“We’re going to make it, right?”
Her question steals a breath. Frowning, I slowly turn, glancing down at her as her eyes peer up at me, wide and glassy. “The band?”
She smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She doesn’t reply.
“Yeah.” I pull her closer, hold her harder. “Yeah, Annie. Of course we’re gonna make it.”
Swallowing, she returns her head to my shoulder and grips my palm, squeezing tight.
I rub two fingers over my temple, grinding against the pressure, willing it to back off.
Just one more show.
One more set until we’re home.
One more promise I pray I can keep.
Chapter 48Annalise
One Band, Five Passports, And Zero Plan (Because Kenna Broke Her Foot & We Are Lost Af): Europe, Please Be Gentle
Paris
It’s March. Paris is damp, chilly, and gray.
The venue is a converted cathedral, and the acoustics turn our opening chords into something that sounds like witchcraft.
Tag snaps a guitar string mid-song but keeps playing anyway.
When the crowd cheers, he grins through it, feeding on the noise.
Backstage, Chase is quieter than usual. He cracks open a Coke, sneaks a pill past his lips, and brushes a hand over his temple like it’s just a passing headache. When I catch his eye, he throws me a faint smile that doesn’t quite stick.
After the show, we ride scooters through the rain to a café that serves breakfast at midnight. I lean in, kiss powdered sugar off his mouth.
This time, his smile sticks.
And I let myself believe it.
***
London
We shoot a live interview with a music magazine.
The cameras roll. We’re mic’d up and swarmed with handlers.
We laugh, we joke, we play our parts.
When the lights cut, Chase pulls me out a side door, into a hallway lined with unused amps and coiled cords.
He tickles me until I can’t breathe.
I leap into his arms, wrap my legs around his waist as he pins me to the wall, and we disappear into the soundproof shadows of the industry that made us.
Back in the green room, I fix my hair, still glowing.
