“I used to be Iggy the ballet dancer,” he said quietly. “Then Iwas Iggy the party animal. Then Iggy the addict.” His voice thinned. “Now I’m just... I don’t know who I am anymore.”
A cool breeze cut through the garden, and he shivered, tugging the cuffs of his hoodie down over his hands. I passed him the drawing and shook out the blanket, draping it over both our laps.
“I feel hollow,” he went on, eyes fixed on the paper. “Like I’m waiting for someone to tell me which version I’m supposed to be now.”
I shrugged. “I guess that’s the exciting part.”
He lifted his head, green eyes wide, searching my face.
“You get to be a version of yourself you haven’t even met yet.”
I didn’t say anything else. Just let the words sit there between us, fragile and exposed. I had no idea how he’d take it. He might snap again. Might tear into me with that razor-sharp mouth of his. Might stand up and storm off in a way that was aggressively, unmistakably Iggy.
Instead, he snorted.
Then his mouth tipped into a smirk.
“You’re still a prick, you know.”
I laughed, the sound leaving me in a soft rush. “I’ve been told.”
Iggy giggled, light and bright, the sound catching on the breeze like wind chimes and carrying the last of the tension away with it.
And in that moment, I knew—okay, hoped—that we’d be alright in the end.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
IGGY
The Amsterdam showcame and went, and before I’d even caught my breath, we were bundled onto the tour bus and rolling towards Berlin. Clara and I stayed with the band since it was only one night on the road, while Dylan and the rest of the crew followed separately once the gear was packed away. With seven of us squeezed into the bus, space was... theoretical at best. I felt a flicker of guilt for Clara, stuck in close quarters with six guys, but given how long she’d been doing this job, I figured she’d survived worse.
By the time we boarded, I was beyond exhausted. I face-planted into one of the lower bunks without checking who was above or opposite me and was asleep before my cheek fully met the pillow.
Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep for long.
The drive took just over seven hours, and I ended up tossing and turning until we pulled up outside the hotel we’d be calling home for the next five days.
The bunks were about as comfortable as I imagined tour bus beds ever got, but being folded into a space barely larger than a coffin had done my hip no favours. The stiffness I’d joked aboutwhen we arrived had sharpened into something persistent. I spent most of the first day in bed, alternating ice packs and heat pads like it was a full-time job. Even after soaking in the oversized tub and stretching across the suite floor, the ache refused to loosen its grip.
There was an easy solution. A painkiller would’ve had me back on my feet, wandering tourist hotspots by lunchtime. But painkillers were what had kicked off my downward spiral. The very thing that landed me in rehab.
Now, I even hesitated over paracetamol. Back home, Gloria would dispense whatever I needed like a pharmacist with a clipboard, or I’d grit my teeth and wait it out. Usually, the ice and heat were enough. After seven hours curled into myself on a bus, they barely made a dent.
I was pretty sure Clara would have something if I asked. But I worried she’d hand me the whole box. And I worried that asking her to give me only one would raise questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
So instead, I leaned on my brand-new sobriety pact with Bodhi.
Me:
I need help.
His reply came almost instantly, and the thought that I might’ve scared him made my chest tighten.
Bodhi:
What’s wrong?
