I manage a smile. “Aye. Anything for your trifle.”
She rolls her eyes, but the softness in her face makes me melt.
Whatever they called my relationship. Sin, shame, wrong, I call it family.
No matter what we’ve lost, we have each other.
This loud, complicated, stunning mess.
fifty-nine
Avonna
Two Months Later
Seventythousandbodiesarejammed together in an open field.
The roar of the crowd builds until it’s a living thing.
The stage is electric as the intro crashes in. Liam’s guitar wails to my left. I prowl to the front edge of the stage, hair whipping, My voice is sharp and clean, cutting through the chaos.
The cordless mic is warm in my hand. My lungs sting. My thighs burn. I give themeverything.
Fireball’s resurgence is unprecedented. Our album,Wild Honeyexploded. Two singles at the top of the charts, a third one climbing. Viral on TikTok. Most played Spotify song this year.
We’ve been on the covers ofRolling Stone,Variety. Billboard named me the “future of feminist rock.” NPR ran a headline:The Voice That Doesn’t Apologize.Voguecalled.
Vogue.
Right now the media seems to only focus on me. I don’t love the attention. Fireball is the three of us.
Always us.
Padraig masterfully anchors the backline. Liam stalks the stage beside me, guitar slung low, lost in the music like it’s the only language he speaks. Linus watches side stage, flanked by security, headset on, lips pressed tight like he’s running a command center. I catch him mouthing the lyrics, eyes flicking between me and Liam.
He grounds me.
I’m not the first Fireball singer. I’ll never replace the ones who came before me. I know what I bring, though. I’m the third side of the triangle and this moment is mine. We’ve played every rung of the ladder. Dingy clubs, borrowed gear, no soundcheck, no sleep.
We’ve earned this.
Every song folds into the next. The setlist is a blur, but my body remembers. I move effortlessly. The songs live in me now, deeper than muscle memory.
The stage rumbles under my boots, bass and kick drum shaking the risers. My heart beats in rhythm with the crowd, sweat sliding down my spine. When I launch into the first chorus of our final song, flags rise over the crowd. Pint cups lift.
Liam catches my eye, gives me a lopsided grin, sweat soaked and radiant. Behind me, Padraig hits the cymbals like he’s trying to split the sky. In front of us, the field is a living thing. Arms raised. Voices rising. The shimmer of color and light. I never thought I’d feel this free. Never thought I’d step into something that felt so much like home.
The crowd knows every word toTír na nÓg. When I hold the mic to the sky, they roar it so loud it rattles my spine. We hit the final note like it owes us something. I raise both arms. The roar doubles. The crowd chants our name.
Fireball. Fireball. Fireball.
We’ve never sounded better.
A crew member waves us toward the tunnel beneath the stage. I’m drenched, my eyeliner feels smudged, adrenaline still coursing. Liam hooks an arm around my shoulder as we move. “Flawless.”
“Thanks, baby.” I kiss his cheek and he’s already off, fingers twitching like he’s still playing.
Linus runs up behind me. “A lot of media today. Girls are fine. They’re with the nanny in the hotel room.”
