Chapter 56
fifty-six
Avonna
Eleven Months Later
Five months into the move, the house finally feels lived-in.
Sunlight streaks through the kitchen in the mornings.
Sloane and Quinn chase each other barefoot across the tile. Our shoes pile near the door. Linus’s favorite coffee mug lives on the windowsill.
We’re finally in our forever home.
Only, we haven’t been here much.
For the past ten days, we’ve been buried in the studio with Ty and Connor, chasing the same lightning we caught on the last album three years ago.
Tyson Rainier is one of the most-sought-after producers in the business now, but he’s back with us, hoping to help us strike gold again. Our previous collaboration sparked Fireball’s last resurgence, right before everything paused when I got pregnant.
Then, unexpectedly, From the Ashes exploded as the theme for Netflix’s hit show, The Kerry Line, and our appearance at the Grammys turned heads. Linus’s solid guidance has the industry paying attention again. People want to believe in us. We all know this is probably our last shot.
The pressure is high.
This record has to hit.
Most nights, we crawl into bed still in our clothes, too wiped to do more than grab a couple of hours of sleep. No kissing. No cuddling. No sex. There’s nothing left to give each other at the end of the day. Liam and I are pouring it all into the music.
Linus is holding us together with paperclips and strings.
Maureen flew down to help the nanny while we work. I thank her every day, even when the guilt gnaws at my ribs. We leave before the twins wake. Come home long after they’ve gone down. We’re able to keep this pace because we only have a few more days before Ty times out.
The clock’s ticking. We have to finish what we started.
The record is good. Better than good. It’s wild, sharp, and tender. Guts and glass. It sounds like all of us, pulling in different directions, trying to make something real.
It should feel like a miracle, but there’s something out of reach.
Liam’s unraveling. He won’t say it, but I see it in the small things.
The way he won’t meet my gaze when he misses a harmony.
The way he lingers in the booth after a bad take, as if the silence will punish him more brutally than anyone else.
The way his body flinches when Padraig barks a correction from the control booth.
Linus sees it too. He doesn’t push. He stays steady, as always. He’s able to calm Liam when he needs it most. During breaks, he checks in. Re-centers us. Keeps the center from cracking.
We’re an unbreakable unit. Linus, Liam, and me. Onstage and off. The rhythm is instinct now. The way we move. The way we reach for one another when things fray.
Unfortunately, Padraig’s the fray.
The dynamic has shifted from the twins being the inner circle of Fireball. Since day one of this recording session, Padraig’s cut through every moment with sharp edges. Loud. Moody. Unpredictable. He slams doors. Rewrites fills mid-song. Pulls apart arrangements he loved the day before.
“I don’t know where I fit anymore,” Padraig confessed last night, pushing his takeout container aside as if he’d lost his appetite for more than food.
We were crowded around the table with Connor, Ty, and his wife Zoey, the conversation drifting between logistics and half-made plans.
“You three talk about your family and I’m standing on the outside tryin’ to figure out where my life went sideways. ”
The room went quiet.
Not awkward.
Heavy.
Liam stared at his hands like he was counting old scars.
Padraig kept going, voice uneven now. “You’ve got this…unit. A direction. A house. I’m stuck living a life I don’t know if I want.”
No one interrupted him.
His personal life is in tatters. Padraig isn’t cruel. He’s drowning.
Instead of asking for help, he keeps circling a wound Liam has always worried about. His anger and hurt when Liam kept his life secret. The moment he realized the three of us were a unit he wasn’t part of.
Liam absorbs it all like penance. He continues to believe he owes his brother every inch of himself. Every compromise. Every silence. He thinks holding the band together means letting Padraig take pieces out of him without protest.
He’s wrong.
Every time Padraig pushes, Liam retreats further inside himself. Shrinks. Carries the weight alone. Linus and I see it happening in real time, the fault lines spreading between the twins like cracks in a foundation.
If we don’t find a way to bring Padraig back into the fold, the band won’t survive.
The brothers might not either.
I glance over to where Padraig’s adjusting something on the kit he’s already tuned twice.
“Hey.” I walk over and touch his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
He tightens the hi-hat like it’s a ticking bomb. “No sleep.”
“Is Mara okay?”
He sighs heavily. “Hard to know. She’s always restin’.”
“I was thinking.” I crouch down. “I’m happy to keep her company one of these days. Maybe give you and Liam time to spend together.”
Padraig finally looks at me. “Her mum’s there. She’s got it covered.”
“I know.” I tilt my head. “I just thought…”
“I’m fine,” he cuts in. “There’s no need to try and patch things up with me and my brother. It’ll work itself out at some point.”
I wait a beat. “You’re carrying a lot.”
“Well, Avonna.” He exhales through his nose, short and sharp. “We all are.”
“True.”
He swallows. “Let’s get through this fucking session so I can get home.”
Padraig grabs his sticks and heads into the control room. Liam waits in the booth, headphones on, eyes forward.
The track rolls. He belts it out. Gritty, raw, full of fire.
Silence.
Padraig taps on the mic, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Jesus, Dar. You’re still rushin’ the bridge.”
Liam yanks off his headphones. “You fucking wanna sing it then?”
“Maybe I should.”
“Okay, kids. Walk it off.” Ty stands, already tired of this.
Liam’s gone out the side exit before the echo of Ty’s voice fades.
Padraig stays, polishing a cymbal with a smirk on his face.
Connor goes after Liam.
Linus crouches beside me. “They can’t keep doin’ this.”
I lean into him. “He’s unraveling.”
“Aye. I see it.”
“He thinks he has to fix everything.” I glance out the door Liam departed from. “Padraig’s resentment, this album, our future, us.”
“He’s scared.” Linus kisses my temple. “Wants to prove his choices were worth it.”
“They are.”
“I know.”
We sit in silence for a while. Connor and Liam return about ten minutes later. Liam heads into the booth, slides on his headphones, and closes his eyes.
Ty hits record.
What comes through the speakers isn’t clean. It’s guttural, aching, alive.
Liam doesn’t perform the lyrics, he confesses them. Every note scraped from somewhere deep, where pain meets purpose.
Padraig doesn’t move. His hand drops from his knee. His gaze stays locked on the glass.
Linus slides his fingers into mine.
When Liam finishes, the entire room is electrified.
Ty exhales. “We’ve got it. Perfection.”
No one speaks. Even Padraig.
What lives between us is bruised, but breathing.
We’re going to survive.