I read the nameover and over.
Tacoma Healing Collective
Trauma Recovery & Therapy | Sliding Scale
Specialists in Religious Harm & Purity Culture
(253) 555-0012
My thumb rubs the edge until it starts to fray. A year ago, I wouldn’t have dared to think about therapy. But now, I’m already so far from who I was a year ago.
I tap the number into my phone. My finger hovers over the call button.
Then I hit save instead.
Small steps.
fifteen
Linus
Five Days Later
I’mbuzzingfromthesheer joy of it all.
Fireball’s final show of the West Coast run.
Seattle didn’t just show up, they roared. I felt every beat of it. From the crowd and stage and everywhere in between.
I’m good at my job. Coordinating all the details.
Load-in at noon, backline tuned and techs briefed by four, security swept by six. I scheduled the interviews, wrangled Felicity a makeup artist when she threw a fit. Chased down Liam’s replacement guitar strings when his high E snapped in soundcheck. I even stopped a drunk house tech from knocking over Padraig’s kick pedal mid-set.
Every fire handled, every cue hit. They don’t see it, not really. If I’m doing my job correctly, they won’t need to.
God, I feel it.
Something bigger. The prospect of this band becoming a movement.
Fireball’s not perfect. They’re messy, chaotic, too scattered at times. But they’ve got it. The “thing.”
Liam. Jesus. Watching him play tonight, something inside me cracked open.
His fingers blurred across the fretboard, curls plastered to his forehead, black shirt clinging to his spine. He tipped his chin up during the final chorus ofTír na nÓg, sweat gleaming under the lights, and for a second, he wasn’t playing, he was flying.
I swear he levitated during the bridge, caught in the gravity of the crowd.
No one could look away.
Including me.
I linger near the stage door long enough to make sure the house staff’s wrapping up the VIPs, then duck backstage and head for the green room. I’m exhausted. Elated. Wired.
When I push the door open, the McGloughlin twins are already inside. Drenched in sweat, adrenaline still leaking from their pores. Their older brother Connor’s there too, slouched into the busted loveseat with a root beer, looking like he’s right where he belongs.
I clock him instantly. Same brown eyes as Liam. Bigger. Taller. A few more lines in his brow. He’s young, yeah, but there’s weight behind his gaze. A weariness.
I stiffen slightly, caught off-guard. Liam never said his brother would be here. Or maybe he did and I missed it in the rush.
