, arm stretched high like she was afraid I might disappear into the crowd if she blinked. She was already wedged into a spot near the barrier, half-turned toward the stage, half toward the room, bouncing slightly on her heels.
I worked my way closer. Someone grumbled, someone shifted, someone made space without really meaning to. When I reached her, she grinned like I'd just solved a problem she'd been quietly worrying about.
"There you are," she said. "I was starting to think you'd decided to be mysterious somewhere in the back. Very on-brand, but rude."
"Sorry," I said. "Got caught in traffic."
She snorted. "Yeah, sure. Emotional traffic."
She shuffled sideways to make room, shoulder bumping into mine as I took the spot next to her. The barrier was cool under my forearms when I leaned forward. The stage lights flared briefly, washing the front rows in color before dimming again.
Darcy leaned in close, voice pitched low but energetic. "Okay, so—this is insane. In a good way. I haven't been this close to a stage since that one time I accidentally ended up in the VIP section because someone assumed I was an intern and I didn't correct them."
"That sounds like you," I said.
"Thank you," she replied proudly. "Weaponized confusion."
She rested her elbows on the rail, chin in her hands, eyes flicking between the stage and the crowd. She was dressed comfortably—oversized hoodie, jeans, sneakers—but there was a subtle difference tonight. Less restless energy. More… settled.
I noticed because I'd been noticing for a while.
She caught me looking and immediately misread it. "What? Do I have something on my face? Oh God, is it glitter? I knew I shouldn't have hugged Gwen earlier, she sheds like a craft store."
"You're fine," I said. "No glitter."
She relaxed, then squinted at me. "You sure? Because I will absolutely panic about this for the next three minutes."
"I'm sure."
"Okay. Cool. Trusting you. That's new."
The crowd shifted again as someone pushed past behind us, and Darcy instinctively stepped closer, her arm brushing mine. She didn't pull away.
"So," she said, rocking back on her heels, "backstage was… a lot. In a good way. Everyone looks really calm. Which is wild, because if I were about to go on stage, I would already be screaming internally."
"They're used to it," I said. "And they trust each other."
She nodded slowly. "Yeah. You can tell."
A beat passed. Then another.
Darcy glanced sideways at me. "Hey. Can I tell you something without making it weird?"
"You usually make it weird anyway," I replied. "So sure."
She laughed, then pressed her lips together, visibly rearranging her thoughts. "Okay, first of all—rude. Second… I wanted to tell you before the music starts. Before everything gets loud and we pretend this is just another night."
I turned toward her fully this time. "Alright."
She rocked slightly on her heels, fingers hooking into the rail as if to anchor herself. "So. Remember that conversation we had? After MJ and May. When everyone kind of… sat down and said the quiet parts out loud."
I nodded. I remembered.
"And remember how you looked at me," she continued, squinting slightly, "with that very annoying calm face, and said something along the lines of, 'It might be too early to tell, but I wouldn't be surprised'?"
A small smile tugged at my mouth. "I do."
"Yeah. That." She exhaled. "Turns out… it wasn't too early. Just… early."
She glanced at me, searching my face—not for permission, not for approval, but for confirmation that this was still the same conversation we'd already started back then.
"I'm pregnant," she said. "For real this time. No 'maybe,' no 'wait and see.' Definitely pregnant."
The words settled easily between us.
Not heavy. Not dramatic. Just… real.
I felt the smile spread across my face before I could stop it. "Okay."
She blinked. "…Okay?"
"Yes," I said. "Okay."
Her shoulders dropped, a visible release of tension she'd been carrying more out of habit than fear. "Good. Because I was ninety percent sure that would be your reaction, but the other ten percent was very loud."
"That sounds about right."
She laughed softly, rubbing a hand over her face. "I kept replaying it in my head. You saying you were okay with it. You saying we'd talk about it properly when the time came. Me nodding and pretending I wasn't mentally screaming."
"You weren't pretending very well," I said.
"Rude. Again."
She leaned sideways into me, shoulder pressing against my arm. "I know this wasn't exactly… scheduled. Or optimal timing. Or whatever word people like to use."
"I told you then," I said calmly. "The timing doesn't bother me."
She studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're still not panicking."
"No."
"Still not calculating ten different future branches?"
I shrugged. "Not right now."
That earned me a crooked smile. "Okay. Good. Because I wasn't looking for a plan. I just wanted to tell you. Before it became… public. Before the night turned into noise."
I reached for her without thinking, my hand settling warm and familiar at her waist. She didn't stiffen. She leaned into it.
"I'm glad you told me," I said. "And I'm happy."
That seemed to be the word that really landed.
Her expression softened, eyes brightening in a way that had nothing to do with the lights. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She let out a breathy laugh. "Okay. Wow. I really like the way you say that."
She turned toward the stage again, but her hand slid into mine easily, fingers threading together like they'd always known where to go.
"I'm not freaking out," she said, almost surprised. "Which feels illegal. I feel like I should be spiraling."
"You don't have to," I replied.
"I know," she said. "You made that pretty clear back then. That we get to decide how we handle things. That no one's being pushed into anything."
I squeezed her hand gently. "That hasn't changed."
She nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because I'm still figuring out what I want this to look like. And I really appreciate not having to do that on a deadline."
"You won't," I said.
She smiled to herself, then bumped her forehead lightly against my shoulder. "You're annoyingly steady, you know that?"
"I've been told."
The lights dimmed further, and the crowd's murmur swelled, anticipation rippling outward like a shared breath being held. Darcy straightened instinctively, eyes snapping back to the stage.
"Oh—okay. This is it," she said. "Moment officially happening."
She glanced up at me one more time, grin bright and unguarded. "Thanks for not making this weird."
"I don't think it is," I said.
"Exactly," she replied. "That's the best part."
"Guess this kid picked a pretty good night to exist, huh?"
I smiled, tightening my grip just enough to let her feel it. "Seems like it."
She laughed and turned fully toward the stage, still anchored to me.
The lights dimmed another notch, slow and deliberate, until the room settled into a shared hush.
The crowd didn't fall silent all at once. It softened instead—voices lowering, movements slowing, conversations tapering off as attention gathered toward the stage. The air felt heavier, warmer, filled with the faint scent of sweat, electricity, and anticipation. Somewhere behind us, someone laughed, a short burst of sound quickly swallowed by the collective murmur.
Darcy sat close beside me, knees angled forward, one foot hooked casually around the bar at the base of the rail. Our shoulders touched. Not pressed. Just there. Her hand rested loosely in mine, thumb warm against my skin. Comfortable. Certain.
I let my gaze drift across the room.
Rows of faces turned forward, lit in shifting shades of amber and blue. Some people leaned toward the stage, others rested back on their heels, arms crossed or hands clasped together. A few phones rose briefly, then lowered again as if everyone had collectively decided this was a moment worth keeping to themselves.
The low hum of the venue filled the space—ventilation, distant feedback, the faint crackle of equipment coming to life. It layered with the sound of breathing, footsteps, fabric brushing against fabric. Nothing sharp. Nothing urgent.
Just presence.
Darcy shifted slightly, bumping her knee against mine. She didn't look over, but her grip tightened for a second, then relaxed again. A quiet check-in. I squeezed back, just as lightly.
Somewhere near the stage, movement caught my eye. Shapes passing behind the curtain. Shadows crossing light. The final, unspoken signal that everything was ready.
The room leaned forward as one.
I felt it then—not excitement, not tension. Something steadier. A sense of being exactly where I was meant to be, surrounded by sound and people and warmth, with nothing to do but stay.
The lights dipped one last time.
And the stage waited.