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Chapter One
June /// Cal
Eighty thousand people are screaming my name right now, and I can barely focus on the lyrics.
This is my dream.
My fucking dream.
And I want to run away.
Twenty minutes ago, I checked my phone in the wings. I’ve been somewhere else ever since.
I reach the end of the line, and nothing comes after it.
The band carries the song for a bar without me. Luca looks over, grinning, assuming I’m messing with the arrangement like I sometimes do. Then he sees my face, and the grin disappears.
None of this fucking matters right now.
I pull the guitar strap over my head and walk offstage. Someone is shouting through my in-ears—Cal? Cal, what are you—so I rip them out.
The full force of the crowd hits me, raw and enormous.
Right. Bad idea.
Behind me, the band falters one instrument at a time, drums last, until eighty thousand voices collapse into one confused, unhappy roar.
I keep walking into the dark at the back of the stage. I don’t look back.
The boys will be furious and then they’ll be fine. I’ll explain what I can and they’ll understand.
* * *
Eight days after I walked off, I book the corner booth at The Vault on Sunset and text the group chat for the first time since Cascade.
Cal
booth at Vault tonight. I’ll be there at 11. drinks on me
Delivered.
I check again just before leaving for the club. Still fucking delivered, not read.
I tell myself that means nothing. They’re coming. Of course they’re coming. We’ve had worse fights than this.
I get to The Vault at eleven, and the hostess walks me past the line. I keep my eyes forward, because the men are glaring and the women are looking at me like dessert, and tonight, I don’t have the energy for either.
A bottle of champagne that I’d pre-ordered is waiting in the middle of the booth. Expensive as fuck, but begging forgiveness with cheap alcohol feels insulting.
The DJ’s running a good set like always in here. I sit down at a table set for my whole band and start waiting.
Eleven fifteen. I check my phone.
Eleven thirty. I check my phone and then put it face down.
Eleven forty-five, a waitress asks if I want to start without my friends, and I say they’re stuck in traffic. She bites her lip and nods. I don’t care if she believes me right now.
By midnight, I’ve raked my fingers through my hair about a hundred times. Eli, I can understand—he’s never been the biggest party guy. But Harrison and Luca usually attended the opening of an envelope if there was a decent DJ and free alcohol.
