And that scares the hell out of me.
My throat tightens.
I can’t speak.
I.Can’t.Speak.
All I can do is nod.
He half-smiles—forced, strained—then leans down to press a kiss to the top of my head. He hesitates. I feel it! That moment when he wants to say something more. But then, just like that, he turns and walks out.
I watch him go, my stomach sinking with the unmistakable certainty that things between us aredefinitelynot okay.
***
Anna sits beside me on the jet, silent, lost in her own world.
When I walked on board, I caught Colt watching me. For a split second, I thought I saw relief flicker in his eyes as I passed him to take my usual seat. But he didn’t say a word. No one did.
Tamara handed me my tablet, and the meds have taken the edge off, but my head still pounds from last night.
Colt and the guys have been locked in the jet’s office with Rob for nearly the entire two-hour flight to France, leaving the rest of us in an exhausted, uneasy quiet.
Anna isn’t talkative either, so we sit next to each other, zoning in and out for most of the flight, lost in our own thoughts.
Now, we’re heading straight from the airport toThe Palais Omnisports de Paris-Bercyfor tonight’s concert in the usual stretch Hummer. The mood in the car is heavy. It is nothing like the electric buzz we had at the start of the tour. Conversations are hushed, and no one seems particularly eager to break the silence.
Anna and I sit in the back, our hands finding each other in a quiet exchange of comfort. The guys are murmuring about the setlist, but even that feels subdued.
As we pull up to the venue, a sea of screaming fans swarms the entrance. Their energy is intoxicating, but I can’t bring myself to feel it. Instead, I mentally remind myself not to take my sunglasses off. The last thing I need is for the cameras to catch my red, puffy eyes against my pale, exhausted face.
The car stops. Anna and I step out together, sunglasses firmly in place, and walk inside without waiting for anyone else. We push through the backstage doors markedSlayettesand head straight for the couch, flopping down in unison with a shared exhale.
The other girls rush in, buzzing with excitement, but I stay quiet, sinking into the cushions. Slowly, I remove my sunglasses and shove them on top of my head in an exaggerated movement that resembles someone who is waiting to face the inevitable.
Everyone around me is chatting, getting pumped for the show.
But I can’t shake it—that nagging, suffocating feeling clawing at my chest.
Something is coming.
Sia walks in, her gaze locking onto us.
She huffs, pushing her way between us. “Right, you two. You need tocheer the fuck up’cause you’re bringing the boys down. Colt doesn’t even want to do the show tonight, and you both look like you’re dead and about to start decaying at any second,” Sia states, slapping us both on our knees.
“It’s okay for you… you get to see your husband every day, Mamma. We miss our guys. I know this is part of it, but would one day, just for us, now and then, be such abad thing? They look like they’re running themselves ragged, and I’m worried that this will come crashing down on us all,” Anna says, and I nod in agreement.
“I know it’s hard having them gone for so long, but it’s only three and a half more months. Then we break, and you can have them all to yourselves. Stop being selfish and let the boys live their dream,” she replies.
For the first time since I met Sia, I want to bitch slap her.
Hard.
Into next fucking week.
I frown as Sia turns to leave, but just before stepping out, she throws one last parting shot over her shoulder. “Oh, and girls? You’re supposed to be in the band’s dressing room, not hanging out with the groupies. So, c’mon…” She points. “Go show your guys that you actually support them.” And with that, she walks out, leaving the words hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge.
I glance at Anna, and she simply shrugs.
