The next workday hits me like a hammer.
My head is pounding—full-on migraine, the kind that sits behind your eyes and pulses with your heartbeat. Fifteen hours yesterday. Meetings stacked on meetings. Sage calling, crying, apologizing, then circling right back to accusing. I barely slept. Coffee isn’t touching it.
I’m staring at my desk when the phone rings.
“Ethan O’Connell,” a voice says, familiar and grinning even through the receiver. “Holy shit, you still alive?”
I smile despite myself. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Ben,” he says. “Bass player. Roommate. Savior of your GPA sophomore year.”
I laugh quietly. “Jesus. Ben. Where the hell have you been?”
“In town,” he says. “Band’s playing tonight. Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab a beer. Relive our glory days.”
I wince, rubbing my temple. “Honestly? Live bar music sounds like actual torture right now.”
“No worries,” he says easily. “If you change your mind, I’ll text—sorry—emailyou the address.”
“Do that,” I say. “Good to hear your voice, man.”
We hang up, and I sit there a long moment, staring at the wall.
By the end of the day, the migraine hasn’t gone away—but something else has crept in. Restlessness. That trapped feeling. Like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks and just noticed.
Sage has called three more times. I don’t answer.
And then I think—a cold beer and old friends might be exactly what I need.
So I go.
The bar is loud in that early-2000s way—smoke clinging to the ceiling, bodies packed tight, cheap beer and sweat and feedback humming through the room. The band’s already playing when I push inside.
Ben spots me instantly.
“Hart!” he shouts, hopping down from the stage to pull me into a hug. “Look at you, man. Corporate as hell.”
“Fuck you,” I say, smiling. “You smell like a tour bus.”
“Still better than cubicles.”
I grab a beer and lean against the wall, watching them play. And then—halfway through the set—Ben waves me over.
“No way,” I mouth.
He grins and holds out his bass.
Something stirs in my chest. Old muscle memory. Old fire.
I shake my head once. He keeps holding it out.
And then I’m on stage.
The weight of the bass settles into my hands like it never left. The strings hum under my fingers. The first note vibrates straight through my bones.
It’s like an old lover.
That part of me—the one that died quietly when I put on suits and smiles and became a corporate yes-man—comes roaring back to life.
