“Still is,” Fox says quietly. He’s been his usual quiet self, watching everything with that kind of focus that always makes me wonder what he’s really thinking. “At least, it should be.”
Stone leans back, running his hand through his long, wavy hair. “As much as I hate to say it, a new album would help us with the winter coat drive, the music education initiative, and the food bank contributions we’ve always done. Not to mention we’ve been looking at all those Vermont-based charities with Finn.”
The mention of home sends a fresh ache through my chest. Three days in Manhattan, and I’m already desperate for Vermont air, for the smell of hay and earth instead of designer perfume and corporate ambition.
“Why are we still playing?” Fox’s question cuts through the growing discussion. We all turn to face him, surprised by the direct challenge from our quietest member.
Before anyone can respond, he adds an equally simple follow-up: “Who’s doing it for the money?”
I look around our small circle, seeing the same realization dawn on each face. No hands rise for the money question. There’s no hesitation in our unanimous response about why we play. Music runs in our blood.
“Well then,” Fox says softly, satisfaction clear in his slight smile. “Seems like we have our answer.”
The simplicity of it hits like truth usually does. We’re not here for market windows or profit margins. We’re here because music demands to be made.
Stone’s grin grows wider. “Fuck their timeline,” he announces with considerable satisfaction. “We do this right or not at all. Let’s push back.”
Nikko clears his throat and shifts in his chair like he’s about to deliver bad news. “You’re forgetting you’re under contract.”
“Actually.” Daisy’s grin transforms her entire face. Ever the firecracker, her eyes spark with familiar mischief as she leans forward, voice dropping like she’s sharing a conspiracy theory instead of a business strategy. “Your first agent was a shrewd man, and he must have loved you because there’s a clause in your contract that states that after twenty-five years or ten albums, whichever comes first, the band can break the contract without penalty. The only caveat is that if you are in the middle of a tour, you must finish the tour.”
“Not a tour in sight,” Nikko says, stating the obvious.
“Gentlemen,” she drawls, drawing out the word until Stone growls with impatience. “Have you considered the ‘Taylor Swift’ model?” Her fingers form air quotes around the name, but her expression remains deadly serious.
“You want us to date celebrities and write songs about them?” Stone asks, but his drumming fingers have slowed, interest replacing nervous energy. “Because I volunteer as tribute for that market research.”
Daisy’s eye roll could power small cities. “Independence, you musical heathen. Complete creative control. No more suits telling you when to breathe.” Her grin turns sharper as understanding dawns across our faces. “You’re Hall of Fame. In case you’ve forgotten while you’ve been playing Santa’s elves in Vermont.”
We must look like those dolls that shake their heads as we look at each other, taking in the idea that, for the first time in our careers, we can do anything we want.
“You can cut out the fat cats,” Daisy continues, winking as she glances toward the door. “Though I suppose I am one of those fat cats.”
“As if we’d let you go,” Stone declares immediately. “You’re family.”
The simple statement draws nods from all of us, appreciation for how she’s guided us through the last decade of industry changes and ever-growing success.
Something softens in Daisy’s expression. “About that,” she says quietly, hands moving to rest against her stomach. “Family’s about to get a bit bigger.”
The room erupts in chaos, Stone actually jumping from his chair while Fox and Nikko roll theirs to squish the poor woman.
“I’m three months along,” Daisy admits as we crowd closer, her smile filled with so much joy it makes my chest tight. “Wasn’t exactly planned, but…” She trails off.
“The father?” Mik asks carefully, voicing a question we’re all considering. We’ve watched Daisy’s on-again-off-again relationship drama for years, seen her struggle to balance personal life with her professional demands.
“Well, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much,” she starts, deflecting with humor that doesn’t quite hide vulnerability, then, softer, “Ryan. It’s Ryan. Again. Still. Always. Probably.” Her laugh carries notes of wonder and resignation combined. “Amazing how impending parenthood clarifies a relationship status.”
“Dibs on godfather and naming rights,” Stone announces immediately, setting off a chain reaction of competing claims that fills the room with familiar banter. “I’m clearly the most responsible choice.”
“You set your own drums on fire,” Nikko points out dryly. “Twice.”
“Artistic expression!”
The playful argument continues, but I notice how Daisy’s hands never leave her stomach. The timing feels significant. A new life, new direction, and new possibilities opening before us.
“I could expand the studio,” I say suddenly, drawing attention back to practical matters. “Start building toward independence now.”
Fox nods slowly. “The acoustics are already better than half the professional studios we’ve used,” he says. “With proper equipment upgrades…”
