Confused, I swing the door open.
“Hi.”
“Delivery for Miss Vale,” one says, holding out a tablet. I sign. My hand shakes.
They nod and shove the dolly back toward the truck, doors slamming. The truck growls off, leaving the boxes in a quiet, awkward heap on my porch.
I step outside, chest tight, but I don’t touch a thing. The boxes sit in the afternoon light, heavy and full of expectation I’m not ready for.
I stare. My gaze zeroes in on the old guitar case. Something clamps down inside me. It’s the one I destroyed on stage during my last meltdown — the one that almost got me cancelled by online media and every fan who thought they had ownership of me. The leather is scuffed, the stickers worn, the stories I lived pressed into every scratch.
My fingers itch to grab the guitar case, to hold it, to undo everything it represents, but I don’t. Not yet. I can’t.
The memory of smashing it flashes — anger, shame, loss, the roar of the crowd, Jett’s relentless voice in my head, the click of cameras, the hashtags and tweets that followed me like knives.
I glance around. And still… a flicker of dread snakes up my spine. Feels like eyes on me. Watching. But it’s just the wind, the trees, the animals. For now.
I press my hands to my thighs to steady them, trying not to give anything away to the open air.
I step back, leaving the boxes exactly where they are. Don’t touch. Don’t open. Not yet.
Inside, my phone buzzes. I grab it, heart still racing. A message from Banks:
Thought you might need some stuff. Had your guitar fixed, looking like new. Hope you find some inspiration up there…Jett Langford’s been going apeshit about your disappearance. Don’t worry. I haven’t told him where you are.
I exhale. Relief mixed with a faint spike of panic. Jett. The millions of messages, the calls, the pressure — all of it still drags at the edges of my mind. I need space. I need silence. So I blocked his number and everyone associated to him and Rebel June.
Distance is what I need. From Jett, from the madness, from the pressure — but I don’t know how. The tie is invisible, threaded through contracts, loyalty, history, and expectation.
I close my eyes.
For now, I breathe. I inhale and taste the warm summer air. I need this break. I need space. Silence. The girl in the mirror, my music, the chaos—all temporarily held at bay. I exhale.
I hear it before I see it, a faint motor, low and steady, rolling closer. My pulse ticks a little faster. I stand and move toward the front door, pressing a hand against the frame, peeking out.
Yellow and black. A school bus. It pulls up and stops in front of the house next door. The door swings open, and a young girl hops down, landing lightly on the pavement. She waves vaguely toward the garage, then leans closer to the house.
And there he is.
A man, tall, contained, moving with quiet purpose in what looks like a garage-turned-office. Papers stacked neatly, tools laid out, laptops open, screens glowing — a workspace that somehow feels like an extension of him. He doesn’t notice me yet.
I study him for a moment, recalling last night. Not rude, not welcoming either. Reserved. Protective of his silence. A man who clearly doesn’t want an intruder in his world, and I get it. I respect it, even if it annoys me a little.
He bends over something on the workbench, precise, deliberate. Focused. Calm. Predictable. Safe.
All the things I’m not.
And yet… he’s there. In the daylight, real, anchored in a way that makes me feel off-balance.
I look away quickly when the girl skips toward my porch, backpack bouncing. I keep watching the boxes, but my gaze keeps flicking back, drawn to him. My stomach tightens in that strange, unhelpful way it does when I notice someone like him.
The girl hops onto my porch, eyes darting between me and the boxes. She’s small, a little awkward, but her energy is bright and unapologetic. She peers at the boxes and then finally at the guitar case, as if sensing its importance without needing me to explain.
“Hi,” she blurts, tilting her head. “Is this… your guitar? And — your hair! Why is it brown? You used to have pink, didn’t you?”
Her questions tumble out like a stream she can’t stop. She’s sweet, awkward, and unpolished. She fidgets, tucks a loose strand of hair from her braids behind her ears, and bounces on her heels. My chest softens against my better judgment.
“I’m Lucky,” I say finally, tilting my head back to meet her gaze.
