IS THIS ANOTHER COSMIC JOKE?
NATE
"¡Increíble!Tu guitarra es como magia,"one of the girls says, her eyes bright with that pre-show adrenaline that I've gotten used to over the past few months.The others crowd closer, all speaking at once in rapid Spanish that I can mostly follow now.
"Eres muy guapo," another one says boldly, stepping closer, her fingers trailing along my forearm."¿Qué planes tienes después del show?"
Eight months ago, I wouldn't have understood a word.Now I catch every syllable, including the obvious invitation in her voice.I set the amp down carefully and give her what I hope is a polite smile, taking a subtle step back.
"Gracias, pero tengo que irme a casa después.Tengo práctica temprano mañana."
It's not entirely true—practice isn't until noon—but it's easier than explaining that I don't do whatever this is anymore.The disappointed looks on their faces make me feel like shit, but not as much shit as I'd feel tomorrow if I went down that road again.
Javier's voice echoes in my head:"Mijo, recovery isn't just about saying no to drugs and alcohol.It's about saying no to all the things that made you need them in the first place."
The old me would've already picked which one I was taking home.Would've been calculating how much I could drink before I couldn't play, how much coke I could do and still function.The old me lived in a constant state of negotiation with my own destruction.
This me—whoever the fuck this me is—has learned that some doors you can't just crack open a little.Some doors you have to keep welded shut.You can't numb one pain with another—the problem still remains, festering underneath whatever temporary fix you throw at it.
"Señoritas," a familiar voice cuts through the chatter, "you need to leave my guitarist alone for the next few hours.We have a show to play."
Luiza appears like a guardian angel in ripped jean shorts and a barely-there crop top, revealing most of her tattoos—the same artist who'd done half of mine during those late nights in Madrid when we'd stumbled into parlors, high on music and possibility.
Now I have my own collection decorating my arms, each one a marker of this new life I'm building.
She pushes through the small crowd with practiced ease, her dark hair wild from the pre-show energy.The girls scatter with disappointed sighs as she reaches for my hand.
"Come on," she says, interlacing our fingers with the casual intimacy of someone who's pulled me out of a dozen similar situations, "we need to get you ready."
She leads me backstage, which is really just a cramped room behind the bar that smells like cigarettes and spilled beer.My guitar case is leaning against the wall next to the sound equipment, and I can hear the crowd getting restless through the thin walls.
I grab the Les Paul guitar, the one Nick gifted me last summer and start checking the tuning, running through scales to warm up my fingers.The familiar weight of it grounds me, like it always has.Over the past eight months, I've found my love for music again in a way I never expected—pure, untainted by the chaos that used to surround it.
Luiza hands me my earpiece, and I fit it snugly, testing the connection.
That's when the nerves hit.
It's fucked up, really.
We've been playing to crowds three times this size for these past three months, sold-out venues across Spain, each venue getting bigger than the previous one.But somehow the smaller crowds always get to me more.
Maybe it's because you can see their faces, see the music pulsing through them.Maybe it's because there's nowhere to hide when it's intimate like this.
When Luiza first heard me playing on Javier's vineyard—me, a stranger she'd known for all of three minutes—she'd asked me to join her on this national tour and write with her.We connected musically in a way I didn’t think was possible, but it worked and now here we are.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, centering myself the way Javier taught me.And like always, the thing that calms me is the memory of emerald green eyes.The same eyes that have appeared in my dreams since I was a kid, that looked at me like I was worth something, like I mattered in a way no one else ever made me feel.
I picture the way sunlight would catch the gold flecks in them, the way they'd soften when she smiled.Even now, especially now, it calms me and my breathing returns to a steady pace.
They’re still all I can think about, even though I've got no right to think about those eyes anymore.
The crowd noise grows, and I know it's time.
Luiza squeezes my shoulder, her grip firm and reassuring."Ready?"
"With you, always."
We walk out together, and the room erupts.Luiza has this energy that's impossible to fake—she commands attention without demanding it, draws people in without trying.It's why she's where she is, why every label in Europe is trying to sign her.
