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He laughs and wishes me luck. For all I know, I’ll need it.
The venue is alive with pre-show energy when I return. Roadies rush past with equipment. Sound engineers call to each other from opposite ends of the stage. Somewhere in the wings, I can hear Dana warming up her voice, hitting notes that would shatter glass if she pushed them any harder.
And for the first time, I see everything clearly.
I slide past everyone, keeping my head down, making a beeline for the greenroom where my guitar is waiting. I just need a minute alone before soundcheck. Just one minute to process everything.
But when I open the door, Justine is sitting on the couch, strumming quietly on her guitar. She looks up, startled.
“Sorry,” she says, starting to stand. “I didn’t know you’d be back so soon. I can go?—”
“Stay,” I say, the word coming out before I can think about it. “Please.”
She settles back down, watching me carefully as I grab my guitar and sink into the chair across from her. For a long moment, neither of us speaks. She doesn’t ask how it went. Doesn’t press for details. She just waits, giving me the space to find the words.
“She’s moved on.”
Justine nods. “Are you okay?”
I look up, meeting her purple-tinged eyes, thanks to colored contacts, have somehow become a constant in my chaotic world.
“Getting there,” I say and believing it.
Justine doesn’t smile or offer any condolences, which I appreciate. She just starts playing again, a gentle melody that intertwines with the weight of the moment.
I join her, finding the harmony as naturally as breathing.
And for the first time in months, the music isn’t about what I’ve lost.
It’s about what might be waiting, just past the grief, just beyond the ending.
Something new.
Something real.
SIXTEEN
The stage lights dim after our incredible show. Charleston’s crowd is electric tonight, somehow sensing the shift in my relationship status and my mindset. I played with renewed passion, tapping into the freedom I’ve held back for months. I sit there, on my stool, staring out into the crowd, with their phones and lighters guiding a path toward us.
Keane, Hendrix, Ajay, and Dana join me in the middle of the stage. We wave and take our bow then bolt to the side where Chandler greets each of us with her phone. Elle’s on video chat, beaming. Her grin spreading from ear-to-ear. She wanted a change, and I think we nailed it.
“Thank God for live streams and my new personal assistant. You guys nailed it!” Elle throws her hands up in the air. I’m glad she had the foresight to hire Chandler. It gives her something to do and keeps her busy. Mostly, it keeps Keane sane and not worried during the show.
Backstage, the atmosphere is celebratory. Road crew members high-five as they break down equipment. Dana uncorks a bottle of champagne, foam cascading over her fingers. She passes plastic cups around the green room. This isn’t new.We always celebrate after every show, but until now I have felt like I was living with my head in the sand.
My life is clearer with closure, and I’m here for it.
“To our best show yet,” she says, raising her cup.
I accept the drink with a genuine smile. I scan the room, noticing everyone but one person.
Justine.
She slips in moments later, hair damp from a post-show shower, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings. Her eyes find mine across the crowded room, and she offers a small, private smile before joining Priscilla and Wynonna.
“You killed it tonight,” Keane says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Something shifted out there.”
“Yeah,” I agree, taking a sip. “I guess it did.”