There’s a pause, like he’s searching his memory. Then he says, “I’ve heard of it.”
“Everybody has. That place is a launchpad. Rusted Fuse, Violet Static, Reckless Youth—half the bands you see on posters started there. They’ve got an open mic that’s basically an audition if the right person’s in the room.”
“Rafe.” His voice sharpens with interest.
“Yeah. Exactly.” I rub the back of my neck, trying to bleed off energy. “He wants a demo before New Year’s. If he likes it, we’re in. We could have a slot.”
For a second, all I hear is his breath on the line, steady but heavier, like he’s actually letting himself imagine it with me.
“That’s… huge,” he says finally. “Bigger than huge.”
“Yeah.” My throat’s tight, because I want him to get it, to really feel what this means. “I don’t know if we’re ready, but we’re gonna try. We’ve got a week to put something together.”
“I don’t doubt you will.” And there’s something in the way he says it—simple, solid, like he’s already certain of me—that damn near undoes me.
The silence between us stretches, warm and weighted. But in this moment, it feels like the line between us is a lifeline, not a divide.
“Rafe?” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you called.”
My chest aches, sharp and sweet. “Me too, Captain. Me too.”
I hear him breathe out, almost like he’s smiling, though I can’t see it. I drum my fingers against the bedspread, restless as hell, because part of me wants to keep him here all night. Just his voice in my ear, no cameras, no governor, no basketball pressure. Just Ollie.
“So,” I say, trying to keep it light, “what’s the tux situation? Classic black? Or are you pulling off some James Bond navy velvet shit?”
He laughs—really laughs, low and unguarded. The kind that doesn’t sound like anyone else but him. “Classic black. No velvet. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Damn shame,” I tease. “I could’ve written a whole song about velvet Ollie.”
He groans, but it’s full of warmth. “Please don’t.”
“Too late. Lyrics are already happening.” I grin into the phone, because his laugh does things to me I can’t explain.
We drift quieter after that, but not in a bad way. It’s easy, like letting a record play on the last groove. He asks about Rosa, if she’s still bossing me around. I tell him she’s upgraded from bossing me around to stealing my clothes. He admits Lindy does the same, though she texts him first so he knows what’s missing.
“I miss her,” he says, softer now. “Though if I’d managed to get an invite to Aspen over the holidays and not come home, I would have taken it too.”
The admission sits heavy. It’s rare for him to crack open even a little, and I feel it like a gift. “Bet she misses you too,” I say, even as my gut twists for him that being home is the last place he wants to be.
There’s a pause, like maybe he’s thinking of saying something more, but before he can, a voice cuts sharp in the background. A woman, firm but not unkind, says, “Oliver! The car is waiting—come on. We’re leaving in five.”
My gut twists. He’s heading to a world of crystal flutes and cameras and last names that open doors.
He sighs, quick and quiet. “That’s my cue.”
“Duty calls.” I keep my voice easy, even though the taste in my mouth is bitter.
“Yeah.” A beat follows. Then, softer, like he doesn’t mean for me to hear it but wants me to anyway, he murmurs, “Thanks for calling.”
Something clenches in me, sharp and warm all at once. “Anytime,” I tell him.
There’s a shuffle, muffled voices around him, then his hurried goodbye before the line clicks dead.
The call clicks off, and I just sit there, phone loose in my hand, staring at nothing. The house hums around me—Papá laughing at something on the TV in the living room, Mamá humming low as she folds laundry, Rosa’s music drifting through the wall from her room. It’s warm, it’s home, and it’s everything I love.
