Lauryn

The campus bookstore is packed with students who apparently all made the same decision to wait until the last possible moment to buy their textbooks. The checkout line snakes between displays of navy-and-orange CAU sweatshirts, conversations overlap from every direction, and somewhere near the registers an increasingly exhausted employee is explaining for what must be the hundredth time that, no, the access code does not come with a used copy.

You have just escaped the worst of the crowd when someone nearly walks straight into you.

“Sorry—”

The girl stops abruptly, along with the six textbooks stacked precariously against her chest. One slides sideways, forcing her to catch it against her hip, which immediately causes another to begin slipping from the bottom.

“Oh, come on,” she mutters, trying to rescue both without losing the rest.

It is a battle she is very clearly losing.

There is something surreal about watching Lauryn Lyons, internationally recognizable lead singer of Lyon’s Roar, struggle in the middle of the CAU bookstore against several hundred dollars’ worth of undergraduate coursework.

She looks different from the photographs, though not nearly different enough to make her difficult to recognize. Her long dark-brown hair still fades through caramel into blonde, smoky makeup frames her eyes, and the little silver septum ring remains unmistakable, but everything else about her seems deliberately ordinary. An oversized black Lyon’s Roar sweatshirt hangs almost to the tops of her thighs, chunky black boots cover her feet, and an overstuffed canvas tote bag hangs heavily from one shoulder.

There are no stage lights, stylists, leather stage outfits, or microphones here. At the moment, Lauryn looks less like a rock star than a twenty-year-old college student who made the questionable decision to buy every required book at once.

She makes it another two steps before a thick hardcover titled Advanced Vocal Pedagogy finally escapes her grasp and hits the floor with a tremendous thud.

Several nearby students look over.

Lauryn closes her eyes for a moment and sighs. “Perfect.”

She carefully attempts to crouch without sacrificing the remaining books, but before she can retrieve the fallen one, a whispered conversation reaches her from somewhere behind.

“Wait...is that Lauryn Lyons?”

Her expression changes immediately.

Two students near the apparel section are staring at her, and one already has a phone in her hand. Lauryn abandons the textbook and straightens, instinctively shifting the remaining stack higher against her chest as she looks for somewhere to go. She turns quickly and finds you directly in her path.

For a moment, genuine alarm crosses her face, but then she notices the conspicuous absence of a phone pointed in her direction. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders.

“Hey.”

Her Tennessee accent is noticeably stronger than it ever sounds during interviews.

She glances at the abandoned textbook lying between you, then down at the ridiculous tower still balanced against her chest. Apparently realizing how absurd the entire situation must look, she gives you a sheepish smile.

“I may have underestimated the logistical challenges of attending college in person.”

The whispering behind her continues, and Lauryn clearly hears it. For an instant, the casual expression disappears behind the polished composure recognizable from album covers and interviews, the practiced reaction of someone who has spent the last several years knowing that any stranger nearby might be watching or recording her.

When her attention returns to you, however, that public persona slips away just as quickly.

She adjusts the books again and nods toward the bookstore exit. “Please tell me you're headed somewhere vaguely in the direction of the music building.”

One of the books immediately begins sliding from the stack. Lauryn catches it awkwardly with her elbow and stares down at it with growing irritation before looking back at you.

“And preferably tell me before these things finish killing me.”

The lecture hall is slowly emptying as students pack away laptops, shove notebooks into backpacks, and filter through the doors into the crowded hallway beyond. A handful linger near the professor with questions, while Lauryn remains at her desk near the middle of the room, carefully organizing several pages of annotated sheet music before sliding them into a folder.

She has learned quickly that leaving class with everyone else tends to attract more attention than waiting a few minutes, although today that strategy appears to have backfired.

Three guys have stopped beside her row.

“Hey, you’re Lauryn Lyons, right?”

Lauryn looks up from her bag with a polite smile. She has made what has become her standard attempt at dressing inconspicuously for campus, wearing ripped jeans, a fitted black cropped tank top, an oversized charcoal plaid shirt, and black-and-white sneakers. Her long brown-to-blonde hair falls loosely around her shoulders, however, and between the smoky eyes and familiar silver septum ring, there is only so much an ordinary outfit can accomplish.

“Depends,” she says. “Do I owe you money?”

The joke gets exactly the reaction she intended. All three laugh, the initial awkwardness disappears, and for the next few minutes Lauryn seems perfectly comfortable chatting with them. One mentions seeing Lyon’s Roar perform the previous summer, another asks about the band's next album, and Lauryn answers easily enough while continuing to pack her things.

The conversation only becomes uncomfortable when they show no sign of leaving.

One of them asks whether she plans on going to a party off campus that weekend. Lauryn says she hasn't decided yet, which somehow becomes an invitation for another to suggest that they should go together. She declines with a friendly smile, but instead of taking the answer, he leans against the desk beside hers and asks for her number.

“Sorry. I don't really give my number out.”

“Instagram, then.”

Lauryn raises an eyebrow. “You already know my Instagram.”

“Your private one.”

“That would sort of defeat the purpose of having a private one.”

His friends laugh and give him a hard time, but apparently the embarrassment only makes him more determined.

“Come on. Just dinner.”

“I’m good, but thank you.”

“You haven't even heard where.”

Lauryn finishes zipping her bag before standing and slipping the strap over her shoulder. Her expression remains pleasant, though the warmth behind it has faded into the polished courtesy of someone who has dealt with this exact situation far too many times.

“I appreciate the offer. Really. I'm just not interested.”

That should be enough to end the conversation, but instead he gives her a skeptical look.

“What, you have a boyfriend or something?”

Lauryn opens her mouth, presumably intending to point out that she doesn't require a boyfriend in order to turn someone down.

Instead, she hesitates.

Her gaze drifts across the lecture hall and lands on you.

You are close enough to have seen at least some of what has been happening, although there is no obvious reason Lauryn Lyons should know much about you beyond whatever familiarity comes from sharing a class. Perhaps she remembers seeing you before. Perhaps she has noticed you more than you've realized. Perhaps you simply happen to be the first available person who isn't currently asking for her phone number.

Whatever calculation takes place behind those smoky eyes lasts less than a second.

Then her entire expression brightens.

“Oh, I do, actually.”

She steps around the three guys and walks directly toward you with such easy confidence that, for one strange moment, even you might wonder whether you've somehow missed an important development in your own life.

“There you are.”

Lauryn slips naturally into the space beside you and rests one hand lightly against your arm before looking back toward the others.

“Sorry. I should've mentioned it.”

The guy who asked for her number looks between the two of you. “That's your boyfriend?”

“Yep.”

Lauryn answers far too quickly.

Her fingers give your arm the smallest squeeze before she looks up at you.

For someone capable of walking onto a stage in front of thousands of screaming people without blinking, Lauryn suddenly seems remarkably invested in the reaction of one person. Her smile remains perfectly convincing, but her eyes betray her completely.

Please play along.

“Actually,” she continues, maintaining impressive confidence despite silently begging a near-stranger for assistance, “we were just about to leave.”

Lauryn picks up her bag with her free hand but remains firmly beside you as the three guys continue watching.

Then she tilts her head toward you, waiting to discover whether her newly invented relationship is going to survive its first thirty seconds.

From backstage, the CAU stadium sounds considerably larger than it does from the student section.

Thousands of voices blend into a constant roar beyond the concrete walls, occasionally swelling whenever something happens on the field or one of the cameras finds an enthusiastic section of the crowd. Music pulses through the stadium speakers while student volunteers and event staff hurry through the corridors carrying equipment, radios, cases of bottled water, and enough university merchandise to cover half the campus in navy and orange.

Tonight's student kickoff event has been advertised for weeks, but the university carefully avoided announcing its headline performer until this morning.

That changed when Lyon’s Roar posted a photograph of the CAU stadium on social media with three words beneath it.

SEE YOU TONIGHT.

By lunchtime, student tickets were gone.

Lauryn has spent most of the afternoon pretending that doesn't make her nervous.

Her temporary dressing room occupies one of the stadium's larger hospitality suites, which has been transformed into a chaotic combination of green room, wardrobe area, makeup station, and storage space. Garment bags hang from portable racks beside road cases bearing the Lyon’s Roar logo, while a collection of cosmetics, hair products, bottled water, throat spray, and half-finished coffee covers most of the counter beneath the mirrors.

Lauryn stands in the middle of it all wearing her alternate stage outfit: a fitted black leather corset-style top, distressed black shorts decorated with belts and silver chains, fishnet tights, and heavy platform combat boots. Her long ombré hair has already been styled into deliberately imperfect waves, and the smoky makeup around her eyes is considerably more dramatic than what she has been wearing to class.

She looks every bit like the woman whose photograph dominates Lyon’s Roar posters.

At least until she turns around and holds out two necklaces.

“Okay, I need an opinion.”

Lauryn studies them with an intensity normally reserved for considerably more important decisions.

“This one says effortless rock star.” She raises the first. “This one says I spent forty-five minutes trying to look like an effortless rock star.”

Her eyes move between them before settling on you.

“And if you tell me they're exactly the same, you're no help at all.”

Whatever brought you backstage tonight, Lauryn has apparently decided that helping her prepare is now part of your responsibilities.

It hasn't been particularly glamorous.

You have already been involved in locating a missing boot, determining whether one eyeliner wing was noticeably different from the other, finding the bottle of water that was sitting directly beside Lauryn the entire time, and listening to her complain about whoever decided stadium dressing rooms needed fluorescent lighting.

Lauryn finally chooses one necklace, fastens it around her throat, and turns toward the mirror.

For several seconds, she simply studies herself.

The playful expression gradually fades.

Outside, another surge of cheering rolls through the stadium.

Lauryn exhales slowly.

“This is weird.”

She reaches for a tube of lipstick, changes her mind, and puts it down again.

“I've played bigger crowds than this.”

There is no arrogance in the statement. If anything, she sounds annoyed that the fact hasn't helped.

“Festivals, arenas, opening nights...” She adjusts one strand of hair near her cheek. “I did sixty thousand in Nashville last year and barely thought about it before I walked out.”

Another cheer penetrates the walls.

Lauryn glances toward the door.

“But those people came to see Lyon’s Roar.”

She looks down at herself, then toward the CAU jacket draped over the back of a chair.

“These people are going to be sitting next to me in class on Monday.”

A laugh escapes her, quieter than usual.

“That is somehow terrifying.”

For all the confidence of the outfit, the makeup, and the enormous Lyon’s Roar logo printed across the equipment surrounding her, there is suddenly very little rock star left in the room.

There is only Lauryn, twenty years old and nervous about performing in front of her classmates.

A knock comes against the open doorway.

“Ten minutes, Lauryn.”

“Thanks.”

The staff member disappears again.

Lauryn watches the doorway for a moment before turning back toward the mirror. She rolls her shoulders, takes a slow breath, and quietly runs through a vocal exercise under her breath. The technique is precise and disciplined, revealing far more of the lifelong chorus singer and Vocal Performance major than the screaming crowds outside would ever suspect.

Then she stops.

Her eyes find yours in the mirror.

“Do you want to know something incredibly embarrassing?”

Lauryn turns around and leans back against the counter.

“When I was sixteen, I thought performing at a football stadium meant standing on the fifty-yard line in a sundress singing the national anthem.”

She smiles faintly.

“Maybe directing a choir here someday.”

Her gaze drifts toward the ceiling as the opening notes of another song thunder through the stadium.

“Life got a little confused somewhere along the way.”

For a moment, she seems somewhere else entirely, but then someone outside shouts instructions into a radio and Lauryn's attention returns to the room.

She pushes away from the counter.

“All right. Enough existential crisis.”

Lauryn picks up the handheld microphone waiting beside her bag and checks the switch before looking toward you.

The transformation is almost immediate. Her posture straightens, uncertainty disappears behind a confident smile, and Lauryn Lyons—the one everyone outside is waiting for—begins to emerge.

She takes two steps toward the door before stopping.

Then she looks back.

That confidence falters just enough to reveal the woman underneath it.

“Come with me?”

Lauryn nods toward the backstage corridor leading toward the field.

“You don't have to go all the way out there. Just...walk with me until they call my name.”

Another wave of noise rolls through the stadium, louder this time.

Lauryn waits beside the doorway, microphone in one hand, looking at you rather than toward the thousands of people waiting outside.

Lauryn has performed in arenas filled with twenty thousand people.

She has walked onto festival stages beneath walls of fire, heard entire crowds screaming her name, performed live on television, and stood beneath enough spotlights that stage fright should have become an obsolete concept years ago.

None of that prepared her for singing in front of eighty-seven people in the CAU recital hall.

Her first formal recital as a Vocal Performance student ends beneath warm golden stage lights with Lauryn standing beside the grand piano, one hand resting lightly against her waist as the final note disappears into the auditorium.

For once, there is no Lyon’s Roar.

No distorted guitar. No drums. No smoke machines, leather, fishnets, screaming fans, or enormous lion projected onto a screen behind her.

There is only Lauryn.

Tonight she wears an elegant floor-length gown in deep midnight blue, dramatically different from anything associated with her rock persona. The satin bodice follows her figure with understated precision before flowing into a long skirt that falls almost to the floor, while an off-the-shoulder neckline frames her collarbones and shoulders. A tasteful slit along one side reveals a glimpse of leg when she moves, and delicate silver earrings accompany a single pendant at her throat. Her long ombré hair has been styled into soft waves swept over one shoulder, while her makeup is refined and luminous rather than smoky and dramatic.

She looks captivating, but not like a rock star trying to shock an audience.

She looks like the classically trained singer she might have become if a friend had never dragged her to that metal concert in high school.

Lauryn lowers her head as the applause begins.

The smile that appears is different from the one she wears at concerts. There is no practiced swagger or teasing confidence behind it. She looks genuinely relieved.

Her professor rises from the front row to applaud. Several classmates follow, along with faculty members, students, parents, and guests scattered throughout the hall.

Then Lauryn's eyes find you.

Her boyfriend.

The relief on her face immediately becomes something warmer.

She gives the smallest shake of her head, almost laughing at herself, before following the accompanist backstage.

By the time the audience begins filtering into the music building's reception area, Lauryn has been intercepted repeatedly. Professors congratulate her. Classmates want to discuss her repertoire. Several students who apparently arrived expecting to hear a rock singer seem astonished by the controlled soprano they heard instead. Someone from the music faculty introduces her to an alumnus, and another professor wants to discuss her diction during the German piece.

Lauryn handles all of it graciously.

She smiles, thanks people, discusses technique, and somehow manages not to look desperately toward the doorway more than once every thirty seconds.

Eventually, she escapes.

You find her farther down the corridor near one of the tall windows overlooking campus, momentarily alone with a program folded between her hands.

Lauryn notices you approaching.

Everything about her changes.

Her shoulders relax first. Then comes the smile.

“There you are.”

She closes the distance between you without hesitation, the hem of her midnight-blue gown whispering across the polished floor.

“I have been professionally complimented for twenty straight minutes.” Her Tennessee accent has begun creeping back now that the performance is over. “Do you know how exhausting it is having six different professors tell you that you did well and then immediately explain seventeen things you could've done better?”

Despite the complaint, she is glowing.

Lauryn glances down at the recital program and runs her thumb absently along its folded edge.

“I was terrified.”

She laughs softly at the admission.

“Actually terrified. My hands were shaking before I walked out there.”

Her eyes lift toward yours.

“I can stand in front of an arena wearing practically nothing but leather and attitude, scream until the rafters shake, and somehow that's fine.” She gestures toward the recital hall behind her. “Put me in a gown and ask me to sing Schubert in front of my vocal professor, and suddenly I'm sixteen again praying I don't miss an entrance at a choir competition.”

There is affection in the way she looks at you, but something more vulnerable sits beneath it.

Tonight mattered.

Not to her label. Not to the band. Not to millions of followers waiting for another Lyon’s Roar single.

To Lauryn.

She turns toward the window for a moment. Students dressed for the recital cross the courtyard outside, their conversations disappearing beneath the glass.

“I forgot how much I missed this.”

Her voice becomes quieter.

“Just singing. No brand. No image. Nobody asking whether the song is marketable.”

Lauryn looks down at herself and smooths one hand over the elegant blue fabric.

“My mom would've loved this dress.”

The thought brings a small smile.

“She'd probably take one look at me and ask why I can't dress like this at concerts.”

Lauryn laughs, but the expression that follows is more wistful.

Then she looks back at you.

“You know what the weirdest part was?”

She steps closer, reaching out to gently straighten something near your collar with the comfortable familiarity that has developed between you.

“When I walked onto that stage, I knew exactly where you were sitting.”

Her hand lingers for a moment.

“I didn't look at my professor. Didn't look at the department chair. Didn't even look at the accompanist until I absolutely had to.”

Lauryn's smile becomes softer.

“I looked at you.”

The noise of the reception continues somewhere around the corner, accompanied by laughter and the faint clink of glasses. Eventually someone will come looking for her. Her professors will want another conversation, classmates will want photographs, and Lauryn Lyons will once again have people competing for her attention.

For the moment, she seems perfectly content to let them wait.

She takes your hand between both of hers.

“So,” Lauryn says, watching your face with considerably more nervous anticipation than she showed accepting compliments from an entire room of musicians, “boyfriend review.”

Her eyebrows rise.

“How'd I do?”

Lauryn has changed outfits three times, which tells you considerably more about her current state of mind than she is willing to admit. The woman who routinely walks onto stages in leather, fishnets, and enough eyeliner to concern her mother spent nearly an hour trying to decide what one wears when picking up conservative parents from Tennessee at the airport while accompanied by the boyfriend they are about to meet for the first time.

She eventually settled on a compromise. A soft cream sundress falls just above her knees beneath a faded denim jacket, simple brown ankle boots replacing her usual platforms. Her makeup is lighter than what she normally wears on campus, her silver septum ring is conspicuously absent, and most of her jewelry has been reduced to understated earrings and a small pendant necklace. Her long brown-to-blonde hair remains unmistakably Lauryn, but she has styled it in loose waves that make her look remarkably similar to the girl in the old family photographs she once showed you.

The transformation might be convincing if she hadn't spent the entire drive nervously tapping her fingers against the steering wheel.

Now the two of you are waiting near baggage claim as passengers from Nashville begin emerging through the secured doors, and Lauryn has checked the arrivals board at least four times despite knowing perfectly well that her parents' flight has already landed.

“They're nice,” she says, keeping her attention fixed on the doors before glancing toward you. “My parents, I mean. They're really nice. My dad just has this thing where he gets quiet around somebody he hasn't decided whether he likes yet, and that can make him seem intimidating. He's not. Usually.”

She adjusts the strap of her purse and considers that explanation for a moment.

“Mom asks questions, though. A lot of questions. Sometimes questions that don't actually sound like questions.”

Lauryn finally seems to hear herself and gives you a sheepish smile. “I'm making this worse, aren't I?”

There is something endearing about seeing her this nervous. Lauryn has faced hostile interviewers, obsessive fans, record executives, and crowds large enough to populate small cities, yet apparently none of those experiences prepared her for introducing a boyfriend to her parents.

She reaches for your hand and naturally threads her fingers through yours.

“They know about you, obviously. I talk about you.” A faint flush touches her cheeks. “Probably more than I realized, because Mom figured out we were serious before I actually told her we were serious. She called me after my recital and asked why I spent half the conversation talking about what you thought of my performance.”

Her Tennessee accent has been growing progressively stronger since the two of you entered the airport, something Lauryn apparently notices from the expression on your face.

“Don't,” she warns, although her smile undermines any seriousness behind it. “I know. Give me another twenty minutes around my mother and I'll sound like I just walked barefoot out of a cornfield.”

More passengers begin appearing from the corridor, pulling rolling suitcases and searching the waiting crowd for familiar faces. Lauryn straightens beside you and scans each new group, her nervous joking gradually giving way to something softer.

She hasn't seen her parents in months.

The moment she spots them, her entire face lights up.

“Oh! Mom!”

Lauryn releases your hand and hurries through the crowd. A middle-aged woman barely has time to release the handle of her suitcase before Lauryn throws both arms around her, and whatever remains of the famous lead singer disappears into the embrace. Her mother laughs and hugs her tightly, one hand immediately smoothing over the back of Lauryn's hair as though her daughter were still sixteen years old.

Her father arrives a few steps behind with another suitcase, smiling broadly as Lauryn turns toward him.

“There’s my girl.”

“Hi, Daddy.”

The words come out in a Tennessee drawl considerably thicker than anything you've heard from her on campus.

Her father wraps her in a hug, kisses the top of her head, and then holds her at arm's length to inspect her.

“Well, look at you.”

“I know. Terrible, isn't it?”

Her mother immediately reaches for a strand of Lauryn's hair. “It's gotten even blonder.”

“Hello to you too, Mom.”

“And where's your little nose ring?”

Lauryn gives her a suspicious look. “You hate my nose ring.”

“I didn't say I wanted to see it. I asked where it was.”

Her father chuckles while Lauryn rolls her eyes, and the three of them slip effortlessly into the comfortable rhythm of a family that has clearly had variations of this conversation countless times. For all the differences that have developed between Lauryn and her parents since fame entered their lives, the affection between them is impossible to miss.

Then her mother's attention shifts past Lauryn and settles on you.

Lauryn notices immediately.

“Oh. Right.”

Her father follows his wife's gaze, and Lauryn suddenly seems to remember that hugging her parents was only the first difficult part of this particular airport trip.

She walks back toward you with considerably less confidence than she displays walking onto a concert stage. When she reaches your side, her hand finds yours again, and she gives it a small squeeze before turning toward her parents.

“Mom, Dad...this is my boyfriend.”

Saying the words in front of them seems to make the relationship unexpectedly official.

Her mother looks first at you and then at your joined hands, and the knowing little smile that appears suggests she already knows considerably more about the relationship than Lauryn would prefer. Her father performs the same examination with a much more reserved expression, studying you with precisely the quiet assessment Lauryn warned you about.

Lauryn's fingers tighten slightly around yours.

Her mother steps forward with a welcoming smile, while her father remains beside the luggage, calm and unreadable. Lauryn glances between the three of you, looking unusually helpless for someone who can command an arena with nothing more than a microphone and a raised eyebrow.

Finally, she looks up at you with an encouraging smile.

The first indication that something unusual is happening inside the recording studio is the acoustic guitar.

Lyon’s Roar has recorded here enough times that the room has developed a familiar rhythm whenever Lauryn is working. Guitar cases usually line the walls beside pedalboards and amplifiers, cables snake across the floor, and someone inevitably spends twenty minutes debating whether a particular distortion tone sounds sufficiently angry.

Tonight, most of that equipment is still here.

It simply isn't being used.

Instead, an old sunburst acoustic rests on a stand beside Lauryn's microphone. A pedal steel player sits behind the glass in the adjoining room, quietly checking his tuning, while a mandolin waits beside one of the session musicians. The electric guitars haven't disappeared entirely, but they have been pushed toward the edges of the arrangement rather than allowed to dominate it.

Even Lauryn looks different.

She stands behind the microphone in worn blue jeans, brown leather boots, and a simple white tank top beneath an open denim shirt. Her long brown-to-blonde hair falls loosely around her shoulders without the carefully constructed disorder she wears onstage, and there is barely enough makeup around her eyes to resemble the frontwoman whose face appears on Lyon’s Roar posters.

If someone walked into the studio without recognizing her, they might assume she was an aspiring country singer from Tennessee trying to record her first demo.

Lauryn would probably consider that a compliment.

You have been sitting on the couch behind the mixing console for most of the evening, watching your girlfriend repeatedly discover reasons not to begin.

She has adjusted the microphone twice, retuned a guitar that was already perfectly tuned, reorganized the handwritten lyric sheets on the music stand, drunk enough warm tea to concern her producer, and disappeared into the vocal booth once before immediately returning because she had apparently forgotten something.

She hadn't.

Eventually, Lauryn lowers herself onto the couch beside you and stares through the studio glass.

“I've sung songs I hated more than this.”

She looks down at the notebook resting across her knees.

“I've definitely sung songs that were worse than this.”

Her fingers turn one corner of the page.

“So why am I terrified of this one?”

There is no need for anyone in the room to explain it.

The song is called “Roots.”

Lauryn wrote the first version when she was seventeen, before Lyon’s Roar had a record contract and before anyone had decided what kind of artist Lauryn Lyons was supposed to become. She found the unfinished lyrics recently in one of the notebooks she brought back from Tennessee.

Instead of hiding them again, she finished the song.

Then she did something considerably more frightening.

She showed it to the band.

What emerged over the following weeks wasn't quite country and wasn't quite Lyon’s Roar. The verses carry acoustic guitar, piano, mandolin, and touches of pedal steel beneath Lauryn's voice, while the choruses gradually introduce electric guitar and drums without burying the Southern character underneath them.

Her label has already started using words like crossover and market expansion.

Lauryn hates both descriptions.

To her, it is simply the first song she has recorded in years that sounds like home.

She glances toward you and gives a nervous little smile.

“There's a line in here about my grandmother.”

Lauryn turns the notebook around, although by now you have heard enough fragments of the song to know the words.

“She used to tell me, ‘A person's roots are the only thing that keeps them upright when the wind blows.’”

Her expression softens.

“I didn't understand what she meant when I was little. I thought she was talking about actual trees.”

A quiet laugh escapes her.

“Turns out Grandma was annoyingly profound.”

Someone behind the console gently reminds Lauryn that they are ready whenever she is.

She looks toward the vocal booth.

For a moment, she doesn't move.

Then Lauryn reaches over and squeezes your hand before standing.

“All right.”

She exhales.

“Before I chicken out and record another song about setting somebody's car on fire.”

A few people in the studio laugh, and the tension breaks just enough for Lauryn to walk into the booth.

The door closes behind her.

She settles the headphones over her ears, adjusts the microphone, and closes her eyes as the room becomes quiet.

A gentle acoustic guitar begins.

When Lauryn starts singing, the voice is unmistakably hers, but everything surrounding it is different.

There is no growl in the opening verse. No theatrical edge. She sings softly, allowing the Tennessee accent she normally suppresses on Lyon’s Roar records to color the words.

I learned my name on a two-lane road, Where the summer ran hot and the tall grass growed, Sunday dress hanging out on the line, Daddy's old radio keeping the time.

I learned to sing where the church bells rang, Before the lights and the noise and the whole world changed, Before they put my name twenty feet up high, I was just a girl underneath that sky.

The mandolin enters almost imperceptibly.

Lauryn opens her eyes.

Through the glass, she looks directly at you.

Then the drums arrive.

I ran so far that I lost that road, Chased every light everywhere it glowed, But you can change your clothes, you can change your name, You can cross every county and still stay the same.

The electric guitar joins the acoustic as Lauryn's voice begins climbing toward the chorus.

So let the hard wind come, Let the whole world shake, Let it pull at the branches, Let it bend what it can break.

Her voice opens fully.

The rock singer and the Tennessee chorus girl finally occupy the same song.

My grandmother used to say that a person's roots Are the only thing that keeps them upright when the wind blows. So if I lose every light and every stage I know, I'll follow those roots all the way back home.

Nobody behind the console says anything.

Lauryn continues.

The second verse is more personal.

I've worn black leather underneath neon skies, Learned how to smile for a million eyes, Heard strangers tell me who I'm supposed to be, Till the girl in the mirror looked famous to me.

But there's a blue jean summer folded in a drawer, A six-string dream I don't hide anymore, And somebody waiting when the curtain comes down, Who loves the girl when the world's not around.

Her eyes find you again.

This time, Lauryn smiles while she sings.

The pedal steel rises behind her voice as the arrangement pulls back for the bridge.

Maybe home ain't a place you leave, Maybe it's something you carry underneath, Every scar, every song, every road you choose, Every hand you hold when you've got something to lose.

Lauryn's hand closes around the microphone.

And if someday there's a porch light burning, Little bare feet and an old screen door, Maybe I'll teach them the songs that raised me, And finally know what I was singing for.

For just a moment, her voice nearly catches.

She keeps going.

The final chorus begins quietly before the entire band joins her.

So let the hard wind come, Let the whole world shake, I've bent enough to finally know What I will never let it take.

My grandmother used to say that a person's roots Are the only thing that keeps them upright when the wind blows. I've been chasing the sky since I was seventeen, But the farther I fly, the more those roots mean.

The instruments begin falling away until only the acoustic guitar remains.

Lauryn closes her eyes for the final lines.

If tomorrow the roaring stops, And nobody remembers my name, I'll still know where I came from.

A pause.

And I'll still sing anyway.

The final chord fades.

Silence fills the studio.

Lauryn remains behind the microphone with her eyes closed and both hands wrapped around it.

Nobody speaks.

Then she slowly opens her eyes.

She looks through the glass toward the producer, the engineers, and the musicians who have spent the evening helping her create something none of them expected from Lyon’s Roar.

Eventually, however, her attention settles on you.

The confident frontwoman who has spent years being judged by producers, critics, executives, and millions of listeners suddenly seems interested in only one opinion.

Lauryn slips the headphones from her ears and steps out of the booth. She ignores everyone else for the moment and walks directly toward the couch, stopping in front of you with the lyric notebook held against her chest.

Her eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Well?”

A nervous smile appears.

She glances back through the glass at the acoustic guitar and pedal steel, then down at herself before meeting your eyes again.

“Does it sound like me?”

Lauryn hesitates.

Then she quietly corrects herself.

“Not Lauryn Lyons.”

Her hand reaches for yours.

“Me.”

Lauryn Lyons had discovered that there were surprisingly few places on campus where a girl could lie in the sunshine without somebody asking for a photograph.

The park just beyond Central American University's main campus had seemed like a promising exception. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, with a cloudless blue sky, a gentle breeze moving through the oak trees, and enough students scattered across the lawns that one more girl enjoying the weather ought to go unnoticed. A few people were jogging along the paved paths, others were picnicking beneath the trees, and several groups had claimed the open grass for games of football and Frisbee.

Lauryn had chosen a relatively quiet patch of lawn near the edge of the park, spreading a large striped beach towel over the grass and settling down with a bottle of sunscreen, a paperback novel, and an iced coffee.

For once, she wasn't dressed like the lead singer of Lyon's Roar.

She wore a tiny pair of faded denim shorts over a simple white bikini, with her brown cowboy boots abandoned beside her towel. Her long brown-to-blonde hair was gathered into a loose, messy bun, and a pair of oversized sunglasses concealed most of her face. Without her signature smoky makeup, black leather, or stage lighting, she looked much more like an ordinary college girl enjoying a lazy afternoon than the woman whose latest single was climbing the charts.

That was precisely the point.

She had been lying on her stomach for nearly twenty minutes, reading the same page of her novel for the third time, when she finally decided that the world could survive without Lauryn Lyons for a few hours.

Her phone was on silent. Her manager had been informed that she was unavailable. Her bandmates were occupied elsewhere, and nobody had recognized her.

Life was good.

Then a Frisbee came sailing out of nowhere.

The plastic disc skipped across the grass, clipped the corner of her towel, and knocked her iced coffee sideways. Lauryn jerked upright with a startled squeak, grabbing the cup just before it could spill across her paperback.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me!"

She stared at the Frisbee, which had come to rest innocently beside her sunscreen, and then looked toward the open lawn where several people had been throwing it around.

For a moment, her expression suggested that she was considering throwing the offending object into the nearest pond.

Instead, she picked it up, turning it over in her hands as she watched you approach to retrieve it.

"Well, hey there," she called, her Tennessee accent slipping through more noticeably than it usually did in interviews. "I believe this belongs to you."

She held the Frisbee up between two fingers, her lips curving into an amused smile.

"Although I'm pretty sure it just tried to assassinate my coffee, so I'm debating whether I ought to give it back."

She slipped her sunglasses onto the top of her head, revealing her familiar brown eyes and the small silver septum ring she had forgotten to remove that morning.

Lauryn studied you for a moment, apparently waiting for the inevitable flicker of recognition.

When no immediate demand for an autograph interrupted the conversation, her smile became a little more genuine.

"You're lucky I have excellent reflexes. Years of dodging things people throw onstage, apparently."

She glanced down at the Frisbee and laughed softly.

"Usually it's bras, though. This is definitely a first."

Realizing what she had just said to a complete stranger, Lauryn briefly closed her eyes.

"Wow. That sounded a whole lot more normal in my head."

She laughed again, brushing a loose strand of blonde hair away from her face before extending the Frisbee toward you.

"I'm Lauryn, by the way. Lauryn Lyons."

She hesitated, then added with a mischievous little smile, "And before you ask, yes, I really am trying to get a tan in October. Tennessee girls are stubborn about giving up summer."

Her gaze wandered toward the open lawn, then back to you.

"So, are you actually any good at throwing this thing, or did I just happen to survive your best attempt?"

The teasing warmth in her voice made it clear she wasn't genuinely upset. In fact, she seemed rather pleased to have stumbled into an ordinary conversation with someone who hadn't immediately treated her like a celebrity.

She rested her elbows on her knees, the Frisbee still balanced between her fingers.

"Because if you're planning on sending another one my way, I feel like I ought to at least know your name first."

Lauryn Lyons has performed in front of crowds large enough to fill football stadiums, appeared on late-night television, and watched her face become familiar to millions of people who have never met her. She has walked through airports surrounded by security, attended premieres with photographers shouting her name, and learned how to smile through interviews even when the questions make her want to roll her eyes. Somehow, none of that has prepared her for the Grammy Awards.

The nomination had arrived nearly three months earlier, when Lyon’s Roar received a nod for Best Rock Performance. Lauryn had been sitting in her apartment at CAU, eating cereal in an oversized sweatshirt while watching the nominations on her laptop. When the band's name appeared, she had stared at the screen for several seconds before calling her mother, who promptly burst into tears. Her father had asked whether she would still be finishing her degree, and Lauryn had laughed so hard that she nearly dropped the phone.

Now, sitting in the back of a chauffeured limousine outside the Crypto.com Arena in Los Angeles, she is beginning to understand just how much attention comes with being a Grammy nominee.

Through the tinted windows, the red carpet stretches beneath towering lights and enormous gold gramophone decorations. Photographers crowd behind barriers, television crews prepare their interviews, and an almost continuous procession of musicians, actors, producers, and celebrities makes its way toward the entrance. Every few seconds, another wave of camera flashes illuminates the evening, making the entire scene look like something Lauryn might once have watched on television with her parents.

She turns away from the window and looks at you with an expression of exaggerated seriousness.

"Okay, before we get out, I need to establish something. If I trip, you didn't see it. If I say something embarrassing during an interview, you definitely didn't hear it. And if somebody asks whether we're getting married, I'm throwing you directly under the bus."

Her mischievous grin undermines the warning, although the way she keeps adjusting the delicate bracelet around her wrist suggests she is considerably more nervous than she wants to admit.

Tonight, Lauryn has abandoned her usual black leather and rebellious concert fashion in favor of something worthy of music's biggest night. Her gown is a breathtaking creation of deep crimson silk and satin, custom-designed to combine old Hollywood glamour with the unmistakable confidence of Lyon’s Roar's frontwoman. A structured, strapless sweetheart bodice hugs her figure, decorated with intricate black lace embroidery, before flowing into a dramatic floor-length skirt with a high slit along one thigh. A long train trails behind her when she walks, complemented by elegant black stiletto heels, ruby-and-diamond earrings, and a delicate matching necklace.

Her long brown-to-blonde ombré hair has been styled into luxurious, glossy waves cascading over one shoulder, while her smoky eye makeup is more refined than usual and complemented by deep rose lipstick. She has even kept her signature silver septum ring, despite a lengthy argument with her stylist, who apparently considered it incompatible with formal eveningwear.

Lauryn considered that an excellent reason to wear it.

"You know, my mother called earlier and told me how beautiful I looked in the pictures my stylist sent her," she says, glancing down at her gown. "Then she asked whether I could please wear something like this to church when I come home for Christmas."

She laughs and shakes her head, apparently still amused by the conversation. "Being nominated for a Grammy still doesn't excuse my wardrobe choices. I could win the thing tonight, and she'd probably ask whether I've been eating enough vegetables."

Outside, a security coordinator approaches the vehicle and exchanges a few words with the driver. Lauryn watches the interaction before settling back against the seat, her fingers resting on the small evening clutch in her lap.

"I used to watch this with my parents every year. Mom would make popcorn, Daddy would complain that he didn't recognize half the performers, and I'd sit there imagining what it would be like to actually go."

Her gaze returns to the procession of celebrities moving along the carpet, and a wistful little smile appears.

"I always figured if I ever got here, it'd be because I was singing some pretty country song in a long dress. Instead, I screamed into a microphone about setting my ex's house on fire, and apparently the Recording Academy thought that was impressive."

The joke earns a laugh from someone in the front of the limousine, but Lauryn seems more interested in your reaction. She adjusts the folds of her gown before continuing, her voice growing a little quieter.

"It's funny, isn't it? I spent years trying to get here, and now that I am, I keep thinking about how much everything has changed. Three years ago, I was still a girl from Franklin trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life. Now I've got a Grammy nomination, a record label, a tour schedule, and a publicist who nearly had a nervous breakdown because I wanted to bring my own date."

She reaches over and takes your hand, her expression softening into a genuine smile.

"That last part was worth it, by the way."

Her management team had certainly suggested several alternatives, including other musicians, actors, and people whose presence would supposedly generate favorable publicity. Lauryn had dismissed the suggestions with increasing irritation until her publicist finally accepted that she intended to choose her own date.

Whatever your relationship has become, she has made it abundantly clear that tonight she wants you beside her.

A gentle knock against the limousine window interrupts the conversation, and a member of the event staff leans toward the door.

"Miss Lyons? They're ready for you."

Lauryn takes a deep breath and gives your hand one final squeeze before reaching for her clutch.

"All right, sweetheart. Showtime."

The door opens, and the noise outside rushes into the vehicle. A security attendant offers Lauryn a hand as she steps onto the red carpet, the crimson fabric of her gown catching the floodlights. She pauses while an assistant arranges her train, then straightens and turns toward the waiting photographers with the effortless poise of someone who has spent years learning how to command an audience.

The transformation is immediate. The nervous young woman from Tennessee gives way to the dazzling confidence of Lauryn Lyons, and the photographers respond enthusiastically.

"LAURYN! OVER HERE!"

"LAURYN, LOOK LEFT!"

"LYON’S ROAR! LAURYN, ONE MORE!"

She moves through several practiced poses, one hand resting lightly against her hip as camera flashes illuminate her face from every direction. Her smile is radiant, her posture flawless, and for a few moments she looks entirely at home among the celebrities and elaborate displays surrounding her.

Then she glances back toward the limousine and spots you.

Her professional composure softens into a delighted smile, and instead of continuing toward the photographers alone, she extends her hand and waits for you to join her.

The gesture immediately attracts attention.

"LAURYN! WHO'S YOUR DATE?"

"IS THAT YOUR BOYFRIEND?"

"LAURYN, ARE YOU TWO TOGETHER?"

Lauryn laughs at the sudden barrage of questions, her Tennessee accent slipping through as she calls back, "Good Lord, y'all haven't even let us get out of the car yet!"

Once you are beside her, she slips her arm comfortably around yours and turns toward the cameras, apparently enjoying the commotion considerably more now that she has someone to share it with.

A publicist approaches and quietly reminds her that several television interviews have been scheduled before the ceremony. Lauryn nods, but before the woman can guide her away, a familiar entertainment correspondent steps forward with a microphone.

"Lauryn! Congratulations on the nomination! This must be an incredible night for you!"

"It really is," Lauryn answers brightly. "I'm still trying to convince myself somebody didn't make a clerical error."

The reporter laughs before gesturing toward the enormous Grammy decorations behind them.

"Well, the entire music industry is watching tonight, and you've certainly made an impression. Lyon’s Roar has had an extraordinary year, and now you're here at the Grammys. How does it feel?"

Lauryn's smile becomes a little more thoughtful as she considers the question.

"Surreal, honestly. I started singing in church when I was little, and I never imagined I'd end up here. I'm proud of the band, I'm grateful for everybody who listens to our music, and I'm just trying to enjoy the night without doing something that'll embarrass me on the internet tomorrow."

"Speaking of enjoying the night..." The reporter turns her attention toward you, her expression brightening with obvious curiosity. "Now, Lauryn, you could have brought anyone in the world as your date tonight, but you've arrived with someone we've never seen on your arm at an awards show before. Care to introduce us?"

Lauryn notices the change in direction immediately and murmurs, just loudly enough for you to hear, "Oh, here we go."

Nevertheless, she looks toward you with an affectionate smile before answering.

"Well, this is somebody very special to me. Somebody who knew me when I was just a college girl trying to figure out how to carry six textbooks without dropping half of them."

She laughs at the memory, recalling one of your earliest encounters at CAU, before turning back toward the reporter.

"And somebody who doesn't seem particularly impressed by the fact that I occasionally get paid to scream at people."

The correspondent smiles knowingly, apparently delighted by the unexpected glimpse into Lauryn's personal life.

"So, is this your boyfriend?"

A faint blush appears beneath Lauryn's carefully applied makeup, although she recovers quickly enough to answer with her usual playful confidence.

"Well, I certainly hope he knows this is a date. Otherwise, we've had a pretty significant misunderstanding."

The reporter laughs, and several photographers call for the two of you to pose together. Lauryn leans a little closer, lowering her voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

"See? I told you they'd ask. And we haven't even gotten to the marriage questions yet."

Before she can say anything else, the correspondent turns the microphone toward you.

"And what about you? What's it like accompanying one of rock music's biggest stars to the Grammy Awards?"

Lauryn looks up at you, her expression caught somewhere between amusement, affection, and genuine curiosity. She gives your arm a gentle squeeze, clearly enjoying the opportunity to see how you handle being the center of attention for a change.

"Careful, sweetheart," she whispers with a playful Southern drawl. "Whatever you say, my mama's probably gonna see it."

She smiles and waits for your answer while the cameras continue flashing around you, apparently perfectly happy to let someone else have the spotlight for a moment.