So, I hit them again. Harder this time. The vibration travels up my arms, into my shoulders, rattling loose something that’s been wedged tight inside my chest all day.
“Harder,” he urges.
I swing. The sound is messy. Off-beat. Chaotic but exactly what I need. “Don’t think. Just hit.” Mikey’s hands slide downmy forearms, guiding without restraining. “I’ve got you.” And I believe him.
I slam the sticks down again and again, the noise filling the empty bar, ricocheting off brick and wood and neon signs. It’s ugly. It’s uneven. It’s not music. It’s fury.
The boy’s face flashes in my mind. The chair crashing across my desk. The words he screamed at me. My arms come down harder.
“Yeah,” Mikey encourages me. “That’s it.”
My vision blurs. The next strike lands off-center and the stick slips slightly in my hand. My chest caves in around the edges. “I tried,” I choke out, barely audible over the ringing echo. “I really tried.”
Mikey doesn’t tell me to stop. He just presses his forehead lightly to the side of my head, still behind me, still steady. “I know you did.” And his voice is right there. Close. Certain. Like there was never a question.
The tears come again, but this time I don’t fold in on myself. I keep hitting. Sloppy. Desperate. Over and over until my arms burn and my breathing turns ragged. I slam the sticks down one final time and then they fall from my fingers, clattering against the drums before rolling to the floor.
Silence crashes down around us. I’m shaking. Not from the wine anymore. From release. Mikey’s hands move to my waist, firm and grounding. “You feel that?”
I shrug, swiping at my cheeks. “What?”
“That’s it leaving you,” he explains. “Not everything. But enough.”
I sag back into him fully this time. No hesitation. No second-guessing. My head tipping slightly toward his shoulder. And he lets me. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t make it something it’s not. He just, holds steady.
Joe whistles low from the bar. “Damn, Quinn. You ever think about joining the band?”
I let out a watery laugh. Mikey finally steps around to face me, crouching in front of me like he did earlier in the apartment. His hands land on my knees, steady. “You didn’t fail him,” he assures me, looking me in the eyes. “You showed up. That matters more than you think.”
My throat tightens again but softer this time. The way he says it, like it’s a fact, not comfort, undoes me in a completely different way.
He doesn’t rush me off the stage. He waits until I stand on my own, but stays close enough that I know, if I need him, he’s right there. “Come on,” he prods gently. “Let’s get you home.”
Chapter Fifteen
Mikey
Sun to Me
MGK
I wake up before her.For a minute I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, replaying last night. The way her hands shook on those sticks. The way she hit the drums like she was trying to knock something loose from her ribs. The way she leaned back into me when she was done. And the way I had to remind myself what happens when I don’t stop us.
I swallow. I could’ve taken her home and undressed her. She would’ve let me. I know that now. But that’s not what she needed. And if I’m going to be the guy she leans on, then I don’t get to blur lines just because it’s convenient.
I roll out of bed quietly. The apartment is still dark, the late September sunlight just starting to spill gold through the blinds. Chicago does fall right with the blue skies and the crisp air with that perfect edge of chill that makes you want to be outside. I shower fast, pull on jeans and a Henley, then slip out the door before she wakes up.
There’s a bakery two blocks over. I’ve walked past it a hundred times. Never gone in. Today I do. By the time I’m back, I’ve got coffee beans from the good place down the street, two blueberry muffins, one chocolate chip (just in case), and a small bouquet of cheap sunflowers I pretend I didn’t stand there debating over for three full minutes. It’s not a grand gesture, but it’s intentional. And probably means more than it should.
The coffee’s brewed and the muffins are on plates by the time I hear her bedroom door creak open. I don’t turn around right away. I give her a second.
“Morning,” I toss out casually, like last night didn’t involve her sobbing behind a drum kit in a dive bar.
She steps into the kitchen slowly. “You’re up.”
“Shocking, I know.”
She eyes the counter taking in the mugs, the muffins and the flowers. “For me?” There’s hesitation there. Like she’s surprised I would do this.
