“One of them threw her bra and it landed on my tuner pedal.”
“You didn’t even flinch.”
“I’m adaptable,” he says, mock defensive. “I was like a war hero. Middle of a solo, blitzed out of my mind, ducking under flying lace.”
We laugh, and it’s the first time in a while that my body doesn’t feel like a battlefield. No scans. No shadows eating at the corners of my sight.
Just music. Nostalgia.
“I didn’t think it would happen that fast,” I say quietly. “The sold-out venues, the fame, the fans. I thought we’d have years of opening for shitty cover bands before anyone cared.”
“Yeah, well, some people spend a lifetime chasing it. We caught lightning in a bottle overnight. That kind of thing makes you family whether you planned on it or not.”
“I’m glad it was you.” I clear the catch of emotion in my throat. “I’m glad it’s still you.”
Tag doesn’t shift toward me when he answers, still focused on the guitar. “I’m not going anywhere, man. You get sick, we show up. That’s just the rule now.”
My windpipe tightens, but we keep playing.
Me, blurry and scared.
Him, solid as ever.
I blink hard, fingers drifting across the strings. “Thanks for coming.”
Tag nods. “Of course.”
“I mean it. We’ve only known each other, what, two years? And half that time you hated me. You didn’t have to show up.”
He exhales through his nose. “Listen, we’ve slept in vans together, showered at roach-infested motels, played dive bars and pretended it was Madison Square Garden.” A pause. “You watched me almost die.”
“But you didn’t.”
His lips twitch. “I puked on your feet in Richmond.”
I groan. “You insisted that barbecue was safe.”
“My point is,” he says, levity lacing his tone as he finally twists to face me, “I don’t need a decade to give a damn. I don’t need a pretty beginning either. You’re my frontman. The love of my sister’s life. That means you’re one of mine. And I don’t let mine go through hell alone.”
My chest squeezes with sentiment. “Yeah,” I say, voice barely holding. “Goes both ways.”
“I know we’ve only done a couple laps around the sun together, but seriously. Bandmate, friend, future best man—whatever you need, I’ve got you. We all do.”
That hits harder than I expect.
The best man part.
I press my tongue against my cheek, nodding once, hard. “I don’t know what comes next,” I admit. “I’m scared shitless.”
“Good,” he says. “Means you’re still here.”
The silence that follows is full, heavy in a way that says everything else we’ve been too proud or too broken to admit.
Then come the footsteps.
Annie moves into the room slowly, not wanting to interrupt. Her hair’s pulled back in a high ponytail, and I track the trail of multicolored silk bobbing as she approaches.
She settles beside me without a word, her presence folding into the space like she never left my side. Her hand slides to the back of my neck, the gesture light and familiar, and I lean into it instinctively.
