Outside, the rain turns to mist again. Dundrum Town Centre glows against the dark like a promise of everything ordinary people want. Warmth, security, routine.
I rest my forehead against the glass and watch the lights blur. Picture the twins in their mini-bus somewhere in the States. Padraig probably dozing against the window, headphones on. Liam tapping out a rhythm on his knee, pretending not to think about the people he’s lost.
In my bedroom, I pull the blinds down, undress and crawl under the covers. On the dresser, I keep a framed photoof the two of us backstage. Liam’s biting my earlobe and I’m smiling cheek to cheek.
Everything good I’ve ever had is in the picture.
Now he’s gone.
I trace the edge of the frame, open my nightstand drawer and shove it to the back. Nestling into my pillows, I listen to the rain hit the window. Hopefully someday, when Isis is real and the name O’Donnell means something in music, I’ll call him. Maybe he’ll answer and we can laugh about how young and foolish we were.
Maybe we’ll find our way back to each other. Find our third and make the family we dreamed about.
Or, maybe not. Either way, I’ll keep building. For me.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the rhythm of the rain. Steady, endless, familiar.
For the first time in months, as I drift off to sleep, I give myself permission to move on. Put the past behind me and focus on building the future I want.
The decision feels like prayer and punishment.
I wouldn’t trade it for peace.
twenty-two
Liam
Two Years Later
Mitch’splaylisthumsthroughhalf-blown speakers, some lo-fi mix he swears keeps him awake.
The rest of us are ghosts in motion.
It’s been two long years of the same. Long drives, shitty motels, clubs paying in envelopes of damp cash and “great exposure.” Hundreds of shows, and my body feels carved out by every one of them.
The mini-bus smells like sweat, old fries, wet leather. The scent of living on the road.
Padraig’s asleep beside me, chin to his chest, hair falling forward. It’s long now, past his collarbone, dark waves hiding his face. His hoodie’s faded and his jeans are torn in the knees.There’s a grease stain on his thigh from some van repair he helped Mitch with three days ago.
He hasn’t changed his clothes since. Neither have I.
We’ve been living like animals. Unshaven, unwashed. Chasing something elusive.
Arleigh’s got her headphones on, mouthing lyrics to whatever she’s listening to. Her voice is the only thing keeping Fireball afloat at this point, and she’s at the end of her rope. Mitch keeps one hand on the wheel, the other cradles his third gas-station coffee.
The whirr of the tires fills the silence. My head leans against the window. The glass vibrates against my skull. Outside, the horizon blurs gray-blue, endless. We’re two days out from Seattle. We’re not headlining our next show, instead we’re opening for my brother Connor’s band, Less Than Zero at the legendary club The Mission.
The thought of home twists something inside me. We haven’t been back since the Felicity debacle.
Padraig stirs beside me. “We still in Ohio?”
“Indiana now, I think.”
He rubs a hand over his face, yawning. “Same shit either way. What are you up to?”
“Thinkin’.” I shrug.
“Dangerous.”
