As the conversation stutters to a stop, Lily tilts her head thoughtfully. “Okay, change of topic,” she says. “If you could perform anywhere in the world—like, bucket list kind of thing—where would it be?”
Marcus sets down his fork, his face lighting up. “The Royal Albert Hall in London. That place is iconic.”
Dylan leans back in his chair, grinning. “Madison Square Garden. Classic. Plus, the energy there is insane.”
Lily looks at me expectantly, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard. “I… I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe… somewhere small. Intimate. Where you can actually see people’s faces, feel their reactions.”
“Good answer,” Lily says, smiling softly. “What about you, Enzo?”
Enzo shrugs, his tone casual but his eyes serious. “Don’t care about the venue. I just want to play somewhere where people actually listen—where they don’t just show up for the hype but for the music.”
There’s a quiet hum of agreement around the table, and for a moment, I feel a spark of what we used to have—what we could have again. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
When breakfast ends, the others begin clearing the table and chatting about the day ahead. Marcus starts passing out coffee, but I wave him off, moving to the sink. I linger, washing the dishes, letting the sound of their voices fill the space around me.
The fight isn’t over. The cravings still hum at the edgesof my mind, a constant reminder of the struggle ahead. But today, as the morning sun warms my skin and the band’s words echo in my ears, I feel a flicker of something I thought I’d lost.
Hope.
CHAPTER 19
THE CALL OF MUSIC
ENZO
Fuck all this feeling bullshit.I’m done. Listening to everyone sitting around pouring their emotions out like we’re in some kind of group therapy circle isn’t my style. I need action—something real, something to remind us why we’re even here in the first place.
Music.
That’s what we do best, and I’ll be damned if we let the train wreck of this past show take that away from us.
I lean back in my chair, exhaling an exaggerated sigh. “You know what? Fuck this,” I mutter loud enough for everyone to hear. Everyone turns to look at me, their conversations halting mid-sentence. “We need to play. Not talk. Not cry. Let’s get back to what we’re actually good at: music.”
Marcus raises an eyebrow from behind his coffee cup, his blond hair still damp from the shower. His usual stoic demeanor appears slightly wary. “You serious?”
“Dead serious,” I say, standing and stretching. “Enough of this touchy-feely shit. Let’s jam.”
Dylan grins from his perch on the arm of the couch, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. He’s been carrying them around in his back pocket constantly, like he’s also itching to play. “Hell yeah. Anything to break this emotional constipation we’ve got going on.”
I nod, even though his comment makes me want to roll my eyes. At least he’s on board.
Jax, still standing at the sink washing dishes, groans and scrubs his hands across his face. He looks exhausted, but there’s something in his expression—a flicker of interest. He won’t admit it, but he needs this as much as the rest of us.
“C’mon, Jax,” I call, crossing the room to grab my bass from the corner. Sliding the strap over my shoulders, I embrace the familiar weight. My fingers skim the fretboard, the grooves like an extension of me. As familiar to me as my own skin. My fingers tap across the strings as I return my gaze back to Jax. “We’re practicing. Get your ass over here.”
He glares at me, but wipes his hands across the towel near the sink. Then he walks towards the center of the living room, his movements sluggish. He’s still pale, still too thin, but at least he’s upright. That’s progress, right?
“Fine. But if I screw this up, don’t come at me,” he mutters.
I smirk. “We’ll see.”
Jax’s attitude during our session will dictate my reaction. I refuse to give him another free pass.
Marcus picks up his guitar, running his fingers along the strings and tuning a couple of them with practiced ease. He glances at me, and we share a look—a silent agreement. We’re doing this. We need this.
Dylan drags a small case into the living room, flipping it open to reveal his practice kit. It’s a compact version of his full drum set, perfect for tight spaces. Within minutes, he’s got it assembled and slides into place, spinning his sticks dramatically.
“Alright,” Dylan says, smirking at Jax. “Let’s see if you remember how to sing without choking on your own tongue.”
