Clara slid into the seat beside me and immediately pulled out her phone. “Micah, Rafe, you’ve got an interview with Le Pulse Radio at two, and Theo, you’ve got a video call with the guys from Threadline at noon.”
Thump slapped his palm on the table, making the silverware jingle. “Fuck yeah, this sneaker collab is gonna be awesome.”
“Luca’s doing a podcast at one, and Bodhi?—”
“Morning, everyone.”
I turned back towards the terrace entrance and saw Iggy stepping into the sunlight. His blue and white tie-dye T-shirt was knotted above his pierced bellybutton, the iridescent jewel catching the light. He had a raggedy grey cardigan draped over his shoulders, well worn but soft and cosy. On his lower half, cotton grey shorts hung low on his hips. They were so tiny that a turn might give a full view of his ass cheeks. The floral tattoo on his thigh contrasted sharply with his pale skin, and unlike at the Willow, where he mostly lived in oversized hoodies, I could see the top of it ending just above his hip bone.
Iggy crossed the terrace, weaving through the other tables to join us. His movements were effortless, almost gliding. At the Willow, he’d mentioned that he used to do ballet, and with those long legs and that lean frame, I could easily picture him on a stage.
Thump let out a sharp exhale, eyes wide as Iggy neared the table. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I’d pay good money to have those legs wrapped around my head.”
Riff, who was studying the breakfast menu, smacked the back of Thump’s head. “Keep it in your pants, small fry.”
“That hurt, you dick!” Thump lunged to snatch the menu, but Riff jerked it out of reach. Determined, Thump leaned over the front of Riff’s chair, and the two of them devolved into a small wrestling match, shoving and scrambling in their seats.
“Children,” Mick muttered, eyes glued to his e-reader, blissfully ignoring the chaos. I couldn’t help but nod in agreement.
“Can you two at least try to act civilized in public?” Clara snapped. Riff and Thump immediately froze, heads dropping as they focused on their menus.
Iggy slid into the empty seat beside Riff, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips. His eyes met mine across the table, and I quickly averted my gaze, pretending to study my own menu. I wasn’t thinking about breakfast, though. No, my attention kept sneaking back to the man beside my best friend.
His hair, much brighter than when we’d been at the Willow, was tied into a messy bun at the back of his head, with some strands hanging loose around his face. Pale yet fresh-faced, he had no makeup on, but the lack of it revealed dark circles under his eyes. I wondered if sleep had been as elusive for him as it had been for me.
Drugs were great for keeping you awake, and just as tempting for helping you drift off, whether acquired legally or not. But addiction made restraint nearly impossible. One pill could easily spiral into another, then another, until you were right back where you started. And without a crutch to calm your mind at night, without a way to quiet the anxiety now permanently lodged in your brain, a solid night’s sleep often felt out of reach.
Iggy’s dark circles probably matched my own, so I should be grateful that we had a new makeup artist who could cover them up.
“Iggy, let me introduce you properly,” Clara said, gesturing around the table. “Next to you is Rafe?—”
“You can call me Riff. Lead guitarist. And yes, I shred.”
“Theo—”
“Thump. Drums. Obviously.”
“Micah—”
“Mick’s fine. Bass player.”
“Luca is still asleep?—”
“That’s why we call him Ghost,” Riff muttered, smirking. “He’s never where he should be.”
Clara sighed, pointing at me. “And finally, we have Bodhi.”
“Singer,” I muttered, keeping my eyes glued to the menu, lingering a little too long on the description forGalette Bretonnes.
“Don’t worry if you can’t remember them all,” Clara continued. “If you just shout, ‘Hey, you!’ someone will probably answer.” Iggy nodded, so Clara turned to the rest of us. “And Iggy here will be taking over for Sasha, so be nice, okay? Make sure you tell him exactly what you want when you’re in the chair. Or he’ll just guess, and you’ll have no right to complain if you go onstage looking like Alice Cooper.”
“That’s Luc’s usual anyway,” Riff retorted, and Thump snickered.
“Fuck you, asswipe,” Luc said, sliding into the final seat at the head of the table between Thump and Mick.
Thump leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands. “Aw, look, Sleeping Beauty finally woke from his slumber.”
“Leave me alone,” Luc grumbled.
