Page 216 of Just Wait

Liminal plays more old-school Southern rock and metalcore. There’s no telling how the audience will react. I’m not even sure if they’re supposed to be testing my song, considering the label hasn’t signed it. They’re going to end out the show with Malcolm’s song for his dad, “When The Time Comes.”

I have no doubt the fans will love that one; it still takes my breath away when I hear the first few notes. It’s one of those creations that hits on another level, but my song is more playful.

Wren reaches down, interlocking our fingers. “It’s going to be great.”

I smile and squeeze her hand. It feels a lot like a lifeline as Malcolm starts singing.

In nearly every single song Andrew wrote, Kincaid is the star—which makes sense.

He’s the lead singer.

At the same time, Mal is an untapped asset.

Kincaid comes in on the next verse, and Mal and Parish join the beat, which has only been Ten and Riser up to this point.

Riser starts measured and controlled in the slams of his sticks, but he really gets to show off his skills as the song picks up.

Malcolm leans back, strumming away as Kincaid sings. All the muscles on his stomach and side move and flex as he plays.

Kincaid is always a treat to watch. He knows just how to serenade the women in the audience while playing the hell out of his guitar.

It’s such a surreal experience. I knew Tangled Desires before they were famous, and it was a shock seeing them perform songs that I wrote, but watching Liminal play one of my creations on stage is an almost otherworldly experience.

The fans lose it as the song comes to an end, and my damn knees get weak. Based on the sounds from the audience, I’m going to guess they liked it.

“All right,” Kincaid purrs into his microphone. “We have one more brand-new one for you. This one is extra special because Mal co-wrote it.”

The screams get so intense that I’m relieved I’m not down in the audience. I’d say I’m ninety-five percent the same as I was before I presented.

I still love adventure, and I don’t shy away from a party, but I get overwhelmed by scents when too many people are close to me. Loud noises also throw me off a lot more than they did before my designation came in.

“This one is close to my heart,” Malcolm says, his heavy breathing echoing into his mic. “Not just because I wrote it for my dad—I love you, dad!” The fans scream and whistle, and he pauses to ride it out. “It’s near and dear to me because, while we were working on it, I realized I was falling in love with someone special.” He turns toward the side of the stage. “Love you, baby doll.”

My damn heart tries to pound out of my chest. I lean my arm against Wren’s, holding on to her hand for dear life.

The low, eerie intro of “When The Time Comes” starts, and I watch in rapt fascination.

I’m still not sure how this is my life.

I’m still riding high from the guys’ show as Wren and I wait around in the greenroom for the guys to finish showering.

I’ve had something weighing on my mind, and I think I’m finally ready to address it.

I excuse myself to stand in the corner.

I don’t want to pressure my dad too much. There’s a good chance I got my spitefulness from him. Any time someone tells me to do something, I automatically tend to do the opposite. It’s a character flaw, and I know that, but it’s how I’ve always been.

My goal is to open the door to let him know that if he’s willing to go to rehab, the guys will pay for it.

The phone rings, and my hands shake as I remind myself that this isn’t a one-and-done conversation. If he says no and changes his mind down the line, we can always help him find a rehab then.

“Jesus, kid, it’s almost midnight,” my dad says, answering the call. Music and laughter fills the background, and I already know he’s not at home. “Are you okay?”

“Hey, Dad,” I say awkwardly. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“Ahh, you’re not bothering me. How’s life?” he asks.

Some people are angry drunks. Not my dad. I forgot how cheery he is when he’s wasted. He’s much surlier in those morning hours when he’s trying to pretend like he can make it to the afternoon without a drink.