“So, uh, do you always sit alone like this, brooding in silence, or is today a special occasion?”
Again, I didn’t respond, and my eyes followed a bird hopping along the garden path. When a hand appeared in front of my eyes, blocking my view, I tightened my jaw enough to grind my molars together. Iggy waved it up and down, exasperated, but in a theatrical way that suggested he was having fun with it rather than being genuinely frustrated.
“Okay, fine. I’ll just talk to myself, then. No biggie.” He lowered his hand into his lap, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed a burst of large pink flowers tattooed on his right thigh, trailing upwards until they disappeared beneath the hem of his sweater. “What’s your deal? Did you come here to sulk, or are you naturally this charming?”
I should’ve stood up. Should’ve walked away from this disturbance and found somewhere else to sit. But something kept me rooted to the spot, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he might follow me—which seemed likely—or because I was here first and felt I should get to stay on principle.
Iggy turned towards me and made a face like he was considering my life story. “Nah, I can tell. You’re one of those ‘quiet storm’ types. Dangerous, broody, mysterious.” He waved his glittery vape towards me like a magic wand. “Probably write tortured poetry in a notebook that no one else is allowed to touch.”
I frowned and exhaled sharply through my nose. They were lyrics, not poetry. And I was not that easy to fucking read.
“Or maybe you’re just tired.” He paused and brought the vape to his lips again. “Honestly, same difference.”
I didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. But Iggy didn’t seem tomind. Instead, he settled in beside me as though getting more comfortable. Like the silence didn’t scare him.
“You’ll talk eventually.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately snapped my mouth shut. Speaking at all was a complete contradiction to what I’d just said, and I wanted to regret it. But when Iggy smiled, bright and beaming, a small, distant voice at the back of my mind whispered that maybe it had been worth it.
CHAPTER
ONE
BODHI
THREE MONTHS LATER
Life didn’t stop just because I was in rehab. Now that I was free, I’d been dumped right back into the wild lifestyle that came with being a musician. The only difference this time? I was sober.
Stepping through the gates of the Willow to see Clara and my best friend, Riff, waiting for me, I was fucking terrified. I’d spent three months surrounded by the brick walls of rehab, cushioned by the safety net of counsellors and no contact with the outside world beyond a single phone call each week. It left me feeling almost... safe. Safe from temptations, safe from triggers—something I’d learned to identify in my one-on-one therapy sessions with Dr Williams.
I’d stayed silent for three whole days when I first arrived, determined to get through each day until I could leave and kick off the band’s European tour. I was convinced I didn’t need to be in rehab, that I was only putting up with it because the label told me to. But then something just... changed. Suddenly, I wanted to do better. Tobebetter than the piece-of-shit version of me thathad walked through the Willow’s doors on the first day. To be a better bandmate, a better son, and hell, maybe even a better example. Someone our fans could actually look up to.
And it was all because of . . .
“You good, man?”
I blinked, unsure of how long I’d been staring at the same spot on the wall. The lumpy couch I sat on shifted as Mick, a.k.a. Micah, our bass player, lowered himself onto the cushion beside me.
The rest of the band were in the green room with us, preparing for tonight’s show in their own way. Riff, the lead guitarist, sat on an armchair in the corner, strumming at the acoustic guitar he always carried around with him backstage. Ghost, the keyboardist, was in the kitchenette checking his eyeliner in the light-up mirror Clara had lent him. And Thump, the drummer, was... not even in the room. Probably fucking a roadie in the bathroom.
Mick was usually glued to his e-reader, sucked into whatever fantasy series he was reading, but he’d broken his routine to interact with me. Because my usual methods of preparation—shots of vodka and a few lines of coke—were off the table now. Forbidden by myself, Clara, and the label. The band was aware I’d been in rehab. We were as close as brothers, so I’d told Clara not to keep it from them. As my oldest friend, Riff had been the one to join Clara in handing me over to my appointed security team at LAX. Hell, he’d even put up with me calling him at all hours of the day and night, crying because all I wanted was another line.
Yeah, looking back, I’m not sure how I didn’t realise I was an addict. But according to Dr Williams, I had “a remarkable talent for self-delusion.”
Also known as denial.
“Yeah,” I replied. “All good.”
I turned to face Mick, noting the calm smile on his face. Not the kind of smile that said he was about to handle me with kid gloves, though. Nah, Mick was just chill like that, and his easy-going vibe had a way of mellowing out everyone around him. In the twelve years we’d known each other, I’d only seen him truly pissed off once, about four years ago, when some drunk idiot at an afterparty decided to play grab-ass with Clara. It was terrifying, honestly. But once the guy finally apologised, practically pissing himself, Mick’s anger melted faster than a chocolate teapot, and he’d spent the rest of the night schooling him on the power of the #MeToo movement.
Needing something to do with my hands, I ran one through my hair, grimacing when I remembered the product I’d put in it earlier. Mick huffed a laugh when he realised what I’d done, and turned to call out to Ghost.
“Yo, Luc, throw us a wipe.”
Ghost, also known as Luca, stepped away from the mirror and grabbed the pack of makeup wipes, throwing it towards Mick. Except, he’d overestimated the distance, and the small package flew over Mick’s head and straight into the side of mine, where it hit its mark with a slap.
