Page 45 of Pretty When It Burns (When The Lights Go Down #1)

Chapter forty-two

"Iris" - The Goo Goo Dolls

Grayson

Austin is louder than I remember.

Maybe it’s that everything seems loud. It isn’t just the city, although I can hear the traffic and the buzzing crowds from backstage. The venue team and the label reps are swarming us like they already own us. I keep having to remind myself that now they do.

Eric, Brandon, and Tony are all running on adrenaline, bouncing between press interviews and checking their instruments, soaking up the energy like it’s oxygen.

Meanwhile, I’m just trying to breathe.

Trying to get my head on straight.

The arena is massive. Bigger than anything we’ve ever played.

Screens are already looping promotional graphics, giant digital letters spelling out Catastrophically Charismatic—Live Tonight.

One of the looping images stops me cold: a photo of me on stage that Mia had taken.

Every piece of promotional material the label is using tonight is hers.

Is she coming?

I haven’t asked. Can’t. I don’t want to know, especially if it’s something I can’t handle.

Johanna hasn’t said anything, which is probably its own kind of answer.

She’s been quiet since we got here, hovering around without being too obvious.

She’s just watching me—knowing better than to promise something she may not be able to deliver.

“You’re up for soundcheck in ten,” Jake says, coming up behind me. “They want to run through Shatter Me Louder and… Collapse.”

I nod, but don’t move. Collapse Into You has become iconic. Of course they’re expecting us to play it tonight. But it’s hard to picture playing it without Mia here.

“You good?” Jake asks, lowering his voice.

I shrug. “Depends on your definition of good.”

He gives me a dry look. “You and Johanna can’t use that response for everything.”

“Debatable.”

He doesn’t argue.

We make our way towards the stage, weaving through the crew and cables with Jake using his new clipboard as a shield. Everything seems to move so much faster here, the weight of the night ahead on everyone’s shoulders.

Eric tosses me a water bottle once I make it to my mic. “Setlist is locked in. Another sold out house. You ready for this?”

I wish everyone would stop asking me that.

I look out across the empty seats, trying to imagine them all filled, but there’s only one seat I care about. Mia used to say the best shows are the ones where you can’t tell if the crowd is singing with you or for you.

“Ask me again in an hour,” I say, hoping by then she might be here and I really will be ready.

We make it through the run throughs the Label Gods have requested. Slowly, I start to fall back into the role. Front man. Performer. Professional.

Backstage, I find a stool in a quiet corner and sink into it before my phone starts buzzing in my pocket and my pulse jumps.

Incoming Call: Spam Likely

I let out a breath I don’t realize I’m holding.

Still not her.

“Grayson.” Johanna’s voice cuts through the haze as she steps into view, arms crossed and expression unreadable. I stand and basically launch myself at her. I can’t take it anymore—I have to know.

“Did she—?”

She holds up her hand to stop me from barreling into her like an unhinged buffoon. “Slow down, crazy. I don’t know.”

“You did talk to her, right?”

“Yes, Grayson,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I told her everything. The show. The plane ticket. That you wanted her here. I did everything I could—you’re welcome, by the way.”

“And?”

“She didn’t say yes,” Johanna says carefully. “But she didn’t say no either.”

I try to swallow around the ever-present lump in my throat.

“So… you don’t know anything, then.”

“No,” she admits. “I don’t. But Grayson, if she comes? You better not fuck it up.”

I nod, barely holding myself together.

I need her to show up more than I need to breathe.

And if she doesn’t?

I can’t let myself go there.

A few hours later, it’s game time.

We still haven’t heard anything from Mia, and I’m starting to accept that I’m going to have to go on stage without knowing if I’ll get to see her.

Eric, Brandon, and Tony are backstage, the crew hooking their monitors up and going through a few last minute sound changes from after the opener clears out. Jake paces nearby, glued to his phone, while the Label Gods hover in their overpriced suits, tossing questions at us like we have answers.

I wave off my tech and step away, just for a second. I need one last moment to myself.

She didn’t say yes.

She didn’t say no.

She could still walk in at any minute—wrap her arms around me, kiss me like she used to, send me onstage with that look in her eyes.

There’s still a chance.

I close my eyes and let the tech finish wiring me up. The crowd on the other side of the barrier is already roaring. The house lights have just come down and the intro reel is playing. This should be the moment of a lifetime.

But my mind keeps wandering.

What will she look like?

What will she be wearing?

Will she be smiling?

“Grayson!” Tony bumps his fist against my shoulder. “Circle up.”

We huddle up like we always do, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, breathing intensely, heads bowed like some messy, rock-and-roll prayer circle.

This time, no one cracks a joke. No one yells. We just breathe.

“Twelve years ago,” Eric starts. “We said we’d scream our names into the void until someone screamed them back.”

Tony nods. “They’re screaming now.”

Brandon locks eyes with each one of us. “Let’s remind them why.”

We tighten the circle, foreheads nearly touching, and I feel the heat building in my chest. The grief, the history, the years of clawing our way here—it’s all come down to this.

Tony clears his throat. “Let’s get it, boys.”

All together—one last game-time chant for this tour:

“Nobody knows us, but everybody will. One shot in the dark, no fear, all fire—let’s make them feel it.”

We break and make our way to our marks.

The lights shift to a dark red glow, a hazy smoke rising from the edges of the stage. The intro track pulses through the floor beneath my boots as the crowd screams. I step into the spotlight and they lose control.

My fingers wrap around the mic stand and I hold on as if it’s the only thing keeping me on the ground.

I scan the crowd out of instinct—knowing I won’t see her even if she is here. Not with these lights. Not in a venue this big.

Behind me, the first chords ring out.

I lean into the mic.

“This one’s called Collapse Into You,” I say. “And this is for you, if you’re listening.”