The sky applauds me. The night smiles. My heartbeat ricochets.
I run fast, down the street, past honking cars and rain-glazed porch lights. My sneakers slap against wet pavement, socks soaked through in seconds. I run for miles, my breathing ragged, my tears mingling with rainfall. I run until I reach Tag’s house, nearly buckling in the grass.
Chase is there. Stepping out of his car with a guitar in hand.
He does a double take, watching as I hunch over, hands to my knees, my drenched hair smacking me in the face.
“Annie?”
I hear him call out to me moments before thunder strikes and lightning zips through the sky in white-hot veins.
Winded, I glance up, my lungs on fire, my heart beating a hundred miles a minute. “Chase.”
He lets go of the guitar case. Tosses it into the grass.
I race over to him, and we meet in the center of the lawn. No hesitation, no falter. I leap, winding my arms around his neck and burying my sobbing face against his shoulder.
“Jesus,” he whispers, his hug quieter, less sure. He holds me loosely, two soft palms splaying across my back. “What happened?”
A dizzying wave of laughter breaks through the tears. I inch back until we’re face-to-face. “Honey Moons.”
He stares at me, blinking. “What?”
“The band name,” I say, laughing again, practically singing. “Honey Moons.”
A twinkle lights his gaze. Brightens the hazel of his eyes to golden torches.
Everything clicks.
And just like that, he smiles. “You’re in?”
I nod frantically as another downpour escapes the sky. “I’m in. I’m so fucking in.”
His smile grows wings.
This time he reaches for me, scooping me into his arms, his face sinking to the arch of my neck, breath warm against my cold, wet skin.
I shiver. Close my eyes.
Just be.
“I’m done being scared.” I cling to him, holding on to him like a tether, a lifeline. His arms grip me tighter, keeping me together. It’s the final note I need to make the song complete. A coda. “No more half measures.”
Chapter 26Annalise
Crowley gets Honey Moons on the schedule for a show in mid-October.
It’s late-August now, the muggy heat creeping into the practice space and baking us all alive. Three oscillating fans are the only source of airflow, now that Tag has turned his two-car garage into our new studio. Rock’s drum kit was too massive to be crammed in the partial basement along with five musicians, amps, furniture, and a dozen bookcases stuffed with old vinyls.
Drenched in sweat, I plop down in front of one of the fans, sighing with contentment every time the draft swivels toward me. “We need AC,” I declare, pressing back on my hands as I sit cross-legged on the hand-me-down rug.
Tag tunes his guitar beside me on a stool. “Currently accepting donations.”
“How much can it be?”
“More than what I make detailing cars and playing coffee shops.” A note dings sharply out of key, making Tag wince. “Besides, it’ll be blizzarding before we know it.”
I close my eyes and imagine myself naked in an ice bath in the dead of winter.
