Crazy Little Thing Called Love (Sun Tower #3)

18. Zinneerah

18

Zinneerah

A lex.

It’s her.

Alexandra Watanabe, backlit by spotlights like some punk-rock goddess descending from the heavens. She steps out from the shadows, hot-pink guitar slung low. The same guitar Ophelia and I had saved up to purchase for her nineteenth birthday. She’d kissed our cheeks, and dashed out of her dorm, showing it off to everyone on campus.

And now, here she is.

Alex.

My Alex.

She holds the neck of the guitar with one hand, and the other pulls her mic closer, her laughter spilling out into the crowd as if she can’t believe they’re cheering for her. But I can. How could they not?

I lean over the railing, staring down at her, soaking in the sight of her under the lights she was always meant to own.

She’s wearing a floral dress—bright and busy, like a garden spilled across her—and baggy jeans slouched underneath, the kind of pairing only Alex could make look cool. Her pixie cut is bleached the color of moonlight, with soft pink streaks framing her face. A patchwork of tattoos cover her bare arms like walking time capsules.

I recognize a few from when we were twenty and invincible, but the newer ones are strangers to me, stories she wrote after we stopped being us.

And when she sings . . . oh, when she sings , it’s like nothing’s changed. She still plants one foot forward like the music might bowl her over if she doesn’t, and her lips are practically glued to the microphone. You’re making out with the microphone, Alex , I’d tease her after every show.

The crowd screams her lyrics back at her, louder than the amps. Boys and girls press together, some crying glittery tears, their cheeks streaked with eyeliner and sweat. Black ribbons wrap around their wrists or necks like small rebellions. Some hold their phones high, recording every moment to hold onto later, while others just lose themselves in the moment. There’s so much life down there, so much love, so much reckless abandon, and all of it exists because of her. Alexandra Watanabe’s magic, her alchemy, turning heartbreak and anger and defiance into something beautiful.

I force myself to look away from her, from them, but all I see is the shattered relic of who I used to be. I used to be part of this. Part of her and Ophelia. Now I’m just . . . here.

What would I even say to her?

Hey, Alex, it’s me. Your dumbass best friend who fell apart and never put herself back together. Yeah, hi. Surprise! I’m still a mess.

No. That’s not fair. Not to her. Not to me.

I glance back down, and she’s still singing like she created this universe, her head tipped back, her eyes half-closed. She’s beautiful in the way hurricanes are beautiful—breathtaking and unstoppable and capable of ripping you to shreds if you get too close.

I’m so proud of her I could scream. I’m so jealous I could die.

And somewhere in between all of that, I’m just a girl who misses her best friend.

Alex finishes her first song with a hard strum, letting the note pulse and fade into the crowd. She steps closer to the mic, brushing her hair back with a quick flick of her hand.

“Well, hello, Toronto!” she says, her rasp carrying easily over the cheers. She lifts one hand, waving to everyone like she knows each one of us by name. “Man, I missed this place. I missed you.” She points out at the crowd, and I could swear a dozen people just fainted on the spot. “You don’t even know. I’ve been touring in the States for two months now, and not a single, good cup of coffee. And you know your girl doesn’t support Starbucks, so.” She puts her hands up in surrender, and everyone cheers in agreement. “They have Timmies there, but it’s not the same. Don’t argue with me, I’m right. The donuts taste like cardboard, and guys, the coffee’s just depression in a cup.”

The crowd howls, and I laugh quietly into my hand, shaking my head. She always did have this uncanny ability to make you feel like she was speaking just to you, even in a room full of hundreds.

Next to me, Raees’ deep laugh rumbles in my ear. I glance up and realize just how close he’s standing. Close enough that his arm brushes mine every time I shift, close enough that I can feel the heat of his chest at my back.

And then the thought slams into me: How is she going to react when you tell her you’re married now? I can already picture the look on her face. She’ll probably snort-laugh, roll her eyes, and say something like, “Who the hell gets married? What is this, the 1800s?”

“Anyway,” Alex continues, waving the bottle of water in her hand, “I gotta say, it feels weird being home. It’s like everything’s the same, but I’m not, you know? Like, there’s this new organic grocery store where my favorite bar used to be, and all I can think is, ‘What am I supposed to write sad songs about now? A Whole Foods?’”

The audience laughs again. My little comedian.

“No, but seriously. This city . . . this city raised me. It broke me, too, but it also put me back together. A lot of my songs come from this place. Some of them I wrote with my best friends, drinking Nestea on rooftops, and thinking we’d never grow up. And some of them . . .” She pauses, and the room stands with bated breath. “Some of them I wrote alone, on my bathroom floor, with tequila in one hand and a notebook in the other, wondering how the hell I ended up there.”

I press my fingers into the railing, hard enough that it might leave imprints on the metal.

“Songwriting has always been my way of making sense of my feelings. It’s like—I can take the messiest, most complicated emotions and turn them into something clear. Something true. There were times— so many times—when I couldn’t say the things I needed to say to someone’s face. But I could write them down. Put them in a song.” She pauses, her lips curving into a wistful smile. “And now, hearing all of you sing those words back to me? It feels like time folding in on itself. Like I’m reaching back to the girl I used to be—the one crying on her bedroom floor, her mascara smudged and her heart broken—and telling her, ‘Hey, you’re not alone. You never were.’”

“Alex,” I whisper, chin quivering.

She tilts her head, brushing her hair out of her face as her fingers find the C-major chord. “We’ve all had moments when we lost something we thought we’d never get back, haven’t we? But maybe . . . maybe those moments led us here tonight. To this room. To each other. And I don’t know about you, but that feels like magic to me. Tonight feels right. You, Toronto, feel right.”

A single drumbeat rumbles beneath us, and Alex glances back at her drummer, her grin transforming into something feral. “ Let’s fucking do this !” she shouts.

And just like that, the music explodes again.

Strobe lights slice through the crowd, and her bandmates launch themselves into the first song like they’ve been waiting their whole lives for this. Everyone in the crowd moves as one, losing their minds, their voices, their sense of space.

And I’m part of it, too. I jump and let go.

She moves through the setlist, pouring her heart out into every one of these songs. I’m mouthing the words to the ones I remember, the ones the three of us wrote together, scribbled into spiral notebooks in her dorm room. The newer ones I had to memorize—well, let’s just say I’ve had her album on repeat on Spotify so many times that Dua texted me to ask if Alex was paying me royalties.

And I can’t stop smiling. Because I remember the version of her who dreamed about this, who begged me and Ophelia to start a band even though I had rejection anxiety. The version of her who knew this could happen someday. And here she is, living it, owning it, turning every wound she ever bared into a song that makes this whole room feel alive.

I’m just here to witness it, to cheer for her, to love her the way she deserves to be loved. Which, honestly, feels like the easiest thing in the world right now. Because tonight, Alex isn’t just my best friend.

She’s the damn sun. And we’re all just orbiting around her.

Her pale face is flushed, a bloom of life on porcelain, and her pearly-whites are out in full glory, biting down on her bottom lip as she laughs between verses, her emotions shifting like quicksilver.

One moment, she’s snarling through a breakup rock song that makes the walls shake, belting out, “ I was too big for such a little dick!” with a wink that sends the crowd into hysterics. The next, she’s leaning forward, her voice soft and raspy, touching hands with the girls at the front who are melting into puddles at her feet.

I’m melting, too.

No, I’m swooning.

The tears start falling somewhere between the bridge of her song about slashing her ex’s tires and the chorus about sleeping with his mother instead—her melodies all venom and shameless victories. She tosses her head back and screams the last line like, carving it into the universe, and the crowd roars. My face is already wet, streaked with eyeliner and mascara, and I keep wiping at it, but the tears won’t stop.

Fuck it. Let them fall.

Because that’s my best friend. That’s my best friend. I don’t think my heart has ever felt this full, this proud, this alive . She’s up there, shining like a goddamn comet, and I’d be damned if I didn’t cry over it.

The whole room is with me. Everyone in the clubhouse is screaming her name, singing her words, loving her the way she deserves to be loved. And she deserves all of it—every cheer, every hand reaching for hers, every voice screaming her lyrics into the night.

It’s funny, actually. Alex never thought she was capable of being loved. Not by anyone, not by Ophelia and me, not by this room full of strangers, not by herself.

Her parents? Hell no. Her little sister Sloane? As close as they were, God knows where she is now. Relationships? As if. She kept them at arm’s length, too afraid to let anyone close, and too terrified they’d up and run the second they saw her real self.

But her real self is the person I came to love so fiercely. I sometimes think she burns through me, leaving me singed in the best way possible.

My wildfire.

I wouldn’t have had the guts to be any version of myself in university if it weren’t for Alex. I mean, I wasn’t exactly invisible before her, but I was someone who let the world move around her instead of through her. And then she arrived—this five-foot tornado of opinions and winged eyeliner—trying to pick up a cello and play it like a guitar because some classical major told her Nirvana was “sonically offensive to the soul.”

I didn’t even know her yet, but I was done for. Who does that? Who has that kind of fearless, glorious audacity? Alex Watanabe, that’s who.

I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame—or, more accurately, like a moth to a girl actively trying to piss off her music theory TA.

She didn’t just crack me out of my shell; she obliterated it. Yanked me out like she was pulling a sword from a stone, except the sword was me and the stone was all my insecurities. She tore through every doubtful thought I had, every whisper that said, ‘You’re not enough,’ and drowned them out with her sheer Alex-ness.

I didn’t know someone so small could carry so many lives inside her. And somehow, she shared them all with me.

“Are you all right?” Raees’ soft voice cuts through my thoughts.

I realize I’m practically convulsing, racked with sobs so hard I can barely breathe, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders shaking like a tambourine.

But these tears aren’t sad.

Oh, no. Not when it comes to Alex. With Alex, even the messiest, most broken parts of life feel like they were meant to be that way.

Raees’ hand finds my back, gently rubbing the nape of my neck in soothing circles. He doesn’t say anything else as I pull myself together.

It’s not until Alex is down to her last song of the night that I manage to catch my breath.

The strobes are replaced with a single golden spotlight that pools around her like a halo. It’s just her and her acoustic guitar now, perched on a stool in the middle of the stage. Her bandmates are gone, having taken their final sweaty bow before retreating to the greenroom.

Alex adjusts the mic stand, and tilts her guitar forward, fingers curling lightly around the neck. “As much as I love this part of the night,” she says, “I also hate it. Like, really hate it.” She pauses, smiling over the crowd, her fingers brushing idly along the neck of her guitar. “I don’t like walking away after the final song. It’s like, I don’t know, ripping a Band-Aid off or something. I just want to stay here forever and give all of you a big fucking hug.” She wraps her arms around herself, squeezing tight and swaying a little, wiggling her shoulders like she’s hugging the entire room. “So, hopefully, we’re not too sad, huh? Let’s not do the sad thing.”

More cheers and clapping, and whistling like they’d never let her leave.

“How about you guys up there?” Alex leans to the left, squinting dramatically toward the balcony as if she’s trying to pick out faces. “We good up there? Still alive?”

Another round of applause roars down from the balcony.

“Good. I can’t have anyone dying on me tonight. It’d kill the vibe, and you. Mostly you,” she jokes, shifting to my side of the crowd. “And how about over here—” Her words catch mid-air as she freezes.

Her smile drops, and her eyes go wide, almost cartoonishly so.

She leans forward, bracing her hand against her guitar as if she’s not quite sure she’s seeing what she thinks she’s seeing.

Then, suddenly, she’s on the move.

She drags her stool closer to the right end of the stage, and clambers up on it to get a better look. With one hand shielding her eyes from the glare of the lights, she peers into the crowd, her gaze zeroing in on me.

“Zinneerah?” For the first time, her voice cracks on the single syllable. “Zinnie, is that you?”

My words stick somewhere behind the lump that’s been growing in my throat since the first song. But I nod. Slowly at first, and then with more force, raising my hands in a feeble wave.

Alex stares, frozen for a long second, and then, “ Holy shit .” She pulls her guitar over her back, leans as far forward as her stool will allow, and shields her eyes again as if she needs to make sure she’s not imagining me.

Raees’ hand tightens around my waist as I lean further over the railing, both of my arms waving frantically now like some kind of deranged, crying semaphore.

“No way,” Alex breathes, shaking her head in disbelief, her voice suddenly a lot less rockstar and a lot more my-best-friend-is-alive? “No. Fucking . Way.” Her hand flies to her mouth as she laughs, high-pitched and incredulous. I don’t blame her if she thinks she is seeing my ghost instead.

The crowd is cheering, but I don’t hear it. The world narrows to just her and me—the sound of her voice, the way her eyes are locked on mine like no time has passed at all. Like we’re back in her dorm, her floor littered with notebooks and dreams too big for three scared girls to believe in.

I turn to Raees. Tell her to sing. Please.

He clears his throat like a dutiful messenger. “My wife’s asking you to sing!”

“ Wife ?” Alex shrieks, and the sharp feedback from her microphone slices through the room, making a few people wince. She doesn’t even flinch. Just points a dramatic, accusatory finger in my direction. “You’re a wife now?”

I can’t stop laughing through my tears.

Alex, however, is on a roll. “You’re a wife,” she repeats, and she scoffs loudly, planting one hand on her hip. “When? How? And why the hell weren’t Fifi and I there, you little shit?”

The crowd bursts into laughter, and so does Alex, shaking her head like she can’t believe me.

With a final exaggerated sigh, she hops back onto her stool, swipes her guitar back into position, and leans into the mic again. “Change of plan, everyone. I’m gonna sing a song I wrote with my best friend Zinneerah—yes, that Zinneerah, the wife up there—back when we were sleep-deprived students swimming in OSAP debt.”

The crowd cheers again, the energy tweaking from curiosity to full-blown excitement, and I disintegrate.

Alex begins plucking at the strings. She pauses for just a second, glancing up at me, and then starts to sing.

The first few notes wrap around me like a warm blanket, and I close my eyes, transported instantly to the night of Ophelia’s birthday party.

The air smells like frosting and melted candle wax, and my stomach aches from the ungodly amount of cake I ate—the cake I baked, by the way, because I can’t help but overdo things. Everyone’s gone home—her cousins, her relatives, even Tía Isabella, who made her wear that ridiculous plastic tiara that’s now tangled in her curls. It’s just the three of us left in Ophelia’s bedroom, glitter smeared on Alex’s eyelids, and me re-applying my lipstick.

Alex is sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling her electric guitar. Ophelia’s tapping out a rhythm against the floorboards with her drumstick, the thwack-thwack-thwack keeping us all in time. I’ve got my acoustic guitar balanced on my lap, the strings cutting into my fingers. The melody is coming together now, the lyrics bouncing between Alex and me, a back-and-forth game we can’t stop playing.

“Wait,” Alex interrupts. “What if we flip the chorus? Like—” She hums the tune, switching a line mid-air, her hands never stopping their dance across the strings.

“Yes!” I shout. “Do that. Exactly that. That’s it.”

Her phone is sitting in the middle of the circle, recording everything—our voices, our laughter, the way Ophelia groans when she loses the rhythm for a second.

The song is about how, when the three of us hit ninety, birthday parties would still be a thing. Sharing ice cream cups wouldn’t be remotely bacterial—at least, not enough to kill us at that point. Blindfolded makeup sessions would still be hilarious, even with shaky hands and sagging skin, though Ophelia and I always argued that Alex would age like fine wine thanks to her East Asian genes while the rest of us turned into expired yogurt.

But mostly, it was a song about being nineteen. About how, fifty years down the line, we’d sit back and cackle over Alex’s decision to get her ex-girlfriend’s hickey tattooed on her neck (yes, really), Ophelia’s short-lived, but deeply committed furry cosplay phase, and dear, misguided me almost trying to pierce my own nipples with a safety pin because I couldn’t afford an appointment.

We’d titled the song “To You.”

No explanation necessary. It just . . . made sense.

The final note fades, and I lose it. I’m crying so hard I’m pretty sure my face is ninety-five percent mascara at this point. Alex isn’t much better. She’s standing on stage, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout, tears streaming down her face as she throws her arms up dramatically, looking right at me. The gesture is loud and clear: Where the fuck did you go, Zinnie?

I laugh through the tears, my chest heaving, and make a talking motion with my hand, pointing my thumb over my shoulder like I’ll explain later.

Alex nods, swiping at her own eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. Then she turns back to the crowd, giving one final bow with her whole heart. She blows kisses, grazes hands with fans in the front row, and flashes that signature Alex grin where her pierced tongue pokes out from the side. She throws a few more kisses as she disappears backstage, bouncing as she goes.

Exhaling, I release the death grip I’ve had on the railing and press my palms flat against the cool metal. My chest is light, my face is sticky, but my heart? My heart feels like it’s floating somewhere near the ceiling.

“That was incredible,” Raees says from behind me. He gently takes my hand, and tugs me toward the corner where some space has opened up as the balcony crowd filters downstairs. “Alex is . . . wow. She’s a terrific performer.”

I nod, still catching my breath.

He smiles at me, tilting his head. “Did you enjoy it?”

I lift my hands to my cheeks, gesturing dramatically at the black streaks running down them, and let out a hoarse laugh.

“Not to worry.” Like the absurdly prepared person he is, Raees pulls a packet of tissues from his back pocket with a little flourish. “I figured you’d shed a few tears seeing your best friend perform, so I came ready.”

My chin wobbles at the thoughtfulness of it, and I quickly press my lips together to stop myself from crying more. I take a tissue from him with a shaky hand, dabbing under my eyes and along my cheeks. Still scary?

“You never were.” Then, holding up another tissue, he adds, “May I?”

I nod, placing the now-wrecked tissue back in his hand.

Raees raises my chin with the lightest touch, his fingers brushing under my jaw as he starts dabbing carefully at the corners of my eyes. The tissue glides softly along my cheek, and the noise of the concert, the crowd, even my own heartbeat, fades away. That’s just Raees’ magic. Gentle magic.

I blink up at him, a little awestruck, the concert high still pulsing faintly in my veins. He doesn’t rush, or flinch, or seem to notice that I’m staring at him like he’s just handed me the moon.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Raees says, meeting my gaze briefly before focusing back on the task at hand. This time, I don’t look away. “Seeing you tonight—jumping, laughing, crying-laughing—it’s something I won’t forget.” He finishes dabbing at my cheek and sweeps the tissue down to my chin in one smooth motion, folding it neatly in his hand. “Your happiness is contagious.”

God, he’s such a smooth talker.

Normally, I’d shrink up from the embarrassment, cringing like I’d just walked into a glass door in front of a crowd. But with Raees, it’s different. When it’s his voice, like a hum of an old song, I feel calmer. Looser. Deep in my bones, I know he’d never use his words to hurt me.

“Come here.” He takes my hand and guides me closer to him. A group of friends pool behind us, their voices blending into the background noise. His fingers slip through mine, intertwining like they’ve always belonged there. His thumb brushes lightly across my knuckles, back and forth, absentmindedly.

My chest tingles, a shiver running up my spine. When I glance up, I catch him looking anywhere but at me—over the heads of the crowd, down at the confetti-strewn floor, and then up at the stage lights glowing overhead.

Finally, his gaze lowers to meet mine, and when he smiles, it’s like the whole room turns into a field full of life. His golden-brown eyes crinkle at the corners, the kind of smile that’s earned from laughing too much. His high cheekbones sharpen with it, his jawline defined in the harsh colors, a dust of gray at his temples making him look even more impossibly perfect.

I drop my gaze to the floor. I feel like some common pauper staring up at Adonis, wondering what the hell I did to be standing here holding the hand of someone made of stardust and good intentions.

When people see us together, I wonder what they’re thinking. Are they marveling at how gorgeous he is, or are they trying to figure out why a man so magnetic, so put-together, is with someone like me? Someone dreary. Someone gray.

Do his co-workers wonder the same thing? Or do they even know I exist? Has he ever shown them our wedding pictures? Does he mention me with that big, beautiful smile, or does my name stay tucked behind his teeth?

And then there’s his ex-fiancée. If she’s still texting him, clearly, I’m not much of a topic of conversation. Why would I be? He’s not obliged to parade me around. He hasn’t suggested hosting a dinner party to introduce me to his friends—not that I’d know what to say to them anyway.

Does he even have friends? Does he have anyone like Alex and Ophelia?

God, I know nothing about my husband’s social life.

Raees gives my hand a squeeze. “Let’s go downstairs.”

I let him take the lead as we begin descending the steps. When my bag slips down to the crook of my elbow, he stops to fix it on my shoulder, his touch as careful as ever.

I release his hand for a moment. My eyes catch a scrap of pink confetti on the floor, and I reach down to grab it, tucking it carefully into my purse.

“Zinneerah?”

I turn my head toward the voice. A woman in a sleek black suit is descending the stairs from the side, heading straight for us.

“Hi!” she chirps, extending a hand. “I’m Bianca. Alex’s touring manager.”

I shake her hand quickly, my heart pounding harder now.

Raees follows suit, introducing himself as my husband.

“Well,” Bianca says, glancing between us, “Alex is waiting for you in her dressing room. She asked me to come get you. Unless . . .” She hesitates, looking at Raees. “Unless you both have somewhere to be?”

I shake my head so fast I’m surprised it doesn’t snap off my shoulders.

Bianca chuckles. “Lost your voice from all the singing, huh?” She gives me a quick wink. “Been there, done that.”

I look up at Raees. Would you like to come?

He gives me a small, assuring grin. Stand outside.

“Oh, my god,” Bianca suddenly blurts, her face falling into a cringe. “I’m so sorry! That was such an ignorant thing to say. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Raees interrupts, clearing his throat. “We’d like to see Alex now, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, of course!” she says, clearly relieved, snapping back into professional mode. “This way.” She begins walking, her black heels clicking against the floor.

We follow, my hands twisting together as I mentally rehearse what I’ll say when I see Alex. I’ll hug her. For an hour. At least. Then I’ll catch her up on everything—half-speaking, half-typing on my phone, like I did with Professor Daniels. I’ll apologize a thousand times for shutting her and Ophelia out, even though I know Alex won’t let me.

But I have to. I have to explain to her why I vanished. I have to tell her that shutting her out was the only way to keep her safe. If I hadn’t, I would’ve dragged her into my hell, and I couldn’t have lived with myself if she got hurt.

Bianca halts in front of a red door and knocks lightly. “Al—”

The door flies open before she can finish her sentence.

Alex stands there, barefoot, her eyeliner smudged and her hair sticking up at odd angles, like she’d run her hands through it too many times. Her eyes lock onto mine immediately, and her mouth falls open. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares like I’m some fever dream she’s about to wake up from.

And then, “Oh, God,” she breathes. “You’re actually real.”