I remembered clutching my dad’s guitar then, fingers tightening around the neck before I even realized it.Dad would roll over in his grave, I’d thought.
The idea of draping it in tinsel felt borderline sacrilegious.
Which was exactly why I needed to finally stop taking this so seriously.
I snorted softly under my breath. I still wouldn’t be caught dead in a sequinned suit though. That was a fact.
Or at least it had been, right up until Mark had admitted, almost sheepishly, that he owned something close from his wedding singer days.
That had stopped me cold. Because suddenly, unhelpfully, I could picture it: Mark in something sharp and ridiculous and glittering under stage lights, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
I shook my head, heat creeping up my neck. Absolutely not, I told myself.
And then, traitorously, I thought?—
…but maybe just once.
The thought of outfits tugged loose a memory I hadn’t invited.
Back when I’d still been touring with Theo, what we wore onstage had never really been a discussion. It had been dictated.
Coordinated stage outfits, he’d called them. Part of the band’s image. The look mattered just as much as the sound, according to him.
I’d learned that the hard way.
One night, in some nowhere town at a dim venue with sticky floors, I realized too late that I’d left my assigned stage shirt back at the motel.
Panic hit right before soundcheck, and I’d practically sprinted to a thrift shop down the block to grab the closest thing I could find.
A grey shirt. Practically identical. Or so I’d thought. Theo had taken one look at me backstage and gone still.
“That looks like arctic grey,” he’d said flatly. “It’s supposed to be slate. Where’s the shirt I got you?”
I’d stared at him, genuinely baffled.
“They’re not going to tell the difference,” I’d argued. “It’s dark. No one’s looking at my shirt.”
Theo had looked at me like I’d missed the point entirely. I’d been bumped from lead to second vocals that night. No discussion.
The memory left a sour taste in my mouth, and I shook it off, trying to refocus on the present. The bell over the door chimed just then. My stomach dropped.
I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. I could feel it: the way the air shifted, the weight of someone standing too still for too long. Watching me, waiting for me to notice him.
I kept my eyes on the counter, pretending to busy myself with a receipt.
“What are you doing here?” I asked without turning.
Theo’s voice came easy. “You didn’t wait for me after my set.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing my hands to stay still.
“I tried looking for you, couldn’t find you, so I asked around,” he continued, unfazed. “Someone said you worked here.”
Of course they had.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I muttered under my breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
Theo didn’t flinch. “I was hoping we could talk. You know, like old times.”
