“Are you two dating?” the third girl wonders.
I palm Annie by the neck and give a loving squeeze. “Yeah, she’s my girl.”
They all swoon.
We pose for selfies, sign a few more autographs, and the girls take off, squealing under their breath as they dart back across the street. When I turn to Annie, she’s close to tears.
“You okay?” My fingers trace the bow of her back in a featherlight slide. “You’re the one who looks starstruck.”
“I’m…” She swallows. “I wasn’t expecting that. I mean, I’m used to signing autographs after the shows, but it’s usually you and the guys with the hardcore fans.”
“Nah. That’s in your head. They go wild over you.”
She peers up at me, all light and sunny skies. Then she snatches my hand, links our fingers, and hauls me toward a nearby diner boasting happy hour specials.
We stroll in and take a seat in a two-person booth. Annie scans the menu, her tongue poking between her lips. “I want everything.”
“So order everything.” I lean back with a half smile, drumming my fingers on the table.
“Right.” She snickers.
“I’m serious. I can afford it now.”
Her lashes flutter as she blinks down at the selections. “I’ll just get a burger and fries.”
I stare at her, wondering what she’s thinking. My mind races with glimpses of the future, a tangle of unknowns. Are we going to move in together when we settle back home? Buy a house? What’s the next step?
The ink on my guitar deal hadn’t even dried before they started calling it a “revolution.” A game-changer. Custom orders stacked up like firewood, and every day since has felt like stomping through puddles of gasoline, waiting for the blaze to overtake me.
I have close to seven figures in my bank account, and that should feel like winning.
But it’s terrifying.
I’ve never laid roots or built any real life for myself. It’s been day to day, no brakes, wondering if the ground beneath my feet would hold another second.
Now I have a girlfriend. The most precious piece of me. Life going forward is more than just me, my dog, and a far-off dream.
It’s here. It’s happening.
And I have no fucking clue what to do.
Annie pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. “Did you see that picture I tagged you in?”
I whiz back to the present. “What picture?”
“Instagram.”
I hardly do social media.
My follower count is just shy of a mil, and my inbox is flooded with unread messages. Kenna combs through every now and then, posting strategically timed band-related photos with emoji-ridden captions, just to keep my presence alive. To keep the fans hungry. According to her, aesthetic matters.
Shaking my head, I grab my phone and open the app. A smile lifts when I see the most recent picture glowing on her profile grid: the two of us sitting on a curb outside some no-name diner at midnight, a half-empty bag of fast food between us and a busted neon sign flickering overhead. Her head’s tipped backin laughter, eyeliner smudged, while I’m looking at her like she’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.
The caption reads:Conquered LA. Busted a lung. Signed so many autographs I forgot how to spell my name. And this is still the best part of my night.
My heart does something ridiculous. Skips like a scratched vinyl, then drops to a rhythm I feel in my throat. I find her eyes across the table. “I fucking love you.”
Those blue eyes gloss over with a swell of tears. She chews her lip, sets her phone down. “I love you too. So much.”
