Effa doesn’t miss the flicker of sadness in Kiera’s expression. “I’ve got tickets with your name on them for Pittsburgh,” she offers.
Kiera blinks fast. “We can’t wait to see you. Right, Gran?”
Gran nods. “Absolutely.”
“I’m giving you squishy hugs,” Effa vows.
Kiera laughs. “I get a hug from the world’s coolest rock chick?Hoooly shit!”
“Language,” Gran mutters.
We all chuckle, and the rest of the call flows into teasing, booger-butt jokes, and Kiera ambushing me with an old picture of me in red heels.
Effa can’t breathe from laughing.
And honestly? I don’t even care. I’d wear those damn heels again if it means hearing my girl laugh like that.
Later, when the laughter fades, and the call is over, Effa looks at me, thoughtful. “You know… seeing you with Kiera and Gran, it was eye-opening.”
“How so?”
“You’re different with them. Softer, real, and I love who you are with them. I love who you are with me.”
I inhale slowly. “I care about the other girls in the band too.”
She nods. “I know. But this? This is deeper.”
And she’s right.
For Kiera, Gran, and now Effa—I’d doanything.
Walk through fire.
Take a bullet.
Die if I had to.
And that…
Thatscares the hell out of me.
Chapter Seventeen
EFFA
In my giraffe onesie, I’m lounging in the green room, aimlessly scrolling through my phone. After today’s chat with Kiera and Gran, I feel this pull, something soft and real. I decide it’s time to reach out and try to build something with Kiera.
It doesn’t take long to find her on Facebook, so I add her as a friend. While I wait for her to accept, I scroll through her public profile. There’s not much to see, mostly playlists and a few music posts. Turns out she’s a big music fan, including us, which makes me smile.
But what catches my attention is all the posts on her wall. A lot of them are shared from friends, including articles and links about medical remedies, herbal treatments, and nutritional supplements. At first, I wonder if maybe she’s into natural healing, or maybe even weed. That would make sense, right? Especially considering Mercs is so anti-pot. It might be some family trauma thing.
Still curious, I scroll to her photo gallery.
They’re mostly of her, Mercs, and Gran. The three of them together, happy in each other’s company. But the more I study the pictures, the more I notice something that makes my breath catch.
The beanies.
In every single image, Kiera’s wearing some kind of hat or beanie, and they’re pulled low. No hairline, no strands peeking out, just scalp.
