Page 9 of Holding Hope

Heat shot through me. I swallowed. Twice.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I managed.

She straightened my collar, humming something familiar. It took me a second to place it— one of my songs.

Of course she’d hum it like it was nothing.

Watching Clarke King sing was… something else. Videos didn’t do her justice. She sang like she felt every word in her bones. The Pit crowd adored her—especially the southern transplants who clung to her voice like it was home.

She made me miss a place I’d never been.

“You like her, don’t you?” Aunt Brie murmured.

I didn’t answer. Clarke was onstage, flushed and glowing, the crowd singing with her. “I don’t know her,” I said.

“But you want to,” Brie replied gently. “Just… whatever you do with her, be careful and kind.”

I wanted to ask what she meant, but her expression told me I’d have to figure that out myself.

Clarke finished her last song to a chorus of disappointed groans.

“I know, I know,” she laughed. “I have a flight in the morning.”

Her eyes found mine in the crowd. She looked like a painting—flushed cheeks, soft curls, bare shoulders.

“For this last one,” she said, “I want to bring up someone who really surprised me tonight.” My stomach dropped.

She walked offstage, weaving through the crowd until she reached me. “And I couldn’t have done that without you.” She slipped her hand into mine.

The crowd erupted.

“Avalon Kennedy,” she said, eyes sparkling, “will you do a duet with me?”

Aunt Brie nudged me. Go.

“Of course,” I said, letting Clarke pull me onstage.

Phones lifted. Lights flashed. Clarke handed me a microphone.

“What song?” I whispered.

“We could do one of yours,” she said shyly.

“So that was my song you were humming earlier.”

She blushed. Hard.

We sang. The crowd lost their minds. Clarke’s voice wrapped around mine like it belonged there. When we finished, the Pit shook with cheers.

Clarke grabbed my hands. “Thank you. This was the best night of my life.” I squeezed her hands. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

Her eyes widened. “We still have a song to write!”

We bowed dramatically and headed offstage.

Aunt Brie hugged us tight enough to crack ribs. “Call me when you get home,” she said, wiping her eyes.

After pictures and goodbyes, Clarke and I walked back toward the hotel, the spring air cold enough to sting.