Waylon rubbed his stomach, the red glint in his eyes barely concealed by his contact lenses. “I’m feeling a bit hungry. I could use some blood.”
“Then let’s go home, Waylon,” I said. “We can take care of that there.”
But he shook his head. “Gianna, it’s so lively here, I don’t want to leave. I’m fine. Skipping a meal won’t hurt. I can handle it!”
“Alright, I’ll respect your choice. But if you start feeling worse, let me know, and we’ll leave right away, okay?”
Waylon’s eyes lit up at my agreement, and he nodded happily before diving back into the dance floor.
I watched quietly from the sidelines as Waylon grabbed the mic from the live singer and began singing. It was that song we often listened to in the car.
Standing on the stage, under the spotlight, singing with so much ener
