Liam yanks off his headphones. “You fucking wanna sing it then?”
“Maybe I should.”
“Okay, kids. Walk it off.” Ty stands, already tired of this.
Liam’s gone out the side exit before the echo of Ty’s voice fades.
Padraig stays, polishing a cymbal with a smirk on his face.
Connor goes after Liam.
Linus crouches beside me. “They can’t keep doin’ this.”
I lean into him. “He’s unraveling.”
“Aye. I see it.”
“He thinks he has to fix everything.” I glance out the door Liam departed from. “Padraig’s resentment, this album, our future, us.”
“He’s scared.” Linus kisses my temple. “Wants to prove his choices were worth it.”
“They are.”
“I know.”
We sit in silence for a while. Connor and Liam return about ten minutes later. Liam heads into the booth, slides on his headphones, and closes his eyes.
Ty hits record.
What comes through the speakers isn’t clean. It’s guttural, aching, alive.
Liam doesn’t perform the lyrics, he confesses them. Every note scraped from somewhere deep, where pain meets purpose.
Padraig doesn’t move. His hand drops from his knee. His gaze stays locked on the glass.
Linus slides his fingers into mine.
When Liam finishes, the entire room is electrified.
Ty exhales. “We’ve got it. Perfection.”
No one speaks. Even Padraig.
What lives between us is bruised, but breathing.
We’re going to survive.
fifty-seven
Liam
Five Months Later
Connorlooksexhaustedwhenhis face appears on screen.
He’s sitting on the couch at Padraig’s townhouse in Seattle.
My twin moved back to our home town after we recorded the album.
