Miles opens his mouth, probably to lie. I beat him to it. “Fine,” I say.
Rosa’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t believe me, but she also doesn’t press—not here, not in public, not at a charity event.
She squeezes my arm once and leans closer. “After,” she murmurs.
I nod.
“After,” I agree, even though I’m full of shit. I can’t let her know about a divorce from a marriage she knows nothing about.
The lights dim slightly, capturing my attention. Eli steps up onto the small stage set up at the far end of the room. The chatter softens as people realize something’s happening.
He takes the microphone and clears his throat. While his smile is bright, his eyes are shiny. “Hey,” he says. “Hi. Thank you.”
A ripple of warmth runs through the room—applause, whistles, laughter.
Eli lifts a hand. “Seriously. Thank you all for being here. This… means a lot.”
He talks about the foundation. About early detection. About access. About the families who don’t have the resources Eli’s family had. He thanks donors. Volunteers. His wife, who wipes at her eyes and rolls them likeshut up, you sap.
He glances toward the table where his dad is sitting. His dad lifts his chin, proud and emotional, and Eli’s voice wavers for the first time. “I didn’t know how scared I could be,” he admits. “And I didn’t know how much community could hold you up until I was drowning.”
The room is quiet now, reverent.
Then Eli smiles again, brighter. “So. Tonight is about raising money, yes. But it’s also about celebrating the fact that my dad is here, alive, and still being an absolute pain in my ass.”
Laughter breaks the tension like a wave. Eli’s dad flips him off from his table, and the whole room cracks up.
Eli points at him. “See? Proof.” He takes a breath. “Okay. Enough of me talking. You didn’t come here just for my emotional TED Talk.”
More laughter.
“You came because Steel Saints are going to play a short set for you tonight.”
The applause is immediate, loud, excited.
Eli turns, gesturing toward us. “Get up here, assholes.”
We move toward the stage, instruments waiting, stagehands adjusting mic stands. My pulse picks up, not from nerves—this part never scares me anymore—but from the fact that performance is safer than standing still.
Up here, I can hide inside the music. Up here, no one expects me to answer my phone.
Eli leans toward me as we step into position. “You good?”
I nod once. The lie tastes familiar.
The lights warm over us. The crowd settles. Phones lift, but in a respectful way—no flash, no chaos. Just people wanting to remember.
I wrap my hand around the microphone, fingers steady.
Miles glances at me, silently checking in. Rosa’s somewhere in the crowd with Luis, watching. Elliot’s near the auction table, already bidding on something ridiculous. And somewhere far away, in Minnesota, a divorce petition sits on a kitchen counter like an ending.
I inhale, and we start to play.
We’re halfway through the second song when the room shifts into that familiar rhythm—bodies swaying, laughter bubbling, people loosening their shoulders because live music does that. It pulls you out of your head and into something collective.
This one’s upbeat. One of the old crowd-pleasers. Eli’s drums are crisp, Miles is grinning like he’s actually having fun, and Drew’s locked in. Meanwhile, I do what I always do: I perform.
I let the music take the wheel. Let the chord progressions and muscle memory carry me over the parts of my mind I don’t want to touch tonight. The song ends on a tight hit, and the room cheers, loud and genuine.
