Then she smiles back, beaming, glowing, and full of love.
Kenna whistles, glancing between us. “Jeez. Get a room.”
Annie’s eyes stay locked on mine. “We’ve had rooms in multiple countries. Some with ocean views.”
They snicker.
I’m pulled from the moment when Tag sidles up beside me, slapping me on the back. “You look better.”
Pivoting toward him, I shove my hands in my pockets. “I’m on some new meds for my migraines. Finally doing the trick.”
“Sweet. Love that for you.” He nods at his sister across the way, eyes going reflective. “Pretty sure you had Sis half convinced it was just jet lag. But I knew better.”
I frown a little. “Yeah?”
Tag shrugs, but it’s slower, less of his usual swagger. “I’ve worn that face. The one that says, ‘I’m fine, don’t look too close.’ You only pull it out when the ground’s falling out from under you.” He gives a small laugh. “Trust me, I had the deluxe version.”
I nod softly, the air heavier between us.
Then his grin reappears, just like that. He nudges me with his shoulder. “But hey, yours came with better hair and a prettier guitar. So, points to you.”
“Baby steps,” I murmur.
He claps me on the back again, this time hard enough to jolt my spine. “Well, try not to die onstage. I’ve got fifty bucks riding on you nailing that high note in ‘Monowi.’”
“Jesus.” I shake my head and breathe out a laugh. But before he spins away, I clear my throat. “Hey…how are you? Really?”
Tag glances at me, jaw ticking. His eyes flicker before he slaps on a smile. “Living the dream.”
“Yeah?” I study him, searching for the crack. The lie.
But a softness comes over him, loosening his shoulders as he exhales throughhis nose. His gaze drifts over to Kenna, just for a beat. For a fleeting second. “Yeah, man,” he says. “Yeah. I’m doing better. Think I’m finally good.”
We share a look, something steeped in history.
Resentment, regret, the kind of shit you only work through by bleeding on the same stage night after night. There was a time he wanted to knock my teeth in.
Now we’re rhythm and lead. Battle-scarred and still in tune.
He nods once, turning to go. But not without tossing a glance over his shoulder. “You screw up the bridge, I’m stealing your solo.”
I smirk. “You steal my solo, I’m cutting your reverb mid-set.”
He grins, flips me off, then disappears into the noise.
And somehow, that’s the closest we’ve ever come to sayingwe’regood.
Someone calls five minutes to stage.
I grab my guitar, sling the strap over my shoulder, and take one last look around.
My family. My girl. My second chance.
A small keychain swings from my belt loop. A wooden guitar, etched with a single word:Hallelujah.
The birthday gift Annie gave to me eight months ago.
I unclip it, let it rest in my palm. My thumb traces the worn edges, the flaking paint, the grooves carved by time and touch. It centers me. Anchors me.
