He shoves a bite of potatoes into his mouth, chewing the bite slowly, buying time for a response.
I finish my wine and the waiter behind me is quick to refill the glass. “I didn’t mean to step into something uncomfortable. You don’t have to talk about them if you don’t want to.”
Not to sound like a stalker, but I read about Scarlet Failure online and tried to learn more about each band member years ago when I first discovered them. Clicking on their names brought up pages about their personal lives—a few paragraphs about their families, where they grew up, and where they went to school. I learned that Charlotte and Ben founded the band when they were eighteen, and that Lars married his high school sweetheart, someone completely outside the music industry. But when I clicked on Sully’s name, it was mostly blank. All it said was when and where he was born—and that after their first album, he became the one who writes most of their songs.
His personal life is a mystery. Maybe it made him a bit more interesting. A spark of the unknown hides behind his blue eyes.
He gulps his wine and waves his hand, slicing into the tension building between us. A pained expression crosses his face. “It’s okay. I knew you’d ask sooner or later.” He straightens his plate and places his black cloth napkin onto his lap. “Mein vaterleft us when I was five. Started a newfamilieand then died in a car accident about four years later.”
My heart cracks, seeing a small Sully with wildly curling hair drowning in his tears. His beautiful smile with deep dimples wiped away for what probably felt like forever.
His attention remains on his mashed potatoes, his fork stabbing at them. “Meine mutterdid her best to take care of mybruderand me. She had to jump from job to job and never had time to date. I think it’s partly because she didn’t want to give her heart away again.”
I run my fingers through my napkin as my chest tightens, a vise grip twisting until my breath hitches.
“Betrayal is one of the hardest things to recover from,” I say, voice hollow.
“Agreed. After graduating fromvoortgezet onderwijs…” He looked at me for the words. “What do you call it here?”
My thoughts whirl, trying to understand his words. “High school?” I guess.
He nods. “Yeah, that. I used to play my songs at local pubs. One night, this guy told me about a band looking for a bassist. I found their flyer tacked up in a coffee shop and decided to try out. Charlotte and Ben had already started Scarlet Failure. They took a chance on me.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I can hear the weight behind the words.
“I worried about losing control of my songs,” he admits. “At first, I didn’t know if they’d want to rewrite everything or turn it intosomething fake. But after the first album, they trusted me. Now I write most of what we put out.”
Sully goes quiet, eating his dinner, and I respect the silence.
I never thought about it before, but maybe that's why his music always hit me so hard. It wasn’t just sound or words—it was him bleeding through the speakers, raw and real.
Their first album still lives in my bones. Rage pulsing through every track, heartbreak stitched between every line. Songs that didn’t just ask you to feel—they demanded it. I practically wore out my headphones after my last breakup, clinging to those lyrics like a life raft, letting them scream for me when I couldn’t find the words.
And still, even after all that, Sully once said in an interview that his favorite album was their second record—the one where the anger hadn’t fully faded but hope had started slipping in through the cracks.
Maybe, deep down, he’s always been someone searching for the light too.
33
Whenwefinish,Sullytakes my hand and guides me on a private tour of the aquarium.
“This place is ours,” he whispers, kissing my temple.
“This is the best date I’ve ever been on.” I twirl around him and kiss his lips.
He brushes his thumb along my jawbone. “I’m pleased my romance game beats your previous experiences with your exes.”
“They could never compare,” I say, looking up through my lashes.
“Any of them take you to the Hollywood sign? I sense that’s a big make-out place in this town.”
I drift away from him and place my hand against the glass of the jellyfish tank, watching them float. “Maybe in the movies but in real life it’s fenced off with a security alarm that calls the cops if you go anywhere near it. Kinda kills the romance.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Damn. That’s worse than learning it doesn’t light up at night.”
“Yup. All the houses on the hill ruined that.”
“The ugly underbelly of LA revealed.”
