Miles: Of course. I’ve got everything we’ve got recorded. I’ll clean it, layer it, tighten the mess where you guys rushed the tempo. We can make it sound studio sharp.
Me: Fuck yes. Okay, I’ll pull together the setlist. Three songs. The best ones.
Drew: More like the only ones worth playing in public.
Me: Shut up and tune your guitar, smartass.
Miles: Give me until the weekend. I can mix on my end, then we’ll do a final listen together. We’ll make this work.
I lean back, pulse hammering. We may not be in the same zip code right now, not even close, but suddenly it feels like we’re all crammed into the college studio again, amps buzzing, sweat and stubborn belief filling the air.
Drew spams the chat with fire emojis. Miles throws in a GIF of somebody fainting. My stomach’s a riot, like every nerve ending decided to have its own mosh pit.
I stare at the phone for a long second before my fingers move again, almost on their own. Not to the group this time. To him.
Because even though I’ve been home less than two days, even though I should be soaking in my family, my brain’s been orbiting Ollie like it can’t break free. We’ve been texting nonstop—small stuff, dumb stuff, him sending me a picture of snow outside his parents’ house in Wisconsin with the captiontrade you for the sun, me sending back a shot of Rosa in a Santa hat holding a tamale like a trophy. It’s easy. It’s addictive.
But this? This feels bigger. And I want his voice in it.
My thumb hovers, the screen reflecting back my own restless face. Group text was instinct. But this call? That’s deliberate. That’s me choosing him, like I can’t not.
I press his name. The dial tone hums in my ear, my heart kicking faster than it ever does before a gig.
The line clicks, and then his voice is there, low and warm, a little distracted but still unmistakably him.
“Hey.”
God, it hits harder than I expect, like a chord vibrating straight through my ribs. He sounds tired, maybe, but glad.
“Hey yourself,” I say, leaning back on my bed, trying to sound casual when my pulse is anything but. “I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not really,” he says. There’s movement in the background, fabric brushing, the muted sound of voices echoing like he’s in a big house. “I was just getting ready. We’re headed to the governor’s Christmas party.”
I blink and sit up straighter. “Of course you are.” My laugh is sharp, because it’s either that or let the weight of how different our nights look crush me. I’m in sweats, smelling like masa, tamale dough still under my fingernails. He’s buttoning up a shirt in some chandeliered room, about to shake hands with politicians.
He must hear the edge in my laugh, because he huffs his own, softer. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. You’ve got tamales and your family. I’ve got an overpriced tux and an evening of speeches.”
“Yeah, but you’ve also got the governor.”
“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, then adds, “Lawrence’ll be there, though.”
“Who?” I try hard to fight the edge of jealousy creeping into my thoughts at the mention of a guy I’ve never heard of.
“Her son. He’s a couple of years younger than me. He helps keep me sane at these things. We sit in the corner and make faces during the speeches. He’s one of the few people who gets it.”
I picture it and feel better: Ollie in a pressed suit, face stoic for the cameras, then cracking a private grin with some kid who’s the only person he can let down his guard with in that world. It does something to me—softens and tightens at once.
“Still,” I say, quieter now, “whole different planet, man.”
“Maybe.” Then, like he can’t help himself: “What about you? What’s up?”
And here it is. I let the silence stretch a second, building it up the way I would before a chorus.
“My cousin’s boss’s brother,” I say, and he chuckles immediately.
“This already sounds sketchy.”
“Shut up. Listen.” My grin feels unstoppable. “The guy owns a bar in LA. The Lantern.”
