“Count me in, Bunny. I’ll stand behind you in whatever direction you decide to go.”
The mood in the kitchen shifts as the atmosphere ignites with shared resolve and newfound excitement. “We’re in this to the end,” Nash says, his voice steady, solidifying our commitment to each other.
Keaton’s gaze lingers on me for a moment, as if reassessing everything that’s just unfolded. Then, his shoulders relax as he joins in. “Alright then. If we’re going independent, let’s make it count.”
We gather around the table, brainstorming ideas as laughter begins to bubble up among us. For the first time in a long time, the weight on my shoulders lightens, replaced with a sense of unity I never thought possible after all the chaos.
As the conversation flows, bouncing from one idea to another, the warmth of camaraderie surrounds me. I realize we’re not just reclaiming my story—we’re writing a new chapter together. And it’s one that sings with the vibrancy of all our voices—raw, unfiltered, and free.
The power lies within us. We’re ready to face whatever comes our way, and together, we’ll shape our destiny.
Sitting on my bed, I stare out the window. The gray ocean stretches out before me, a tumultuous reflection of the chaos roiling inside. Did I make the right decision? Am I leading the band down the right path? I know this won’t be easy, no doubt other labels will try to crush us before we even get off the ground. I can only imagine how Dickless will react. There will for sure be backlash.
I focus on the ocean and do my best to let the waves wash over my mind—a soothing backdrop that contrasts sharply with the rising anxiety in my chest. It just doesn’t seem to work the way it used to. The thought is growing that I need to find a new home, a new place to bring me peace. Somewhere without all the bad memories attached.
An unexpected knock sounds at the door, sending a jolt through me. A moment later, it creaks open hesitantly. Not being able to use my voice, we’ve adopted a system where the guys can walk in. If I don’t want them to come in, I keep the doorlocked. It’s not like I can call out to them to let them in, and a blow horn seems extremely excessive.
Tristan stands awkwardly in the doorway, a pile of neatly folded shirts clutched tightly in his hands, his shoulders hunched, lacking all the confidence I’m used to him exuding. If I’m honest, I’m a little upset with him for evading me since his confession. I want nothing more than to comfort him. It doesn’t excuse what he did, but I can look past it to mourn together.
“Hey, Raina,” he finally manages, the sound rough, as if he’s swallowed glass. Tension crackles between us, sharp and suffocating.
He moves closer, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers playing anxiously with the edge of the stack he carries. I sit frozen, gripping my tablet like a lifeline. My pulse quickens. I want to retreat, but there’s an echo of hope amidst my wariness; he’s here, finally wanting to speak.
“I should’ve come to you with this sooner. It’s embarrassing really, how long it’s taken me.” He clears his throat, swallowing hard, grief thick in his tone. He runs his free hand over the back of his neck. “I wanted to replace the shirt... the one I tore off you. I thought maybe you could pick one of these.”
As he lays the shirts on the edge of my bed, I can’t help but notice the vibrant colors and familiar designs, each one a reminder of happier times—a blend of nostalgia and regret. I feel my throat tighten, emotions surging like the crashing waves outside. My body tenses instinctively as I recoil ever so slightly when he steps closer, as if his proximity somehow magnifies the whirlwind inside me.
He must see my apprehension because his gaze drops again, fingers raking through his tousled hair in frustration. “I just…” His voice is softer now, more vulnerable, trembling on the precipice of raw emotion. “I need to fix what I did. These are the rest of the shirts I have from my parents, the ones they broughthome from their trips. I want you to pick one. Or take the entire stack. They look better on you anyway, and I’ll still be reminded of the memories of seeing you wear them.” He gives me an adorable smirk that makes my heart flip, but it quickly falls flat.
Tension seems to hang between us, the air so thick I can almost taste it. It’s not easy between us like it used to be. I want to respond—tell him he doesn’t need to do this, to set both of us free from this discomfort—but instead, I stay silent. As much as I want to avoid being uncomfortable, we both need this.
“Raina, I—I know I fucked up.” His voice cracks, the raw honesty washing over me like a tide, one that both terrifies and comforts. “What I did was unforgivable. When I saw you wearing my shirt, it wrecked me. It was one of my favorites—I mailed it to you because I wanted you to feel close to me while you were gone.”
His voice falters, eyes clouding with anguish. “But that shirt… it was also one my parents brought me back from Mexico. No matter how much time passes, I still get slapped in the face with random waves of grief. One second I’m fine and the next it’s like I just lost them all over again.”
My heart clenches, the ache of his sorrow swirling inside me. “Tristan, I—“
He holds up his hand, making me cut off. “When I saw you, all I could think about was how you couldn’t be bothered to help save my mom. It made me feel so... betrayed.” He drops his head, his shame radiating off him in waves as he gathers the strength to keep talking.
A part of me feels the sting of his words, the blunt force of the reminder sending shards of guilt slicing through my chest.“I didn’t know,”I finally manage to type, my fingers flying across the tablet’s screen.“I hope you know I would’ve done everything I could. I would’ve been there, dropped everything.”
He nods, sadness shadowing his features as he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “It hurt like hell to watch you wearing that shirt. At the time it felt like the only thing left that connected me to them, and there you were, putting it on like a badge. It was cruel... I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it did, but I was just so angry.”
The rawness in his voice pulls at the tangled knot in my heart, yet I remain tense, not wanting to let him off the hook too easily. It feels like a balancing act between acceptance and frustration. I keep my gaze fixed on his hands, trembling slightly, the sincerity etched across his flushed neck and reddening eyes hitting me like a punch.
“I hate myself for doing that to you. For making you feel embarrassed in front of the guys. I’m so sorry.” He kneels on the floor in front of me, close enough to touch, yet he doesn’t press for it. “And it’s not the only thing I need to make amends for.”
“You changed my lyrics,” I whisper, guessing what it is he means.
“Yes,” he admits, barely audible, the admission falling from his lips like the weight of an anchor dropped into deep waters. “I thought... if I could hurt you the way you hurt me, it would somehow fill the void.” He wipes a hand across his forehead, desperation clinging to the words, leaving him vulnerable. “I was wrong, Raina. I just wanted to make you feel something... I didn’t realize I was only feeding my bitterness.”
His words sink into the space between us, shaping the very air I breathe. I find myself aching to bridge the distance, to feel something more than the sting of hurt. “You still matter to me,” I say slowly, deliberately. Choosing to say it out loud so he knows how much I really mean it. My throat is sore from the few words making me revert back to the tablet, but this is worth it. He’s worth it.“I don’t want us to keep running in circles, constantly coming back to our failures.”
“Do you really think we can fix this?” he asks, his voice trembling as he struggles against the vulnerability rushing over him.
I hold his gaze, a soft determination settling in.“We need to start by owning our truths. If we can talk about this—really talk—maybe we can build something new. But I won’t let you hide behind your guilt anymore.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, perhaps hope, or maybe the glimmer of clarity that a path forward can forge even in the deepest shadows.
