Chapter 19 Raina
The moment I step into the rehearsal space, the familiar scent of wood, metal, and dreams swirls around me, wrapping tight like a lingering hug.
It’s cluttered—a haphazard mix of instruments and cables that form a chaotic harmony of creativity and noise.
Each corner pulses with the unspent energy of our past performances, and my heart races with both anxiety and anticipation.
Scanning the room, I catch glimpses of my band members already hard at work, their presence electrifying the air.
Keaton’s busying himself with his drum kit, adjusting the snares and making sure everything is just right.
When he looks up, a warm smile breaks across his face, instantly softening the tension coiling in my stomach.
He twirls his sticks, and the expression on his face says, You got this. I have faith in you.
I wince. That makes one of us. How can I do this with no voice?
Keaton reads me as easily as he has from the start. He gives me a wink. You’ll find your way.
Nash leans against the wall, bass cradled in his arms, the casualness of his posture somehow promises a lightness to our practice today.
“You know, I thought you’d be here sooner.
You were lucky I didn’t start without you.
Almost decided to take up the microphone.
” He grins, and the sparkle in his eyes sends a rush of warmth through my veins.
“One note out of your mouth and everyone in the room would’ve scrambled to pull the plug,” Blake teases.
I roll my eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at my lips. For a moment, it feels like the heaviness of everything lifts.
“Darius!” Nash calls out, shifting his attention as Darius enters the room, guitar slung low. His presence bursts in like a windstorm, lively and magnetic, and I’m instantly drawn to him. “Raina’s here—don’t keep her waiting!”
“Now, why would I do that?” Darius shoots back, his voice smooth like honey, playful. He doesn’t just plug in his guitar; he turns it into an extension of himself, every chord he strums rich with passion. “Got your wishes and your dreams, Raina? Let’s make them true today.”
Before I can respond, Blake crosses the room wearing his usual shy expression but glancing up through his glasses, with a spark of determination. “Everyone ready to make an epic track?” he asks, and something tight in my chest loosens.
The air hums with hope as I glance between my bandmates, their confidence brewing something deep within me.
But before I’m able to absorb it, I catch sight of Tristan leaning against the doorframe.
There’s a moment—just a heartbeat—where everything stops.
The world around me blurs out of focus, and all I can see is him.
As if sensing the shift in my attention, he beckons me over with a tilt of his head, his demeanor becoming more serious.
“Hey,” he rasps, voice low. “Before we get started, I wanted to ask you something. What role do you see me playing in the band? I mean, if you want me to stay? I want to know what you want, Lexi. I’m prepared to support you in any way you want me. ”
My lips part with surprise. I never imagined a scenario where he wouldn’t be here. “Of course I want you.” I swallow, not having said anything out loud in a while. It feels weird that I’ll have to get used to talking again.
Some of the worry melts from his face, and before I can think better of it, I reach out a reassuring hand for his. He was always supposed to be by my side on this journey, so how could I start over without him? I need him now more than ever.
“I can’t practice for another few weeks,” he murmurs, then glances across the room. “Plus, you have Darius playing now. I don’t want to take anyone’s spot. It’s my fault I had to be replaced in the first place.”
He pinpoints my dilemma right away without me needing to say anything. I need them both, and I’m not sure what the answer is here. Right as I open my mouth to respond, Darius jumps in with that same casual confidence. “Once Tristan gets his ribs healed, I’d love to take a crack at the keys.”
His lighthearted nature blends perfectly with the potential surrounding us, and somehow, the solution ignites a flicker of determination deep inside me. It gives me a moment to imagine our future, to envision the art we could create together.
“You would step—“ My throat catches, and I cut off, hating the limitations of my voice. I have to remind myself that I’ve made progress, but the healing won’t all happen in one day.
“Would I step back?” Dare finishes for me. “Yeah, I would. It’s what’s best for the band. I don’t need lead guitar.”
“You sure?” Tris asks him. “You deserve to keep it.”
“We’re a team, and it’s clear you were meant to play standing next to her on stage. Singing with her. It doesn’t take a Storm Chaser to see that.” Dare smiles, and it makes my heart pound in my chest, and of course he has to add a wink to it.
“Don’t lie! We all saw your shirt, D. We know you’re a secret Storm Chaser,” Nash calls out.
“Never said I wasn’t,” Dare throws back, a sparkle in his eyes. It’s one of the first times things have felt completely comfortable between the guys. Throwing jokes around and acceptance of where everyone stands in the group.
“Thanks, man,” Tristan says quietly, nudging the back of his hand to Dare’s arm, making sure he hears him. Dare takes his hand, and they bump chests in one of those bro greetings.
My British bandmate steps in front of me, his thumb and forefinger lifting my chin until we’re staring at each other. “Don’t forget me on the stage, yeah?”
I slowly shake my head, my eyes transfixed on him. Somehow this feels intimate, yet we’re in front of the other guys. Dare has never been shy about wanting me, that’s for sure.
His thumb swipes along my bottom lip, his gaze darting there before meeting mine again. “Good.” I almost sway where I stand when he steps away. I could’ve sworn he was about to kiss me.
And I find I’m left disappointed.
Taking a moment to compose myself, I finally clap my hands together and circle a finger in the air in a let’s get things started motion.
The guys jump into motion of finishing getting ready, the sounds surrounding me as I close my eyes and envision what I want for this writing session.
Taking a deep breath, I can’t help but think it feels like we are exactly where we need to be—ready to practice, ready to push forward, all of us together.
As the setup continues, each member takes their place in a well-rehearsed dance of coordination. The weight of my uncertainty lingers but is softened by the laughter and music drifting through the room, infusing me with energy I didn’t think possible.
I look at Keaton, Nash, Darius, Blake, and finally at Tristan, my breath steadying with every beat of the drum, every chord played. Today we’ll create, we’ll be whole for the first time since my attack.
“Let’s work on something raw today. No pop polish,” Nash reads out loud from where I wrote it on the whiteboard. He pumps his arm in the air. “Woot! Let’s get ready to rock, baby!”
I erase the words and tap my lips with the capped marker, staring at the empty space. My breath is steady, but my heart pounds like a drum in the thick silence. The blank surface taunts me, promising a world of possibilities if I can only channel the messy chaos swirling in my mind.
“Chords?” I say, glancing over at the band, trying to hold on to that determination. Maybe it’ll spark an idea. You’d think with all the scribbling I’ve done in my notebook I’d already have lyrics to work on, but I’m the farthest from that. Nothing felt right for the first song under our new sound.
Keaton taps out a rhythm on the drums while I scribble fragments—unfinished thoughts that try to name the ache sitting in my chest. None of it fits. I cross out the words, frustration threatening to choke me.
“You’ve got this, Raina,” Nash calls out, plucking at his bass. His tone is light, but I feel the weight behind it. Their hope, their faith in me. It’s almost too much.
I move to the keyboard before doubt can settle, fingers hovering over the keys. One tentative chord fills the space, grounding me. The sound is thin, but it’s real. Here’s where my voice should rise—and it feels almost criminal that it can’t.
“Keep going. Whatever comes to mind,” Tristan urges from the back. His encouragement is genuine but somehow feels like another weight pressing down on my shoulders. I nod, swallowing the frustration that’s built like bile.
It feels like so much pressure with all of their eyes on me. Suddenly, a hand lands on my shoulder. Turning around, I find Keaton standing behind me, sticks in hand. He takes a deep breath, and I know without him saying anything he wants me to follow him.
It takes a few rounds, but some of the tightness in my shoulders releases.
Keaton gives me a sharp nod, and I can’t fight my smile.
He’s not saying it, but his actions give the impression of good, my job here is done.
He holds out his sticks and reaches for my hand, wrapping my fingers around them and returning to his kit, drawing out a new set.
With another breath, and my head cleared, I tuck them into the top of my jeans and rest my fingers over the keys. Reaching inside for that hidden melody again, I hit another note, testing the rhythm that might pull the words from my lips. The notes work, but the words still aren’t there.
“I don’t know how to express all of this.” I write out, letting Tristan read it this time. “I want something that feels... true, you know? Broken.”
“Try ‘broken cords, broken chords,’” Dare suggests. I scribble it down on the whiteboard, shaking Keaton’s sticks as if it will shake loose the knots in my mind.
“That’s it! Let’s capture that feeling,” Nash calls out, plucking a gritty bass line that echoes through the space like an awakening.
The air surrounding us suddenly shifts—the rush of his notes igniting the room, lighting the fuse.
I point the sticks at Keaton, signaling I want him to join Nash.
The heartbeat of his drums springing into the air.
As they lean into the pulse, I can’t help but feel my remaining tension recede, sliding down my spine, loosening my limbs.
With renewed determination, I tap out a tentative melody on the keyboard, just a few notes, but something is there.
Darius responds with jagged guitar hooks that flutter through the air, intertwining with the lines I scribbled.
There’s an urgency in the way he plays, the back-and-forth of our creative flow crackling like fire.
I point to Dare with my sticks and write more daring on the board. I get caught in the flow, tapping my foot against the floor as if I can sync the rhythm of the room into something more. Next, I point to Blake and write depth.
Blake settles his cello between his legs, bow poised to capture the moment. It’s as if the music takes on a life of its own. “Here we go,” he says, a determined look plastered on his face, and he draws the bow across the strings, adding a haunting texture that underlines our collective effort.
I hit record on the control board, capturing the chaos we’re birthing as fragments emerge. My confidence grows with each passing moment.
“Too slick—make it ragged,” I instruct as I hurry to write notes to guide us. I’m fully immersed, lost in the rapture of creation, every inch of me pulled into the music.
The band stops and starts, refining sections, my chest humming with the excitement of the sound, the transformative energy coiling between us. Each playthrough is a step closer to what I want. It gnaws at me that I can’t sing these lyrics myself. The words strangle me, demanding their freedom.
As if he can see how much I need that last little bit, Tristan picks up a microphone. “Lexi, can I step in for you so you can hear it all together?”
Tears prick my eyes. The frustration of not being able to do it myself, sure, but even more so is that Tris can see it and is giving me exactly what I need.
Thank you, I mouth, not wanting to use my voice for fear of what might come out right now.
“I’ve got your back. I meant it. I’m here for whatever you need from me.” And with his reassurance, we hit the song again, adding the lyrics this time, allowing me to spot new changes we need to make.
With every iteration, we build on what we’ve created, layers of sound washing over me like waves. I can’t express the need to feel that connection back in my voice, but I sense the chance to reclaim it through our music. And in this space of creativity, the fractures in my heart start to mend.
As the chorus fades and the band comes to a stop, I hit the button to end recording. For a moment, nothing exists but the ghost of our music and the soft buzz of amplifiers cooling down. Their breaths are heavy, but my chest swells with pride.
“That’s it,” I breathe out, surprise blooming within me. “That’s our sound.”