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He smirks. “I am help. But you’re on your own when she starts talking about matching accessories for the twins.”
“Traitor.”
“You love me.”
I bump his hip with mine. “Yeah, yeah. Even when you steal the last waffle.”
He winks. “That’s how you know it’s real.”
Chapter Fifteen
MYA
The bass rumbles through the floor like a living thing, a steady, pulsing heartbeat that thrums in my ribcage and makes the walls vibrate. Even back here, behind velvet ropes and industrial doors marked “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY,” the sound is electric—alive. The crowd on the other side of the concrete vibrates with it, chanting a single word that still makes my breath catch.
“Eighteendust! Eighteendust!”
It’s surreal hearing it echo through the bowels of Madison freaking Square Garden.
My laminate pass swings from my neck as I jog down the narrow hallway, past roadies wheeling in last-minute gear and security guards barking into radios. Penelope’s somewhere behind me with the backup camera, red hair pulled into a tight ponytail, all business as usual. But me?
I’m not pretending to be cool about any of this. I’m glowing. Beaming. And not in the pregnant-glow way—though, okay, maybe a little. I’ve got that “tour kickoff, sold-out arena, history-in-the-making” kind of glow that no highlighter can fake.
“Holy shit, you’re here!” Carson yells when I walk into the dressing room. His blonde hair is a sweaty, chaotic mess already, even though they haven’t hit the stage yet, and he practically tackles me in a hug, careful not to crush my belly.
Benji isn’t far behind, his signature black hair wild as ever, eyeliner smudged like he slept in it. “Look at you,” he grins, pulling me into a tight, swaying hug that smells like guitar strings and dry shampoo. “Mama Mya in the flesh!”
“I missed you guys,” I laugh, heart squeezing. “Even if you are sweaty and way too enthusiastic for a greenroom.”
“Excuse you,” Carson says, mock-offended. “This is not just a greenroom. This is sacred pre-show space. Temple of ritual. Altar of snacks.”
Benji throws an arm around my shoulders. “You should’ve seen Carson earlier, pacing like a dad in a maternity ward.”
“Was not,” Carson mutters. “I was tuning.”
“You were pacing,” Penelope confirms as she walks in behind me, camera already in hand.
The energy’s insane—amped, buzzing, a weird mix of adrenaline and nerves and nostalgia all rolled into one. It feels like the start of something big, something permanent. Like this isn’t just a show—it’s the beginning of a legacy.
I glance around, trying not to overthink the one very noticeable absence.
Fletch isn’t here.
And even though I try not to dwell on it, not to read into the empty stool in the corner or the unclaimed bottle of Gatorade on the dressing table, it prickles at the edge of my thoughts like a splinter.
Before I can spiral, the door swings open again, and in walks Alex, crisp and collected in a charcoal Armani suit that probably costs more than my rent. His salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed sharp, and his expression is all business.
“We’re on in ten. Let’s move.”
“Time to make history,” Benji says, chest puffed with the kind of cocky confidence that only comes with playing to a sold-out crowd of screaming fans.
“Let’s go blow the roof off,” Carson grins, grabbing his bass
As they file out, I trail behind with Penelope, slipping into our spot just offstage. The energy back here is a living beast, snarling with every cheer from the crowd, every vibration of the sound check humming through the steel scaffolding.
Penelope passes me the gimbal rig without a word. We’ve done this dance a dozen times already—me behind the lens, her keeping everything else running. Her eyes scan the side monitors while I get into position, fingers already flying across my phone as I upload teaser clips to the band’s socials.
The second the lights drop and the crowd erupts, the stage explodes in a riot of sound and light. Eighteendust takes the stage like they were born for this exact moment.
