Nobody says a word. Drew drums his knuckles against the table, Eli scratches absently at the stubble on his chin, and I just stare at the empty coffee mug in my hands, like the stains at the bottom might tell me if we’re about to make it or crash and burn.
Miles doesn’t wait any longer. He clicks, types something, then clicks again. The whoosh of the email client fills the silence, small and unassuming for something that feels like it should’ve come with a drumroll.
“Done,” he says, leaning back and pushing his headphones off entirely. “That’s it. Out of our hands now.”
The tension breaks like a string snapping. Drew whoops and throws his juice-bowl concoction into the sink, splattering sticky orange across the counter. Eli mutters a curse and wipes his hoodie sleeve across the mess, which just makes it worse. Miles is already closing programs, shoulders slumping like someone just peeled fifty pounds off him.
Me? My chest is still tight, but it’s a different kind of tight. The demo’s gone, flying off to be judged by whoever the hell is on the other end, but I can’t stop thinking about tonight. About Ollie.
Drew flops onto the couch, grabbing his controller again. “We’re gonna hit different this year. New Year’s, new demo, maybe a crowd that actually sings back instead of just nursing beers in the corner. This is fucking it. I feel it. The Lantern’s going to give us a shot and open the world for us.”
“Yeah,” Eli says, dragging a chair around backward to straddle it. “If we don’t get kicked off the stage for being too loud.”
“Too loud is the point,” I remind him. “If they wanted background music, they’d hire a DJ.”
Miles smirks without looking up from his screen. “You say that now, but if the sound guy kills your mic mid-set, don’t come crying to me.”
Their bickering fades in my ears, replaced by the picture I can’t shake: Ollie at that party tonight, surrounded by teammates, captain’s mask firmly in place. The same mask I’ve seen slip multiple times now—once when his cheeks went crimson in the hallway, another when his lips pressed to mine in the dark. I tell myself I don’t care which Ollie shows up tonight, but that’s a lie. I want the real one. The one who texts me after midnight, careful words lit by his glowing screen.
“Rafe.” Drew’s voice yanks me back. He’s staring at me, eyebrow cocked. “You gonna brood all day, or you actually hyped about The Lantern?”
I toss a bottle cap at him. “I’m hyped. Just saving my energy.”
He snorts. “Sure. That’s what you’re saving.”
I ignore the jab, though my fingers twitch toward my phone in my pocket. I haven’t checked it since last night, but I can feel it waiting. Waiting for me.
The demo is gone. The Lantern’s coming—maybe. Hopefully. Possibly.
But tonight…
Tonight is Ollie.
CHAPTER
TEN
The house shakesbefore we even hit the front walk. Music thuds through the walls, basslines rattling the siding. The porch is lined with empty bottles, cigarette butts, and a couple of bodies slumped in plastic chairs, already gone before the countdown’s even started. Christmas lights hang loose and crooked from the gutters, blinking in sluggish reds and greens.
“This is someAnimal Houseshit,” Drew says, wide-eyed, as we climb out of Eli’s Civic.
Eli grins like he’s about to win a prize fight. “Best kind of shit.”
Miles sighs, dragging his hood up like it’s armor. “You people are going to get me killed.”
“Correction,” Drew says, slinging an arm around him. “We’re going to get you drunk, which is basically the same thing, only with better music.”
Inside, it’s chaos. The living room’s a crush of sweaty bodies, red cups raised, beer pong table monopolizing the dining room. The air reeks of cheap booze, sweat, and something fried. A keg’s wedged into the kitchen sink, surrounded by mismatched bottles, while the backyard glows from a firepit and half a dozen people yell shot counts.
“Split up,” Drew decides. “Better odds of survival.”
“Better odds of you losing your pants,” Miles mutters, already angling toward the quieter kitchen.
“I like those odds,” Drew fires back, disappearing into the crowd.
Eli beelines for the beer pong table, smacking cups out of strangers’ hands like he owns the place.
Which leaves me.
