There isn’t.
My phone buzzes again. It’s a message from our team PR coordinator.
Gerry: Need you downstairs in conference room B in 20. We’ll prep statement. Please do not post online or comment.
My stomach twists, and I shove the phone face down on the bed like it’s guilty.
Somewhere far away, Rafe is stepping onto a stage. Or stepping off one. Or sitting on a bus, still buzzing, still glowing, still moving through a life that is loud and full of people. And I’m here, alone in a hotel room, holding a future I didn’t ask for.
When my phone rings again, I nearly flinch off the bed. Rafe’s name fills the screen, and my pulse stutters. For a second, I just stare, frozen between dread and relief.
Then I answer. “Hey.”
“Baby,” he says, and my chest aches at the word.
His voice hits my ear like heat. Bright. Alive. There’s noise behind him—muffled voices, distant music, someone laughing. He sounds like he’s walking, like he can’t stay still.
“We just got offstage and—fuck, this crowd was insane. Like, stupid insane. You would’ve hated it because you’d have been making that face you make when you’re overwhelmed, but also you would’ve loved it because—” He laughs, breathless. “They knew the bridge to ‘Graveyard Halo.’ Like, every word. I swear I blacked out for a second.”
I swallow hard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He’s smiling. I can hear it in his voice. “And we met with this festival promoter after and—okay, don’t freak out—but there’s a chance we get slotted into this international run next summer. Like, bigger than we planned. Rach is losing her mind in a good way.”
“That’s… great,” I say, and my voice sounds wrong. Flat. Distant.
There’s a beat. Rafe’s tone shifts immediately, the buzz fading like someone turned a dial. “Where are you?”
I drag a hand over my face. “Hotel.”
“What hotel?” he presses, and now there’s caution in his voice. “What city?”
I close my eyes. “Still on the road. Same as last night.”
Rafe doesn’t buy it. He never has when I sound like this. “Ollie,” he says quietly. “Why do you sound like that?”
“Like what?” I try.
“Like you’re reading off a script,” he says. “Like you’re not… here.”
My fingers curl into the blanket. “I’m fine.”
A pause. Then, softer, “What’s wrong?”
Nothing.The same old lie rises to my lips because it’s muscle memory, because it’s easier than the truth, because I’m tired.But the truth is sitting in my gut like a weight, pressing up into my chest until it’s hard to breathe.
I can’t keep it in. Not while he’s talking about the future like it’s something we get to plan together.
My voice comes out rough. “I got traded.”
Silence. The kind where a person stops existing for a beat because their brain can’t process what they just heard.
“What?” Rafe finally says, very softly.
I swallow hard. My throat hurts. “I got traded.”
Another beat follows. Then his voice—still quiet, but different now, sharper and hurt under the calm. “To where?”
“Minnesota.”
