Page 274 of End Game

A triangle that finally has every line drawn in.

I look at Micah.

He looks at Dex, then back to me.

“Yeah,” he says.

Dex's smile comes slowly. “That's fucking cool.”

I laugh. “Poet.”

“Songwriter, actually. Austin Fletcher says so.” Dex pulls both of us closer.

When the silence settles, it doesn't feel like anything is waiting to be said.

It's already out there.

Mine.

Theirs.

Ours.

Tomorrow there will be more musicians, the full recording, a benefit, a stage, and whatever comes afterward.

Tonight, there are three of us tangled in one enormous bed in a city that isn't home, saying something that somehow makes home feel even more real.

Dex presses a kiss to my forehead.

Micah kisses my shoulder.

I close my eyes.

Maybe thirty seconds pass.

Then Dex says, “Now that we've emotionally traumatized each other, do you think room service has mozzarella sticks?”

I laugh so hard my stomach hurts.

Chapter twenty-six

Performance Check

Dex

There is a piece of paper taped to a dressing-room door with my name on it.

Not GRAVE INTENTIONS.

Not SPECIAL GUESTS.

Not MISCELLANEOUS PANSEXUAL WITH GUITAR.

Just DEX MERCER

I have taken six pictures of it.

Micah catches me taking the seventh. “You done?”