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At some point there’s the click of a door and heels in the hallway, and I’m face down on my bed, alone, still half dressed.

* * *

The following afternoon, I’m in the conference room on the eleventh floor of Bingo Studios. They emailed us all this morning, and luckily my hangover cure of sauna and a 5k run did the trick, so I feel alright today.

“Gang’s all here,” I say, dropping into a chair casually. “Does anybody want to order food? Eli, have you eaten? You’re looking thin, my friend.”

Not true. Eli is fucking ripped. He doesn’t answer. He’s sitting very straight with his hands flat on the table. Luca’s at the window with his arms crossed, and Harrison won’t look at me at all. I scratch my jaw.

Fuck.

Apparently, a bottle of champagne and my winning personality aren’t fixing this one.

Four unread messages and an empty booth told me they were angry. I hadn’t realized we’d reached attempted-murder levels.

“Cal,” Eli says.

“Eli.”

“Where. Were. You.”

No small talk then. He’s been my best friend since I was twelve, and he’s one of the only people capable of making me feel ashamed.

He doesn’t need to shout. His face is doing an excellent job of saying You hurt me, asshole. Explain yourself.

So obviously, I lean back and smile. “Had some stuff come up,” I say. “Family thing. Boring. Handled now.”

“A family thing?” He scoffs. “What family thing?”

“Just stuff, man.”

“What stuff, Cal?”

“Stuff stuff. The kind that comes up.” I wave my hand, dismissing the topic. “You don’t want the details. Deeply boring. It’s all good now.” I give him a smile, and surprise, surprise, it’s not returned.

“You walked off at Cascade.” Harrison’s voice cracks. “My mom watched that. My mom called me upset and confused about why our set was cut short.” He shakes his head. “The whole world watched you take your guitar off and leave, and then you went dark for a whole week, Cal. You didn’t answer one text—not one. And then last night, you’re back on my feed, standing on a booth at the Vault with a bottle in the air, singing Sun on Glass into some girl’s phone. That was the first sign of life we got from you, Cal?”

I refrain from whining I did invite you.

Tell them, says the voice I shove back down inside of me.

I can’t tell them. Secrets don’t stay in rooms anymore—not when you’re famous enough for everything to become content. The second this leaves my mouth, it becomes another headline. I can’t let that happen.

So I keep my face blank.

“It’s handled,” I say. “It’s over. I’m back.” I roll my eyes like this whole conversation is boring me when really, my palms are starting to sweat. “Can we talk about anything that isn’t my week? How are we feeling about Friday? I was thinking we could mix up the set list.”

“There is no Friday, dipshit.” Luca shakes his head, mumbling something like “hedoesntfuckingknowwhathesdone.”

My smile almost holds.

What the fuck does he mean, there is no Friday? We’re supposed to be headlining in West Hollywood. We’ve been promoting it for weeks.

A label guy, Steve, finally walks in with his clean, pressed suit and clears his throat as he sits at the head of the table. He’s flanked by two nervous looking young guys—probably interns—who are already making notes. What could they possibly be writing?

In attendance: all of Atlas Falling. Status: pissed with Callum Fox.

Steve folds his hands on the table looking like a man about to tell a family the surgery didn’t go the way they’d hoped.