“She’s nothing!” he screams. “You’ll regret this!”
I turn on him, rage curling hot in my throat. “No,you’llregret this. Because the man you just tried to punch is more decent and loyal and strong than you’ve ever been. And if you think you can shame him into doing your bidding, you’re wrong.”
He stares at me like I’ve slapped him. Then security hauls him away for real this time, dragging him toward a waiting car. His voice fades into the night, bitter and broken.
Max wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs, but his eyes are wild. “Yes, I did. I won’t let anyone treat you this way.”
With that, he pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my neck, like he’s trying to reassure himself I’m still here.
***
The road hums beneath us, steady and low, a sound I’ve grown used to. Like a lullaby wrapped in diesel and distance.
The rain has slowed to a whisper against the roof. Max’s heartbeat under my cheek has settled, too, but neither of us is even close to sleep. The bus rocks through another gentle curve and his fingertips trace slow circles at the nape of my neck—absent-minded, almost hypnotic.
He clears his throat, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Can I tell you something crazy?”
I tilt my face up. “After the month we’ve had, ‘crazy’ is sort of the baseline.”
A crooked smile. Then—nervous, nearly boyish—he says, “I want you to meet my mom.”
The words land like warm light in a dark room. “You … you do?”
“Yeah.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to see me better. “We always do a big ‘back-from-tour’ dinner at her place in Queens—nothing fancy. Just lots of pasta and way too many storiesabout me being a teenage idiot. Grandpa Sid will be there too—total menace.” He lets out a quiet laugh, then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I usually go alone. But this time—I want you to come with me.”
I bite my lower lip, suddenly shy. “What if she thinks I’m—”
“She’ll love you,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “She loves anyone who’s good for me.”
I laugh—half-nervous, half-giddy. “Okay, then. When?”
“Day after we roll into New York. Seven o’clock. She’ll make enough food to feed the entire band, so come hungry.”
I hesitate. “Will you tell me about your mom?”
He blinks, caught off guard. Then he smiles—soft, real. “She’s everything.”
I wait.
“She raised me on her own, obviously,” he says. “Worked two, sometimes three jobs when I was a kid. Piano teacher by day, waitressing at night. I used to fall asleep under the counter with a cookie in my pocket.”
I feel a tug at my heart. “She sounds amazing.”
“She is,” he says. “Didn’t matter how tired she was—she’d always ask about my day. She was the one who saved up to buy me my first guitar. Told me music didn’t have to be a hobby. Said if I loved it, I should chase it like it mattered.”
My throat tightens.
“That sounds… nice,” I say, voice quiet. He must hear something in my tone of voice, because he asks:
“What about your parents? How did you grow up?”
The question lands gently, but still I feel a small tug in my chest. I pull my legs in closer and glance down at Melody, who’s burrowed into a ball between us like a tiny guardian of secrets.
“Well,” I start, slow, “my childhood was… quiet.”
