Me:I trust you. I do. Just wish I was there instead.
And I fucking do. Like I thought so many times before, it only takes one delusional fan, one unhinged person who’s too far gone to think straight, to do real damage in a split second. The scar on his abdomen is proof of that. So is the near miss last year, when someone tried to corner him after one of his soccer games.
My worry doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s earned. And it never really goes away.
Her new reply takes a bit longer. Probably because there’s nothing she can say to make it suck less.
Ava:And I love you for it. You’re a good partner. Way better than that loser I’ve got.
She sends a picture of Asher gaming while hanging upside down on the couch, legs hooked over the backrest, head nearly touching the floor. Jace sits beside him, cross-legged on the actual cushion, looking unbothered.
Ava:You see what I have to put up with?
Me:Why is he upside down
Ava:He says Jace sucks so hard at gaming, this’ll even the playing field.
Me:Lemme guess, he’s still owning his ass
Ava sends another pic, and my smile is instant when it’s of Jace, and Jace only. He’s staring at the screen, that amused half-smile that always makes my chest ache in the best way plastered on his face, blonde hair pushed back out of his face.
Yeah, she’s right. I need to stop this shit, stop spiraling, and looking for things that might not even be there. I need to focus onmyman, on how happy his music and this tour makes him. Even with a couple of bumps in the road, we’re still going. Still strong. Still us. Mick and the maybe-deportation be damned. We’ll be okay.
A second one comes through. He’s blowing a kiss at the camera, peace sign in one hand cause he’s a doofus, gray eyes shining with humor.
I save it instantly. Set it as my background without hesitation.
Lam notices, pokes me with his elbow, then slings a beefy arm around my shoulder and presses a loud, obnoxious kiss to my cheek like the dramatic asshole he is.
The guys snicker. Tuck throws a fry this time. Miles mutters something like “get a room.”
And Rafa? Rafa looks so fucking ecstatic to be sitting here with us, like this little moment of care-free, open, accepting chaos is the best thing he’s seen all week.
And just like that... I let the worry go.
And let myself fucking breathe.
TWELVE
Fourweeks.Fourweeksto go.
I can feel the end of the tour creeping closer, and I can’t say I’m sad that it’s ending. Shit, don’t get me wrong. Ilovetouring. Ilovebeing around my band, making music, performing, living the life of a musician. It’s awesome as fuck and everything I dreamed of and more.
I’m grateful for being given this chance, this opportunity that so few get to experience. I know exactly how lucky I am to follow my dream, my passion—to see my hopes and desires and all I ever wanted come to life.
Iam.
I just wish we could’ve done this without Six of Hearts. Without Mick. Without his ever-looming, rotten presence clinging to this tour like a fucking disease. I know we have a lot to thank them for, since they took us on as an opening act, and that fast-tracked us into stardom. And yeah, Iamgrateful for that. But shit, how can one person be so damn annoying? He’s like a rash I can’t get rid of. Which I’ve tried, I really have.
But he’s around; I notice him all the damn time. How can I not, when he always seems to pop up wherever I go?
If he’s not showing up at interviews, pre-concert prep, or post-show drinks, he’s still there sometimes when I head out for my jogs. And I’m too stubborn to skip them. It’s something that binds me to Ty, knowing he’s doing the same thing when he wakes up, even if we’re in different time zones and miles apart.
It’s ours. Just for us.
And I’m not letting that coke-sniffing, binge-drinking Mick the Dick ruin it for me.
So while he sometimes tags along for the jogs, I don’t really entertain him anymore. And—like a damn miracle—he mostly keeps his mouth shut as he trails behind me. And I don’t know why, but lately he’s been more subdued the rest of the day, too.
