Chosen.
Not a vessel. Avolcano.
Later, after a few hours of exploring, I’m sitting in Camille’s office wrapped in a soft robe. My hair’s still damp from the shower. My skin still tingles from sex.
She doesn’t open her notebook. “How are you, Avonna?”
“I feel like I knew what I wanted, and I was right. I know myself and am not afraid to go after what makes me happy.”
She nods.
“Then the work is complete.”
“You’re releasing me?”
“I never held you,” she says softly. “You needed a place to arrive.”
I take a deep breath.
“Go.” She takes my hand. “Remember, every encounter in the outside world, you’ll meet yourself again and again.”`
When I depart, my body is sore and radiant andmine.
twenty-four
Linus
Five Months Later
TheMerrionlobbyalwayssmells like old money and lilies.
I nod at Maeve on my way out. Her eyes barely flick away from the clipboard she never puts down.
She doesn’t ask where I’m going. Or why I haven’t worked a proper shift in weeks. Loyalty and dedication earn a bit of leeway, I guess.
It’s tough to drum up any enthusiasm for my day job these days. The arts grant came through and Isis Management has finally became more than a sketch in the margins of my event briefs.
A true entrepreneur would jump in with both feet. I will, I promisemyself.
I’m not ready. The truth is, keeping this job stops my parents from asking questions.
They think I’m doing well here. Crisp shirts. White tablecloths. A life filled with structure and respectability.
Neither one could imagine how I find true fulfillment in a low-ceilinged rehearsal space in Temple Bar where I’ve been coaching Sidewalk Riot, a trio of queer pop-punk buskers through their first showcase. Or the coffee-stained desk in my flat where I spend hours researching tour schedules and Indy labels who actually promote their artists.
I dodge my parents’ questions about my love life every week, afraid I’ll say too much. They would never accept the truth. How the only thing I think about every time I jerk off is Liam and me fucking our shared female partner every night. The perfect woman whom we love and loves us back.
Would they still send Christmas letters gushing about their perfect son if I told them the truth?
The answer’s no. So I stick with I’m too busy focusing on work to commit to anyone right now.
The pub’s already loud by the time I arrive. Gear cases are stacked in the corner, half a dozen pint glasses sweat into the old wood. All three members of Sidewalk Riot, none older than twenty, wave me over like I’m some kind of wizard who believes they’re magic and knows how to negotiate a lethal contract.
Shay “Fox” Keegan is the lead vocalist and plays rhythm guitar. Finn Gallagher’s on bass and backing vocals, Ruairí Hayes is the percussionist who uses all types of surfaces and a synthesizer for samples to fill in the sound.
As I get closer, I hear Finn strumming, trying out a new bridge. Immediately, I focus in. I fucking love when something clicks. When a new sound blooms out of nothing and starts to mean something. Sidewalk Riot, and soon other artists, is why I’m building Isis Management.
A company rooted in possibility. Not merely boys with guitars. Women. Nonbinary artists. Queer, immigrant, neurodiverse voices. Not a mirror of what the industry has always been, but a mosaic of what itcouldbecome. Maybe one day, I’ll be able to manage Fireball again, if they stay together.
