Chapter 42
Dmitri
“How dare you talk to him like that!” I roar, uncaring about tact or control anymore.
Dad’s face floods red as he crowds me with a long stride, until our noses are almost touching. It's closer than we’ve been in years, and his composure is finally cracking. “How dare you speak to me that way,” he hisses, “in my house, where you’re only a guest.”
Guest.
The word slices clean and my anger flares hot and I scoff. “Right. Guest. That’s all I’ve ever been here. This place hasn’t been home since the day I left.” I turn, heading for the door to chase after Eric.
“He took off awfully quick, didn’t he?” Dad calls behind me, calm but cruel. “It's not the first time he’s left you. Don’t embarrass yourself running after someone who keeps walking away. It’s beneath you.”
I stop at the door and turn to face him again, lip pulled back in a sneer. “Beneath me?” Fury has my entire body quaking as I take a step toward him. “What’s beneath me is standing here letting you talk like this. What’s beneath me is giving a damn what you think.”
“He can’t love you,” Dad says, voice dropping lower, almost pitying. “He doesn’t even love himself. It’s pathetic.”
I take in a few long, steadying breaths to keep from closing the distance and swinging. The words hurt, but they don’t shift the ground under me.
They don't change anything.
Quietly, almost under my breath, I say, “Then I’ll just have to love him enough for both of us.”
Unconditional love is something he’ll never understand, and I don’t waste my breath trying to explain it.
The door slams behind me hard enough to split the frame, and I storm toward the bus.
All I need is him. One person, one touch, one fucking glance from those hazel eyes to pull the rage back from the edge.
A crumpled duffel sits abandoned by the steps, a heap of canvas and straps that stops me cold.
“Eric?” I shout, yanking the door open and climbing inside in one stride. Theo looks up in question, then shakes his head once. I push past him, throwing open every door, compartment, and curtained bunk, heart hammering louder with each empty space.
He’s not here.
Outside again, I yell his name into the open air, but there's no reply. Panic surges blindly through my veins as I dig out my phone, thumb shaking as I hit call. The vibration buzzes against my boot.
His cell is inside the bag at my feet.
No. No. No.
He wouldn’t leave me. Not like this.
I bolt down the driveway, fingers yanking at my hair and staring at the wall of woods encircling the property.
For the next two hours I walk the grounds, voice hoarse from shouting his name, scanning every shadow and every break in the trees for a glimpse of him.
The longer the silence stretches, the more the hopelessness claws in, and my agitation turns to dread.
The others join the search, but their concern is softer.
They’re worried for him, but it isn't crushing.
Not like mine.
They don’t know what it feels like when your head isn’t right, or how the darkness can reach up with cold hands and pull you under.
But I do.
I’ve nearly forgotten about the show when Eric finally steps back onto the bus. His eyes are red-rimmed, brimming with a sadness so deep it hollows him out, and his hair sticks up in wild, damp strands like he’s been running his hands through it for hours.
The sight of him—whole, breathing, here—nearly drops me to my knees. Relief crashes through me hard enough to blur my vision.
He storms past without a word, shoulder brushing mine just enough to sting, then locks himself in the bathroom.
The shower kicks on and water hisses behind the door.
I lean my forehead against it, palms sliding up and down the smooth surface as if the motion could reach through wood and touch him.
As if he could feel me out here, begging without sound.
I’ve never felt so useless in my life.
The water cuts off and the door swings open. Eric stands there, droplets still trailing slow paths down his neck and collarbone, and his skin is flushed from heat.
I don’t move.
I just look at him, begging with my eyes, while every unspoken word hangs between us.
Pleading with him to let me in.
A shaky breath slips from my lips, carrying his name like a prayer.
His gaze finally meets mine, and a hushed, desperate whimper escapes him.
He leans forward, and my heart stutters with the hope that he’s closing the distance.
That he's meeting me for a kiss, and that he might need it as much as I do.
But he only ducks under my arm, slipping past me without a touch and leaving me standing there.
More broken, more confused, and more alone than I’ve ever been.
We get ready for the show, even though every instinct screams to cancel it. Walking away from a venue would torch our career in one night, and it would only shine a spotlight on the reason behind the absence. There's no banter or teasing glances as we prepare, only tension and stress.
We dress in silence, with zippers, snaps, and the rustle of fabric the only sounds.
We drive to the stadium in silence, the hum of the engine filling the space where words would normally be.
We set up gear in even heavier silence, each clank of hardware landing too loud in the quiet.
The dread sits low in my gut the whole time, growing with every minute Eric doesn’t speak to me. Every second he stays quiet feels like another step he’s taking away, like he’s already halfway gone. I keep waiting for him to look at me, to say something.
But he doesn’t.
And the longer the quiet stretches, the more it feels like it's pulling us both under.
If the crowd senses the fracture running through the band tonight, they don’t let on.
Cheers hit just as hard, lights burn just as bright.
The familiar mix rises up—burning dust off the spotlights, stale beer soaked into the floorboards, our sweat mingling with the metallic tang of guitar strings and fresh-struck cymbals.
But the noise of the show can’t drown out the quiet between us, and every beat feels like it’s counting down to something breaking for good.
There’s a distinct difference in Eric’s voice tonight.
It's huskier, rougher around the edges, and every note is laced with emotion that bleeds out of him like he’s singing through open wounds.
I wonder if the crowd even hears it. If they care about anything beyond the sound that entertains them, or the pretty heartbreak they consume without tasting.
If they give a damn about the shattered heart behind it, or the fresh pain they keep inflicting every time they demand more.
“Love of Mine” begins, and the opening chords hit me like an arrow straight to the sternum.
This is my song, the one he wrote when I was the one breaking him years ago.
Each lyric lands heavy, searing into my skin like a brand and reminding me of every hurt I caused while I stand here waiting for him to turn.
To see me.
To look at me and remember that I’m still here.
Our cue for the planned stunt arrives, then passes. Eric keeps his back to me, shoulders rigid under the lights. Tears slip down my cheeks, hidden beneath the rivers of sweat pouring off my face. My mind screams his name in a silent, frantic plea that echoes in my skull.
Turn around.
Please turn around.
I even send up a quiet prayer to whatever might be listening, but either he doesn’t hear the cries I’m hurling into the void, or he chooses not to answer.
He doesn’t turn.
His gaze stays locked forward, fixed on the sea of faces that cheer and scream and tear pieces from him night after night.
The ones who hurt him most.
The ones he keeps giving everything to anyway.
More tears stream down my face, and I’m thankful that there’s no microphone nearby to capture the gut-wrenching sob that rips itself from my throat. Agony threatens to tear me straight in half, but somehow, I push through and make it to the end of the show.
As soon as the final song is done and Eric acknowledges the crowd, he darts off stage, and my sorrow is replaced with rage. White-hot, blinding fury fuels my legs as I charge after him.
“Eric!” I shout, voice cracking down the hallway, but he doesn’t even glance back. “Eric!” The roar tears out of me as I close the distance and slam his back against the wall. “Fuck, Eric, look at me. What the hell is this? What are we doing?”
He mutters my name, and the defeated sound only fuels the fire in my veins.
“No.” My fingers clamp around his chin, forcing his face up to mine. “If you’re gonna break my heart, you do it looking me in the eye.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers, tears flooding his eyes so fast they spill over before he can blink.
“Then stop,” I beg as my voice cracks. “You’re the one choosing this.
You're the one pushing me away and tearing us apart—for what? Because some assholes convinced you you don’t deserve love?
Because you’re not straight? That’s bullshit, Eric.
” My fingertips dig in harder, leaving pits in his skin as I cling like he’s already slipping through my hands.
“Dmitri—”
“No.” I snarl it through clenched teeth, then crash my mouth against his, hard and desperate, because I can’t not kiss him.
I pull back just enough to press my forehead to his, eyes squeezed shut.
“You are everything to me. My whole fucking world. Don’t you dare take that away when I just got you back.
” Somewhere far off I hear someone calling my name, but I don’t look away.
“Don’t do this. Please don’t let them win. ”
His head tries to shake, but I refuse to let go. “You deserve better.”
“I don’t want better,” I say, the words coming out rough. He closes his eyes, fresh tears raining down his cheeks. “I want you. I love you.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t,” he whispers, and it lands like a whip across my chest.
“You don’t mean that.” My voice breaks, mangled and raw as it fights its way out. “You can't fucking mean that, baby, because you are mine.” The last word leaves me on a sob as my hands slide into his hair, fingers twisting and clawing, holding on until it has to hurt. “And I’ll always be yours.”
Our names are shouted down the hallway, so urgently my head jerks toward the sound. Dante looks wrecked, face ashen and eyes wild as he runs toward us. “Not now, Dante,” I manage.
Everything inside me is splintering. My emotions are too big, too raw, and they're spilling over the edges while I cling to Eric like he’s the only solid thing left.
Dante closes the distance in a sprint, breath coming in harsh bursts, and rips the headset from Eric’s ear. “The mic…” he gasps. “The mic is on.”
The blue light blinks in a bright accusation, and time stutters. Eric’s eyes snap wide while Dante’s fingers fumble to kill the feed. Realization hits me like a wave breaking over rocks, and Eric's head falls against the wall with a dull thud.
“Did that broadcast?” I croak.
Dante looks at me—really looks—and nods. “Every word.”
Eric doesn't speak, just pushes himself off the wall, and this time, I let him go.
There’s no fight left in my body as we break down the equipment and load the bus.
I duck into a shadowed corner backstage, pull up the browser on my phone, and type the band name.
The screen floods with countless videos replaying the emotional exchange we never meant to share.
Private, devastating words are now playing on repeat for the world.
The guilt is suffocating. This is my fault. I was too impatient to wait, and too selfish to give him the space his head was screaming for. Instead I forced the conversation, and now I’ve outed him to millions.
How do I ever fix this?
How do I take back words that are already everywhere?
Eric moves like a machine, loading equipment with robotic precision. He keeps his gaze locked on the floor, never once lifting it to meet mine, and I’m paralyzed by indecision.
Do I cross the space between us, grab him, and demand he come back?
Or do I give him the room he’s clearly carving out, even if it feels like letting him slip farther away? I did that once, and I lost him.
What if he never comes back to me this time?
A cautious hand settles on my shoulder. Tai’s usually aloof face is lined with concern. “Come on, Sticks, time to get rolling.”
I nod numbly and follow him to the bus. Eric shoves past us without a word, climbs straight into his bunk, and pulls the curtain shut, sealing himself away from everything.
From me.
Once the engine rumbles to life and the wheels start turning beneath us, Tai hesitates, then turns to face me. “Listen, I know we aren’t the best of friends, but that back there? That wasn’t your fault.”
I snort as I curl tighter against the couch cushions, watching the highway lights streak past like shooting stars in the dark. If only I could catch one and make a wish to undo the last hour.
“It wasn’t,” he insists.
I sigh as tears burn for the tenth time tonight. “Sure feels that way.”
“Give him a chance to work through this. We only have one more show on the tour and then everything will fade into the background again.”
I scoff quietly, because I know he’s right.
That’s exactly what terrifies me most.