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During “Come Undone,” Justine joins me onstage, and the chemistry between us is undeniable. Our voices blend seamlessly, finding harmonies that feel like they’ve always existed. When the song ends, the crowd demands an encore before we’ve even left the stage.
“I think they liked it,” Justine whispers as we take our bow.
“What’s not to like?” I reply, and she laughs, the sound lost in the roar of the audience.
After the encore, I head straight for the showers. There’s nothing quite like washing away the sweat and adrenaline of a show, letting the hot water soothe tired muscles.
I take longer than usual, replaying moments from the performance in my mind: the way Justine looked at me during our duet, the energy of the crowd during the new arrangement of “Fading Ink,” the perfect harmony we found in the encore.
When I finally emerge from the shower stall, a towel wrapped around my waist, I hear a soft knock on the door.
“Just a sec,” I call, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. I don’t bother with a shirt, assuming it’s Dana or Keane coming to discuss the show.
I open the door to find Justine standing there, still in her performance clothes but with her makeup freshly removed, her lavender hair damp at the edges.
“Hey,” she says, her eyes briefly dropping to my bare chest before returning to my face. “I thought?—”
“Let me grab a shirt—” I say, stepping back to let her in.
“You don’t have to,” she says quickly, then blushes. “I mean, it’s your dressing room. You should be comfortable. I bought you this.” Justine holds out a bottle of water.
I hesitate, then let the door close behind her. “Thank you.”
She hands me a plastic bottle, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “You were amazing tonight. The whole band was, but especially you.”
“Says the woman who had the crowd eating out of her hand,” I counter, taking a sip. The ice-cold water is soothing. “The new riff was inspired.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You caught that?”
“Of course I did. It’s our song.”
“Part of it, anyway.” Justine moves to the sofa, curling her legs beneath her. “I’ve been playing around with the arrangement.”
I lean against the makeup counter, careful to keep some distance between us. “It sounded great.”
“It would sound better with you,” she says softly.
The implication hangs in the air, stretching between us like a thread waiting to be pulled.
“Justine—”
“I’ve been thinking,” she interrupts, “about that day in Boston. Outside my hotel room.”
My pulse quickens. “What about it?”
“About what might have happened if Wynonna and Priscilla hadn’t shown up.” Her gaze is steady, unflinching. “About what I wanted to happen.”
I set the water down, suddenly very aware of my state of undress. “And what was that?”
She stands, closing the distance between us in three small steps. “I think you know.”
She’s right. I do know. I’ve thought about it too . . . about the almost-kiss, about the way her eyes had fluttered closed, about how close we’d been to crossing a line we couldn’t uncross.
“We work together,” I say, though the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
“Is that all this is?” she challenges. “Work?”
I shake my head. “No. But it’s complicated.”