Page 246 of End Game

Nothing important.

Cruz wants to know whether practice can move Wednesday because he has a date.

Mila says no.

Alex has sent a scheduling poll because apparently we've reached middle age.

I stare at the names.

A weird little pinch catches under my ribs.

Austin didn't ask for Grave Intentions.

He asked for me.

That should feel uncomplicated.

It mostly does.

I love my band.

We've been playing together long enough that I know exactly when Mila is going to step into a harmony without looking at her, exactly how Alex's bass shifts when he's irritated, exactly how many times Cruz will lose a stick during a set if he's had more than two drinks beforehand.

We practice a couple nights a week.

Play maybe ten shows a year.

I write songs because I always have.

Because sometimes a line shows up in my head while I'm pouring a whiskey sour and refuses to leave until I put a melody under it.

Because getting onstage makes something inside me click into place.

But it has always been something I love.

Not something I built my life around.

There's a difference.

Micah sees me looking at the phone.

“You haven't told them yet.”

“No.”

“You going to?”

“Obviously.”

He waits.

I sigh. “Probably in person.”

“Okay.”

“I don't want it to sound like…”

I trail off.