24. Bardic Summons #2
I keep going because if I stop, my brain might catch up. “They're doing a collaborative single with a bunch of frontmen from different bands, and he wants me to record on it.”
Micah's face changes.
Pride hits first.
I know that face.
I've seen it from stages.
It still almost knocks me sideways every time.
“Dex.”
“There's more.”
His eyebrows rise.
“He wants me there early to help work on the song.”
Micah smiles. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“He asked you to write with him.”
“Technically, he asked me to fix a bridge that's disappointing him.”
“Same thing.”
“I know.”
Saying it out loud makes my chest feel too tight.
Micah crosses the kitchen.
He stops between my knees. “You said yes.”
Obviously not a question.
“Before he finished asking.”
“Good.”
I laugh. “You're supposed to tell me to consider my options.”
“No, I'm not.”
“What if Chicago has gangs?”
Micah stares at me.
“I've heard things.”
He puts both hands on my thighs. “You want to go.”
“Yeah.”
The joke disappears so quickly it almost gives me whiplash.
“Really fucking badly.”
“I know.”
His hands squeeze once. “Then go.”
I look down at him. “I was hoping you'd come.”
“Okay.”
“That's it?”
“Did you want me to make you beg?”
My dick, traitorous little opportunist that he is, shows interest in this conversation.
I point at Micah. “Stay focused.”
His mouth curves.
“Austin gave me two backstage passes.”
“Cami?”
“Yeah.”
“Obviously.”
Thank fuck.
Not that I thought he'd object.
Still.
Something loosens.
“I want to check with everybody.”
Micah nods. “Then check.”
I grab my phone.
He stays between my knees while I open the group chat.
Dex
okay
nobody panic
Griffin
No
Cami
That is literally the phrase most likely to make us panic
Ronan
What happened?
Dex
nothing happened
something HAPPENED
Micah
Austin Fletcher called him
The chat stops for a few seconds, no typing dots or anything.
Cami
WHAT
Dex
BABE I WAS BUILDING SUSPENSE
Micah
You were taking too long.
Griffin
Why did Austin Fletcher call you?
Dex
rude phrasing
but fair
I type the explanation.
It takes three messages.
Then four because I remember the songwriting part and refuse to bury the lede.
Cami responds first.
Cami
DEX
OH MY GOD
THE SONGWRITING PART???
THAT IS HUGE
My chest does the thing again. I ignore it.
Dex
anyway
two backstage passes
I was thinking Micah and Cami
but checking with the council because healthy communication or whatever
Ronan
I am deeply relieved not to be selected for a crowded amplified charity concert in another state.
I laugh.
Dex
so brave of you to admit that
Ronan
Take Cami.
Cami
I HAVE NOT EVEN BEEN ASKED
Dex
Dollface will you please come to Chicago with me and Sad Boy and be cool backstage while I become insufferable
There's a pause.
Cami
YESSSSS!
Obviously yes
Griffin
I'm good with it.
And before you ask, no, I do not feel excluded.
Dex
I wasn't going to ask
Griffin
Someone was
I have work anyway
Go have fun
Ronan
And wear hearing protection.
Dex
GET OUT
Cami
He's right
Micah
He's right
Griffin
He's right
I stare at the betrayal unfolding in real time. Then I look at Micah grinning.
Dex
this family is abusive
Ronan
Incorrect use of the term.
Dex
emotionally persecuted then
Cami
I'll bring earplugs
Dex
fine but make them slutty
Cami sends a middle-finger emoji.
Micah is laughing quietly against my knee.
I look down at him.
“So that's handled.”
“Looks like it.”
My phone buzzes again.
This time it's the Grave Intentions group chat.
Nothing important.
Cruz wants to know whether practice can move Wednesday because he has a date.
Mila says no.
Alex has sent a scheduling poll because apparently we've reached middle age.
I stare at the names.
A weird little pinch catches under my ribs.
Austin didn't ask for Grave Intentions.
He asked for me.
That should feel uncomplicated.
It mostly does.
I love my band.
We've been playing together long enough that I know exactly when Mila is going to step into a harmony without looking at her, exactly how Alex's bass shifts when he's irritated, exactly how many times Cruz will lose a stick during a set if he's had more than two drinks beforehand.
We practice a couple nights a week.
Play maybe ten shows a year.
I write songs because I always have.
Because sometimes a line shows up in my head while I'm pouring a whiskey sour and refuses to leave until I put a melody under it.
Because getting onstage makes something inside me click into place.
But it has always been something I love.
Not something I built my life around.
There's a difference.
Micah sees me looking at the phone.
“You haven't told them yet.”
“No.”
“You going to?”
“Obviously.”
He waits.
I sigh. “Probably in person.”
“Okay.”
“I don't want it to sound like…”
I trail off.
Micah doesn't finish the sentence for me.
He never does that.
Like I'm leaving them behind.
Like being excited about someone wanting me separately somehow means I don't want what we've built.
Like wanting more is a shitty thing to do when I'm already lucky.
I rub both palms over my face. “This is stupid.”
“No.”
“I haven't even gone anywhere yet.”
“No.”
“Austin invited me to one charity show, not the Grammys.”
“Also true.”
“You're very helpful.”
“I try.”
He steps closer again. His hands settle at my hips. “What are you actually scared of?”
“I didn't say I was scared.”
Micah raises an eyebrow.
“Fine.”
I look down at the email again.
My name is still there.
DEX MERCER — vocals / writing session
“I think I'm scared I'm going to like it too much.” The words come out quieter than I intend.
Micah doesn't react immediately.
So I keep going.
“Not Chicago. Obviously I'll like Chicago. Food, music, probable bad decisions. Great town.”
“Dex.”
“I know.”
His expression softens.
And there it is—the part that makes jokes harder.
“For years, music was just…” I search for the word. “Mine. It could be big in my head without actually requiring anything from me.”
Micah listens.
“Grave Intentions is good. We have fun. We write. We practice. We play enough shows that I get the rush without having to blow up my life over it.”
“And now?”
“Now somebody who actually does this for a living looked at me and went, 'Hey, come do this with me.'”
Micah's thumbs move slowly against my sides. “That's a good thing.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I laugh once.
“Currently under review.”
He smiles.
I don't.
Because the thought has already gotten loose.
What if Austin likes what I do in the studio?
What if one invitation becomes another?
What if somebody else hears the song?
What if there are more shows?
More writing rooms?
More cities?
I used to think that would be easy.
You go.
You chase the thing.
You figure out the rest later.
Except now the rest lives here.
Micah standing between my knees.
Cami's blood sugar stuff on the counter.
Ronan's stupidly precise coffee setup shoved into one corner.
Griffin's keys by the door.
Five stockings we still haven't taken down because Cami claims Christmas decorations can legally stay up through January and nobody has had the energy to litigate it.
Home.
Fuck.
I have a home.
Not the place where my mail comes.
Not the place I sleep between shifts.
A real one.
One I would miss.
Micah reaches up and cups the back of my neck. “You don't have to solve a career you don't have yet.”
I blink.
“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”
“Sorry.”
“What am I supposed to do with all my spiraling?”
“Save some for Chicago.”
I laugh.
He leans in and kisses me.
Slow.
Easy.
When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead against mine.
“Go record the song.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Play the show.”
“Okay.”
“Then come home and decide what you want next.”
My throat tightens.
There are approximately seventeen jokes available to me.
Not one of them survives.
So I just nod.
“Okay.”
That night, Micah falls asleep before I do.
He's on his stomach, one arm shoved under the pillow and his other hand resting close enough that I can reach it without moving much.
My phone glows against the blanket.
I've listened to the demo Austin sent six times.
The bridge is bothering me now too.
Fucker.
I've already written three possible lyric changes in my notes app and changed one chord progression in my head.
This is a problem.
A really, really fucking good problem.
I go back to Austin's email.
Chicago.
Studio.
Benefit.
My name.
Months ago, I stood in front of sixty thousand people and felt bigger than my own body.
Then I came home.
At the time, those felt like two completely separate things.
The stage and the house.
The version of me who belongs under lights and the version of me who steals Micah's hoodies and pisses Ronan off and lets Cami put her cold feet under my legs on the couch.
I never really had to ask whether both versions could exist at the same time.
Now I might.
The scary part isn't that I could go to Chicago and fuck it up.
If I suck, I come home.
Play at Lair 47.
Write songs nobody outside Colorado ever hears.
Keep pouring drinks and playing ten shows a year and being ridiculously fucking happy anyway.
Failure has an exit strategy.
I look at the studio schedule again.
At my name beside Austin Fletcher's.
My pulse kicks.
Because what if I don't fuck it up?
What if I walk into that room and belong there?
What if Austin was right to call me?
What if this works?
Beside me, Micah shifts in his sleep.
His fingers brush my wrist.
I turn off the phone and lace mine through them.
Chicago first.
The rest can wait its fucking turn.