Sam holds up an old tin, covered in dust and what definitely looks like rust. “I might actually be able to make something with this,” he says, inspecting it like it might explode. “Of course, I should probably expect to be sitting down for the rest of the day.”
“What is it?” I ask, peeking out from my blanket burrito—still wrapped tightly in Logan’s arms.
“Big fucking can of prunes.”
“Oh, those were for Grams!”
“Figures. Great for shifting things around. Excellent fiber. Terrible if you’re trying to carb load.” Sam muses, still examining the can like it’s a science experiment.
“Trey, you have to eat this can of prunes, bro.” Chace snorts.
“Prunes are for old people. Pass.”
“Come on. You’re hungry. This technically qualifies as food.”
“I said I’m not eating Grams’ fucking prunes. No offence, Macademia—God rest her soul.” Trey crosses himself and kisses the back of his hand in reverence.
“You say that now,” Sam says, shaking the can so it sloshes ominously, “but the next time all that junk you inhale clogs youup and you can’t shit for three days, you’ll come crawling back for these bad boys.”
“They’ll probably still be here.” Chace adds with a grin. “Unless Logan decides to go nuclear on the pantry during one of his cleaning rampages.”
Laughter echoes off the walls, bouncing from tile to wood to skin. It’s warm and alive, something golden settling in my chest. These boys—these beautiful disasters—they’re my chaos and my calm. My unofficial brothers. My broken compass somehow always pointing me back to the truth.
Then Trey claps his hands. “Oh! By the way—Reverb in the Pines is in a month. We should get tickets. It’s been ages since we all did a festival.”
“Reverb in the Pines?” I ask, blinking up at him.
Silence.
Every head turns.
Trey stares like I’ve just said I’ve never seen a guitar before. “Shit, you forgot Reverb, too?”
I tilt my head, something tickling the edge of my mind.
“Trey.” Logan growls. Trey puts his hands up in apology.
“Sorry Mac, I didn—” but before he gets into it, I interrupt as something is suddenly pronounced to me.
“Isn’t that… a music festival?” The words taste familiar, but not solid. “I can’t quite…” I trail off, frowning.
Chace jumps in, eyes lighting up. “It is, it totally is. It’s kind of like, Canadian Coachella… just woodsy.”
“Picture this,” Sam says, setting his glass down. “Golden leaves, fairy lights strung through pine trees. Sensible fire pits. Chainsaw carvings. Big stages. All hidden in the woods. Bands playing until the stars come out.”
“There’s hot cider. Booze, too. Loads of water bottles. a ton of people high on music—more on…other things.” Trey adds, with a wicked grin. “Food trucks, vinyl stalls, chill zones—which arebasically a sea of hammocks and bean bags. Signal’s crap, so everyone’s actually in the moment. People get lost and found there. It’s fucking awesome.”
“You’re actually making it sound like a really big deal,” I say, smiling. “And I kind of love how it sounds…”
“Now, Trey.” Sam says, nudging him. “Do the same thing, but for other festivals.”
“Oh, shit, are we back to explaining things badly?” Trey smirks, “because if so, then Reverb becomes: horny people go to woods to listen to people loudly.”
Logan’s voice is quieter. “It’s one of your favorites, angel. You’ve been to the past few.”
And for a second—just a second—I swear I see it. Lanterns swaying in the dusk, the pulse of music echoing through the trees, laughter spilling out like melody. I feel it deep inside, like a string being pulled taut—tugging me toward something I might’ve once loved.
“Sounds amazing,” I whisper. “Can we go?”
