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One by one, we enter onto the stage. The crowd can’t see us, just our silhouettes, and for all they know, we’re the stage crew. There’s a screen between us and the crowd.
I grip the neck of my guitar, nod to Ajay behind the kit, and take my place at center stage. The first note pulses through my fingers, vibrating into my bones like second nature. It should feel good—it always has—but tonight, it’s hollow.
The screen lifts, and the lights come on.
The fans scream louder as Dana steps to the mic and belts the opening of our first song. I close my eyes and let the rhythm pull me under, praying the stage lights and the noise will drown out the silence Nola left behind.
But even up here, I can feel her absence, which is ridiculous. She’s missed shows before, but this one hurts. It feels more final because she’s not even at home, on the bus, or backstage waiting for me.
I used to look stage left and see her—arms crossed, soft smile, swaying to the beat, mouthing every damn word I wrote. Nowit’s just some security guard and a line of VIPs I couldn’t care less about.
The second verse hits. My part.
I step forward, mouth to the mic, and deliver the lines I wrote for her.
She said forever, but forever came undone . . .
My voice catches, just slightly. Probably no one notices, but I do.
Every lyric feels like a lie now. Every chord is a reminder.
Keane glances over, gives me that subtle nod, the one that says, You okay, man? I nod back like it’s fine, like I’m fine, like I’m not two seconds from unraveling in front of thousands of people who paid to see something I can barely give.
I force my focus to the music. To the roar of the crowd. To the way Dana moves like the stage was made for her. Ajay’s backbeat thunders like a heartbeat—steady, relentless. Hendrix rips into a solo, and I feel the crowd swell, arms in the air, pulsing with energy.
This is the high. This is what they came for.
Thousands of people remind me that no matter what, they’re here because of what we give them. While they’re my high, I’m theirs as well.
But all I can think about is the ring tucked inside my shirt, swaying back and forth as I move around the stage, pushing into my chest from my guitar strap. The one that should still be on her finger.
I shift to the edge of the stage and drop to one knee, playing straight into the front row, letting the spotlight and feedback wash over me. The fans scream my name. I flash them a smile, but it’s muscle memory. There’s nothing real behind it.
Nola used to call this my rockstar moment. The way I’d drop to the edge of the stage and shred like it was my lifeline.
Now? It's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
We finish the song. The house lights flicker, and the crowd chants our name—Sin-ful. Dis-trac-tion.
I step back, out of the light, and let Dana take over. I shake out my hands, trying to release the tension locked in my chest.
One song down. Seventeen to go.
One show down. How many ever to go.
God help me.
NINE
The highway never ends. Just blacktop with moisture rising from the hot pavement and endless yellow lines down the middle of the road, broken—like me—stretching far beyond what I can see.
I sit in the lounge of the bus, headphones over my ears, but no music playing. It’s just white noise to drown out the chaos inside my head. Dana and Hendrix are arguing down the hall, but their voices are muffled, distant, like I’m underwater. I don’t even flinch. I could get up and slam the door but embarrassing them isn’t high on my priority list. They have their issues.
We all have issues.
The note’s in my hand again. Crumpled, worn, and barely legible from the number of times I’ve unfolded it. Every word is burned into my memory. Yet, I reread them until my eyes blur. I refold the note and stick it in my wallet, which goes into my back pocket. Only to pull it out again.
"We need some time apart . . ."