When I look at her, she’s already watching me.
Not like before—not like she’s just waiting for me to self-destruct again.There’s something new in her expression now.Like she’s letting me see what she’s tried to bury—unguarded and quietly wrecked.
Something that hurts in a different way.
“Thank you,” I rasp.My voice sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel.
Kit doesn’t move.Her voice is calm, too calm, like I didn’t just unravel in front of her—like she didn’t just witness every fragile piece of me collapse.
“You’re not weak for struggling, Rod.You’re not broken.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
It’s laughable, isn’t it?That the person who knew me best can’t see that I’m just splintered glass in human form, taped together with shame and cocaine residue.
“Unlike my father, I’m not here to coddle you and promise you a shiny new record and tour,” she says, straightening slowly, her body unfolding like a warning.She stays close, like she’s daring me to breathe her in.“But I’m not here to ruin you either.”
I study her face.
She’s so fucking beautiful it scrapes at something deep in my soul.Unreachable and luminous and still somehow standing right in front of me, tethered to this moment with her knees brushing mine and her scent threading through every molecule of air between us.
Then she does the unexpected.
“Maybe we can find a way to help you.”
“You’re going to help me?How?”I ask, voice wrecked.My throat feels torn up, punched raw by too many nights spent screaming lyrics to a crowd—lyrics about broken hearts and forgiveness, aimed at the void but never at her.
I’ve relived our relationship onstage more times than I can count, dressed the pain in perfect verses, convinced myself that counted for something.But now?Now I see they were never the words she needed.Never what I meant to say.
“Kit—” I want to say so much but cut myself off because I don’t even know where to start or if I deserve to say anything.
Kit stands.There’s a moment where her fingers hover near my shoulder, like she’s considering touching me again, before she pulls back and starts pacing.Just once.Twice.Then she stops in front of me, her hands sliding to her hips.
“We need to take this slow,” she says, and it’s not a suggestion—it’s a command she knows I won’t argue with.“If you’re serious about rebuilding, then you need a new foundation.Not the same stage, not the same people whispering promises they won’t keep.No more vultures trying to squeeze one more hit out of you before you combust.”
That’s the only way this could work.And still, I want to ask what she wants me to do.What she expects.But I don’t.I can’t.My throat burns again, and all I do is nod.As if saying, “Okay, you’re in charge.”
“You’re a musician,” she says more softly now, and that softness?It almost undoes me.“That doesn’t stop just because you stepped out of the spotlight.But maybe it’s time you figure out a new way to channel your gift.”
Gift.
That word lands with a thud in the chest.Ethel used to say that.She said my music lived in my marrow, stitched into every bone, and that it wasn’t meant to be used up by other people’s greed.
I blink, about to ask Kit what she’s doing with hers—how she channels it now, if she’s not on stage—when she looks down at me as if she’s seeing something buried beneath all the dirt and damage.
“You could start by composing.That’s step one.”She holds up a finger, as if she’s not just giving me an idea—she’s giving me a way back to myself.“Then writing, collaborating.We could even find you a gig scoring someone’s film.”
She lights up as she talks.Her eyes sparkle as if she’s cracked open a vault she didn’t know was still inside her.
“You can teach,” she says, practically breathless now.“You could start a new genre.You can rebuild without it costing you your sanity or your soul.”
There’s a pause.Her gaze drops—just briefly—to my mouth.
And that moment?
That one second where she lets herself look at me like that?
