Chapter 8 Stevie
eight
Stevie
Four months Later
I’m conflicted as shit.
I glance out the window as steam coils off my coffee, fogging the chipped window above the sink.
Outside, Pullman’s painted in grays and browns. Two students across the street are unloading lopsided pumpkins from the back of a rusted Dodge. One slips and splits open on the driveway. Seeds scatter. They howl laughing.
We’re all finally waking up and it’s not quite noon. Padraig’s in the shower. I can hear Liam in the basement setting up for rehearsal. I’m not sure where Felicity is.
The house is thick with the aftershocks of last night’s gig.
Fireball played a packed-out frat house until nearly four a.m. Bodies were pressed wall-to-wall, making the whole place heave like a living organism.
After, Liam was buzzing so hard he practically vibrated.
I’ve never seen him so happy. Padraig and Felicity beamed, basking in the glow of their biggest gig yet.
I was proud. Really, I was.
On the other hand, wedging myself between sticky couches and dodging grabby hands while the band shreds on stage isn’t exactly my dream Friday night.
We didn’t get home until nearly six. Padraig was keyed up. Erection pressed against my ass the second our bedroom door clicked shut behind us. He bent me over the bathroom sink, fucked me fast and deep with one hand around my throat and the other clamped over my mouth to muffle the sounds.
The man’s a goddamn machine. Honestly, though? Even the most devoted girlfriend needs more than five hours of sleep. I’m wrecked.
At least we have our own place now, a lopsided off-campus rental untouched by contractors since the seventies.
It’s a disaster, honestly, with cracked drywall and slanted floors.
The heater creaks and the carpet on the stairs downstairs to the basement crunches when you step on it.
They’ve set up their rehearsal down there and it reeks of incense, sweat, and whatever body spray Liam’s using this week.
The guys found the place right before the semester started. Felicity moved in next. Then, me.
When Padraig asked if I’d be okay with it, it wasn’t really a question. “You’ll love it,” he cooed. “We’ll make it ours.”
I do. Mostly. He and I have the master bedroom, with an en suite bathroom and a door that locks, thank God.
Making it “ours” means we splurged on a new king mattress which we keep on the floor.
Books are stacked in uneven towers beside the bed and we have a thrifted IKEA desk where my laptop lives.
Padraig’s easel and paint are set up by the window.
Liam took the next-biggest room on the opposite side of the house. Felicity’s room is across the hall from him.
I like her for the most part. Unlike her stage persona, she’s quiet. Shy, almost to the point of invisible. Never in the way. Always humming. We haven’t talked much, but she’s easy enough to live with. Part of me is relieved to have another woman in the house.
I can’t deny things are different than last year. Somehow the energy changed during the time I was back in Seattle with my family. I can’t help but wonder if, in the space I left behind, Felicity’s presence is propelling them into who they are meant to be and has reshaped itself without me.
Leaving me to figure out who I am outside the bubble of loving Padraig.
Fireball Isn’t some scrappy project anymore.
They’ve worked hard in a short period of time developing a distinct sound.
Padraig is in a creative bloom, writing songs and creating potential logos.
Liam’s guitar and vocals are maturing. Felicity’s haunting alto wraps around their Celtic rock-meets-grunge vibe like velvet over steel.
It’s real and exciting and I’ve kept my promise to help. They’re playing every weekend for the rest of the semester. Frat parties. Dive bars. Campus events. An upcoming wedding.
I do it because I love them.
No, because I love him.
The truth is, I’m good at it. Booking gigs, wrangling logistics, herding three creative minds, it comes easy to me.
So much so, I’ve locked in my major. I’m studying Hospitality Business Management.
In two years, I’ll be staging galas in five-star hotels, orchestrating destination weddings, and running fundraisers where everything sparkles.
I sit in class envisioning soaring hotel lobbies and linen-draped banquet rooms. I map out timelines and venue layouts like I’m already orchestrating million-dollar events.
The problem is, instead of keeping up with my coursework, I find myself immersed in their band shit. Padraig behind his kit, drenched in sweat and joy, is more alive than I’ve ever seen him. Music softens Liam’s edges…
They’ve had a rough few years and it’s amazing to see them coming into their own.
“Babe?” Padraig steps into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and barefoot. His jeans hang low, an old flannel is open over his lithe, bare chest. “You seen my new drum head?”
I nod toward the couch. “Leaning against the couch.”
“You’re a genius.” He grins and leans down to kiss the top of my head. “I’m heading downstairs.”
“I’ll be down in a sec.” I gesture to my coffee.
“Bring it with.” He squeezes my shoulder and I dutifully follow him to the basement.
It’s a mess of amps and cables and empty fast food containers. Felicity’s perched on the stool in a track suit, her long black hair pulled into a high ponytail. She chews on her thumbnail, waiting for the guys to start.
Padraig replaces his drum head and sets the click track. Liam hits the first chord, nodding to Felicity. “Okay, from the top.”
They launch into Breakwater, a new tune with soaring harmonies and a fiddle hook emanating from Padraig’s Logic sampler he uses to recreate the instruments they don’t actually have right now.
Felicity’s voice cuts straight through me.
It’s wild how fast she adapted her jazzy riffs to suit Fireball’s Celtic sound.
The rehearsal continues in fits and starts. Felicity fiddles with her mic levels. Liam tries different iterations of a bridge he swore was final. Padraig moves through it all with a quiet intensity, knuckles tight around his sticks. Everyone’s exhausted, but committed.
To finish the session, they run another new tune, Tir na nóg and the whole garage vibrates with the thunderclap rhythm Padraig and Liam built months ago. Felicity nails the final note, delicate, mournful, lingering, then it’s done.
“Yeah.” Padraig pulls off his headphones. “I think it’ll be ready for the next gig.”
I nod from my perch on the amp. “It sounds great. It’ll even get better when you play it live a few times.”
Truthfully, the song is more than great. It’s haunting. Melancholy with an undercurrent of rage. It makes you stop midsentence, midstep, mid-anything, and when it’s done, it lingers in your chest.
Rather than acknowledging me, though, Padraig glances at Liam and Felicity. Like he needs their opinion more than mine.
Going forward, this is how it’s gonna be from now on, I realize as I trail behind him upstairs. My emotions are confusing. I’ve always rejected the idea of being their manager. I turned down the lead vocal position about a million times. The idea of touring has no appeal.
At the same time, in a few short months, Felicity’s now their third. A true, permanent member of the band. She deserves to have more of an opinion in her role so it’s probably as it should be, but it stings a bit.
Once upstairs, Liam wastes no time and takes off. Felicity disappears into her room. Padraig and I order a pizza and watch TV for a bit, then go to bed early.
We shower. Fuck lazily. Afterward, we lie tangled in our sheets, half-asleep.
“Something’s different.” I stroke little circles around his nipple.
His chest rises under my palm. “What d’you mean?”
“You.” I flick my eyes up to his. “You’re in it. Fully in it. With the band. With Liam. It’s like I’m watching you blossom into a rockstar.”
His silence isn’t defensive. It’s careful. Classic Padraig McGloughlin contemplation.
“Liam needs me right now, he was worried you and I were going to run off and get married and I’d quit.”
I shift, pressing my cheek to his collarbone. “I’m not jealous or anything. It’s an observation.”
His hand slides up my back. “I’m enjoying myself.”
“I’m trying to understand what’s changed for you.” I wind my finger around his long hair. “Other than the band logo, you haven’t sketched or painted since we moved in here.”
Another beat. He sighs. “When you were in Seattle, Liam and I spent nearly every night working on arrangements. New riffs. We’d fall asleep watching old Thin Lizzy live shows or arguing over drum fills. It was like when we were kids. Before everything went to hell.”
I close my eyes thinking about how Rory turned into a monster and nearly killed Liam.
“Liam and I always dreamed we’d do this with Connor,” he adds. “Be the next U2. The Irish answer to Zeppelin. It was dumb kid shit, but Connor had us convinced…”
“Babe. I was there. Up until recently, it seemed like you were living your brothers’ dreams, though.” I roll onto my back.
“Aye.” Padraig flings his arm over his eyes. “I love to play, but I’ve never cared about being famous. Such a dumb thing to aspire to, right?”
“Is it?” I gently move his arm so I can see his eyes.
“Yes.” He swallows. “It is. On the other hand, music changes lives. Either way, for Liam it’s the only thing keeping him upright. I genuinely worry if we don’t make it, he’ll fall apart. Don’t even get me started on Connor’s disappointment.”
Whoa.
I shift, prop myself up on one elbow and stare down at him. His chiseled features are soft in the low light. Lips parted. Brows furrowed.
“I know you love them,” I whisper.
“I do, and you know how it is with Liam.” He looks at me. His eyes darker than usual, serious. Emotional. “He’s always on the brink of spiraling. Not like danger-danger, not yet. He’s finally opened up a bit but I know there’s a lot he’s not saying. Or he doesn’t know how to.”
“I think it’s hard for him to believe the life he wants is available to him in a small town like Pullman. Seattle? Maybe…”
“I agree. I can’t imagine how it would feel to believe no one will ever want all of him.” He winces. “He’s truly convinced he’ll never have what we have.”
God. My heart aches. Not in a sharp, sad way. More like a steady dull pain in my ribcage.
“He’s not wrong to worry.” I take his hand and bring it to my lips.
Padraig looks horrified. “You don’t believe that.”
“I don’t mean it’s impossible. Let’s get real, though. Most people aren’t looking for what he wants.” I massage his fingers, one by one. “I’d never be able to share you with anyone else.”
“Well, I’d make room,” he counters. “If it were you.”
His truth settles over me like a blanket. “I know. I hope you won’t be mad, but, it’s wrong for Liam or Connor to put responsibility for their well-being on you. You deserve to be happy. Live the life you want. You shouldn’t have to compromise.”
He pulls me closer again, tucking me against him. His heart beats steady under my cheek.
“Life is always a compromise. I don’t want you to worry. I’m never leaving you,” he assures me unnecessarily. “Even if the band blows up. Even if we tour. Even if Liam needs me every fucking second.”
“I know that too.”
Padraig and I have found something most people spend their lives chasing. Our love is branded into my skin. It burrows so deep nothing else will ever feel this real.
Yet, sometimes, I lie awake terrified we found it too early. He doesn’t realize we’re shifting, slowly, gently, like two bodies drifting apart in warm water, reaching for each other but no longer securely anchored.
Regardless of his promise, I feel a crossroads looming.
One he doesn’t see coming.
My fear is, whatever path he takes will leave someone devastated.