“No welcome confetti or live orchestra? No charcuterie board? So disappointing.”
Kenna.
My eyes pop. Using my fingers as a comb, I fix my hair then straighten my dress, doing an awkward dance-hop into fresh underwear. The moment Chase has his jeans hooked around his hips, I grab him by the hand and charge out of the bedroom and into the living room.
Tears. Immediate tears.
“Oh my God?” I cup a hand around my mouth, lost for words. “You actually came?”
My brother and my best friend stand beside the coffee table with smiles ontheir faces.
“Surprise,” Kenna says, her arms full of houseplants.
Before I can get another word in, the door bursts open again.
Rock and Zach saunter through the threshold, Rock carrying a small amp and Zach with his bass guitar slung over his shoulder.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m Kevin McAllister inHome Alone, watching his family arrive home on Christmas morning.
Except this is louder.
Messier. Realer.
Kenna starts crying, which of course sets me off again, and then she’s shoving a potted plant into my arms like it’s a newborn and she’s the proud aunt.
“I told you I’ll always be here. You can’t get rid of me,” she says, brushing a tear off my cheek and squeezing my wrist with her free hand. “I meant it.”
Tag steps forward next, pulling me into a hug so tight my ribs protest. “God, sis, you look like a person again,” he mutters into my hair. “Was worried you’d gone full swamp witch out here.”
“I was moments away from braiding bones into my hair,” I say into his shoulder, laughing through the tears, my lingering resentment falling by the wayside.
Rock and Zach stroll over like they never left our orbit, like it hasn’t been eight months since our band dismembered and we scattered across the country, licking our wounds in silence.
Zach sets his bass down by the window and gives me a quiet, knowing smile. Rock cracks a joke about how he half expected to find us building bunkers and stockpiling canned beans, convinced Chase had gone full-off-grid prophet.
Then my brother slowly walks up to Chase.
He says nothing. Just stares him down.
Chase stiffens, shoulders squared, sensing his presence.
Tag eyes him for another second, then drops his guitar with athudand grabs him in a fierce hug. “I should punch you,” he says into Chase’s shoulder. “But I’d probably break my hand, and we’ve got shit to play.”
Chase exhales a breath, and it sounds like something inside him finally lets go. “Shit,” he says hoarsely. He pinches the bridge of his nose, tamping downthe rush of emotion. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
“That’s the point of surprises.” With a clap on the back, Tag pulls away and flops down on the couch. “You vanish for eight months, Annalise sends me a text that nearly gave me a stroke, and next thing I know we’re in a rental van with a busted aux cord and Kenna screaming at Siri somewhere outside Scranton.”
Kenna lifts a hand. “She told me to turn left into alake, Tag.”
“Still better than when you rerouted us through an Amish parade.”
Zach mutters, “They waved, at least.”
“I stand by my route.” She sniffs, then pivots to face me. “The journey was low-key traumatic if I’m being honest, thanks to your insufferable brother narrating the entire trip like we were on a true crime podcast.”
Tag scoffs. “Sorry for trying to bring context to our emotional road trip. I think the listeners appreciated it.”
Zach nods solemnly. “Season one was stronger. The pacing dipped around Harrisburg.”
