Then I’m alone again.
The knock comes just before midnight, quick, like someone testing courage. I half expect room service, but when I open the door, Kiri’s standing there in a hoodie and stage-worn jeans, eyes bloodshot from too many drinks or too much thinking. Probably both.
He doesn’t wait for an invite. Just steps inside, pacing once across the carpet before stopping near the window. “After the set,” he says finally, voice rough. “Didn’t look good. You—” He drags a hand through his hair, jaw tightening. “You fucking broke down out there.”
I say nothing. There’s nothing to fix about truth.
He stares at the floor for a beat, then sighs. “I’ll… back off with Natalia. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
It comes out rushed, almost clumsy, like he’s afraid the words might burn if he keeps them too long. I see morefearin his eyes than guilt. Fear that heartbreak runs in that family like a curse and he’salready doomed.I nod anyway. A white flag I’m happy to take.
He lingers another second, hands shoved deep in his pockets, then nods back and slips out the door. The door clicks shut, leaving me in the kind of silence that’s louder than applause.
For a long time, I just stand there, looking at the space where he’d been. The city lights pulse through the curtains like a heartbeat I can’t quite sync to. There’s relief in it, sure but also that slow ache of knowing what it costs to keep the peace.
Kiri’s always been the anchor. When he flinches, it ripples through everything. Tonight, I saw the crack in him, the same one I’ve been carrying.
I sink back onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor until everything goes soft. I should sleep. Instead, I press a hand to my chest, trying to find the rhythm again, one that doesn’thurt.
Chapter 73
Pretending
Rafe
Råvind’s soundcheck rolls through the venue in Tokyo, Freja on drums, Ronan watching her with that stupid grin that makes it obvious to everyone but him. The tension from opening night has finally broken; everything feels steadier now, like we’ve survived the storm.
We’re running through last-minute checks when I spot her, Mara. She asks a few harmless questions: if the piano monitor’s working better since she adjusted it, if I want in-ears or wedges tonight. I keep my answers short, and measured. She nods like she’s translating me into a language she wants to learn.
Later, she passes me in the wings, gaffer tape looped around her wrist. The smile she throws me is small, quick, a little hopeful. I look away first. Bad habit lately.
Ronan clocks it immediately, he always does. He leans his shoulder into mine while we wait for a lighting cue, drumsticks tapping some secret rhythm against his thigh.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Might actually be lettingthat onein. Someone to spar with, dust off the rust from all your tears?”
“She handlesthe equipment,” I say flatly. "Not me."
“Why not both?” he fires back, not unkind.
Kiri, quiet as usual, hears anyway. “She’s nice,” he says, checking his tuner. “Crew says she even feeds everyone when catering forgets vegetarians.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You could use someone who keeps you fed. You're getting so skinnyyour mommight show up soon.”
Rithy just smirks,told you sowritten across his face.
“I’m fine,” I say.
They exchangethat look, the one that says maybe I’ll finally relent, that getting over her is as easy as getting under someone else. It used to be routine. Life in the small spaces between load-in and soundcheck, the mercies and mistakes of hotel rooms. The thought just makes me tired.
The show burns clean, fast, no lingering where it hurts. I skip the new one. When the last chord fades, the night exhales into cases and checklists. I shake hands, I nod, I vanish. That should’ve been the end. It isn’t.
At the hotel, there’s a knock, three light taps, then laughter trying to whisper. Ronan, Freja, the rest of the Råvind ladies, Rithy, Kiri, our familiar chaos spilling into my room: techs, riggers, a lighting op I’ve known since the first festival, a front-of-house engineer with saintlike patience. And Mara, in a hoodie now, hair damp from a quick shower just like mine.
Someone has plastic cups and bad whiskey. Someone else cues up a Bluetooth speaker destined to ruin the neighbors’ night.
Ronan presses a cup into my hand. “You don’t disappear, and you don’t hide from what could be,” he says. “Therapist’s orders.”
“Since when are you licensed?”
“Since I learned to count to four.” He winks. “Drink.”
