But it doesn’t.
It’s still there.
We’re still here.
Seven days after my ho-hum life shattered into stardust, I race inside Tag’s house, drenched in rain and caffeinated to the point of inevitable implosion. The guys and Kenna are huddled down in the basement, talking business.
I hear Crowley’s voice on speakerphone as he gives the rundown.
“—East Coast to start. It’ll be grueling. Long nights on the road, shows less than twenty-four hours apart. I know you all have jobs and families, but if you’re in, I’ll make the call.”
The now-cold vanilla latte trembles in my hand as I reach the bottom of the steps, my wet hair matted to my face. “Sorry I’m late,” I mouth as all five heads turn to look at me.
Chase glances at the phone. “Annalise is here. Give us a minute, and we’ll call you back.”
“Perfect. Congratulations.”
The call disconnects, and Chase stands from the couch. Tag follows as both men slowly approach me, their expressions unreadable.
And then two gigantic smiles beam to life.
“We got it,” Chase says.
My brother looks like he’s going to cry.
“A tour?” I breathe back.
A tour.
Me, on the road. With Chase. With Tag and Zach and Rock, and even Kenna. With the songs we wrote at 2:00 a.m. in my brother’s half-furnished basement, in his overheated garage, and out on the deck beneath the moon, when we didn’t even know if anyone would listen.
Tears rush to my eyes. “Oh my God.”
“We fuckin’ did it, sis.” Tag picks me up and spins me around, my coffee dribbling onto my hand and my legs kicking up behind me. “We did it. It’s happening.”
A sob breaks free, and I don’t know if the tears are for him or me.
My big brother.
This was always his dream. His Holy Grail. And now it’s coming to life in a Technicolor, fast-motion blur that doesn’t feel real. It’s like we blinked, and the universe finally blinked back.
Louder, brighter, and wholly on our side.
He sets me down, and I cup a hand around my mouth, trying not to hyperventilate. My eyes catch with Chase’s. His are twinkling, glowing, pieces of a storybook future glimmering in the golden flecks. “We need a van,” I murmur.
Kenna springs from the loveseat, clipboard in hand. “On it. Irving has one he’s willing to sell for the right price.”
I blink at her. “Really?”
I’m not sure what’s more impressive—how many exes she has with solid connections, or how many still like her enough to do her favors after she dumped them.
“It’s a sketchy 2006 Dodge Sprinter, but it’s long enough to sleep in, wide enough to haul gear, and ugly enough to never get stolen. He’s asking for four thousand so less than a grand between the five of you.” She pulls out her phone and shows us pictures of a mammoth vehicle with chipped, once-white paint and a rusted undercarriage. “What do you think?”
Zach leans in with an appreciative nod. “Looks like it’ll get the job done.”
“Leagues above my Civic,” Rock adds, whistling low. “Ugly as sin, but damn if it doesn’t look like freedom on wheels.”
Kenna flicks her thumbs across the keypad and shoots off a text. “Done deal.”
