“It’s not, but I appreciate you saying it.” She grins, herself again, and reaches for the door.
“You seem lighter lately,” she says, halfway out. “I don’t know what it is and I’m not going to pry. But whatever it is—hold onto it. One of us should get to be happy without it ending up in a paper.”
She climbs out, oblivious to how close she just came, and shuts the door.
I sit in the van a while, feeling warm and unfamiliar in my chest.
Me: Sandy just apologised to me. I think I’m in shock.
Lena: Good. You’re owed about ten more of those.
I drive home in the dark with the heater ticking and my phone lighting up on the seat where Sandy sat, and for once the thing I’m carrying feels a little lighter.
CHAPTER 7
THE REUNION
It's 2 PM on a Friday and I'm standing in my bedroom unable to move. My flight is in a few hours.
I change my outfit four times.
First attempt: black jeans, grey turtleneck, the blazer from a hundred work meetings. I look in the mirror and see someone who could go to a Belladonnas concert as an office assistant.
I change at once. The crop top is too revealing. The jeans are too tight. MaybeI’m tryingtoo hard.
Third attempt is better: cropped jumper, dark jeans, boots that add an inch and a half to my height. I stand in the bathroom mirror and think about what Rhonda will see.
I change one more time. Same outfit, different earrings. Small silver hoops instead of the longer dangles.
I land Friday night and Jani hugs me at her, then makes me eat instant noodles at midnight and talks about the tour until I fall asleep on her actual couch.
Saturday she takes me to a diner two streets over—laminated menus, a waitress who calls everyone hon—and we do the thing we only manage a few times a year: be sisters in the same room.
“You’re staying here tonight, right?” she says, stealing one of my fries. “I’ve already inflated the airbed.”
“If that’s okay.”
“Obviously it’s okay.” She narrows her eyes. “What are you doing tonight, though? You’ve had a look since you landed.”
“Oh nothing much, I’m meeting a friend. So there’s a show tonight and we’re going.”
“A show.” She waits and raises her brow. I don’t fill the silence. “A mysterious show and a mysterious friend. Fine. Keep your secrets.” She points a fry at me. “But text me so I know you’re alive. And don’t wait up—I’ve got studio till late.”
The venue is a converted warehouse with exposed beams and a sound system pushed to its limits. I arrive early enough to get a spot near the side of the stage—the semi-private pocket where you can watch without being watched.
The room fills. Hundreds of bodies. The energy shifts. People recognizing friends. Buying drinks. The kind of anticipation that happens when people know they're about to see something good.
The Belladonnas take the stage.
They open with "Missing you" and the bass line drops and the world rearranges itself.
Rhonda. Ten feet away. Bass slung low, stance wide, hair pulled back so her face is fully visible. Just her and the bass. The tattoo sleeve catches the stage wash—music notes and flowers intertwining.
The low end rumbles through the floor and into my feet and up through my legs and into the place where my ribs meet my spine.
Months of her voice in my ear and a name on my screen. And now she's ten feet away. She plays the bridge, the one she changed because of my critique. She looks up looks straight at me and smiles. My chest is tight.
I want to take a photo but my hands are shaking and I don't want to be the person hiding behind a screen, and I can't post about this anyway—Ravita would know that I lied about the family thing, Marnie would ask questions, and this feels too much like something that isn't meant for public consumption yet.
