Axel
T he others hated it when drank orange juice straight out of the carton, but he was so thirsty he finished what remained in a few gulps. He stared out the kitchen window; it was already dark out. His hands ached from the hours he’d spent in the basement playing. Since he couldn’t hear the TV blaring, he guessed August was in the game room at the other end of the house. Bart, their four-year-old German Shepherd, hadn’t come scratching at his door, so he must have still been posted outside Cillian’s bedroom door upstairs. It looked like he’d eaten his breakfast, at least.
“If you keep drinking August’s orange juice, he’s going to poison it,” Nick said, coming in from the garage.
“I’m not worried. We can’t afford to lose another band member.” broke down the empty carton and tossed it in the recycling.
“Not funny.” Nick glared at him, the same evil eye he shared with his sister. Except Phoebe was much sexier when she was mad.
“Any luck with Phoebe? Has she thought anymore about moving in?” asked, wiping the sweat from his neck with his T-shirt. The house was big enough for all of them. They’d bought it together during the pandemic so they could still release music. After two years, they’d got so used to living together they’d never moved out.
“She’s going to think about it, I didn’t want to press the issue. She didn’t say, but she must be lonely in the apartment. Judging from how clean the place was, she’s bored out of her mind without her painting.”
saw the worry in Nick’s eyes as he took two beers from the fridge. He wished Phoebe wouldn’t be so stubborn. With nine bedrooms, two recording studios, ’s basement (no one could stand his drumming at four a.m.), and August’s game room, none of them had to be around each other if they didn’t want to be.
“You told her about your parents?” asked, having heard him hotly debate the topic with Anita that morning before he’d left to run Phoebe’s errands.
“Sadly, my mum beat me to it. Mum’s worried about Dad’s heart, so they aren’t going to come to the funeral. Not that I blame them. It’s going to be a shitshow with all the media. I don’t want Phoebe to attend, but there’s no way she’d sit it out,” Nick said, taking a seat at the counter as took some burgers from the fridge.
“Regardless of what happened, she loved Cill and needs closure. We all do, and if she didn’t attend, it would only feed speculation,” said.
Nick had been helping Cillian’s mum with the funeral arrangements, and knew Nick was best left alone until he asked for help, no matter how much he was struggling. Until then, he’d back him from afar.
“It’s not the media I’m worried about. Phoebe’s not only grieving Cillian—I’m worried about her hand. The physio is obviously painful, and the thought of her dealing with it all alone is—” He cut himself off, and could see how helpless he felt.
“Let’s get through the funeral and be there for Phoebe in whatever way we can. We made a mistake not telling her about Cillian, but we can make it up to her by being there for her now.” patted his friend’s shoulder, hating what he had to ask next. “Cillian’s mum called while you were out, and Helen is named in his will. She’ll be at the will reading at his mum’s house.”
Cillian’s mum had insisted on hosting the others in his childhood home. Hopefully it would be too packed for Phoebe to notice Helen’s presence.
“What was Cillian thinking? Why would he put her in his will? What else wasn’t he telling us?” Nick picked at the label on his beer. “I’ll have to tell Phoebe at the funeral, I don’t want her to be blindsided by Helen being there. We can’t stop Helen from coming or it could cause a scene that would only add to the feeding frenzy.”
“We’ll keep them separate for as long as possible. By the time the reading takes place most of the guests will have left. August and I can run interference,” said, almost happy to have something to do on the dreaded day.
He’d been cooking up some burgers while they talked. Nick wasn’t sleeping, but tried to keep them fed. Nick had always bordered on lanky, so he couldn’t afford to lose any more weight. didn’t mind cooking; like drumming, using his hands relaxed him. It also kept a sense of normalcy in the house. They owed it to Cillian’s memory to hold it together at least for a couple more days.
“What? Like lock them in separate rooms?” Nick chuckled, taking out the burger buns from the cupboard.
“If we have to.” clinked his beer against Nick’s. “Speaking of have to—you need to get some sleep. You’re going to burn out at this rate.”
“Sleep sounds good, but Cill’s mum wants me to write a eulogy,” Nick said as handed him a stacked burger. “She’d asked us all to do one, but August and public speaking…”
“I can find Cillian something to wear, and August can stand with us while you speak,” assured him.
Out of habit, he’d cooked four burgers instead of three. He considered tossing it before the others saw it, but that felt wrong. Instead, made the extra burger and left it on the counter where Cillian used to sit. Nick stared at it and cleared his throat. They shared a moment of silence, eating as though their friend was still with them.
“What about the suit he wore to last year’s Hotify awards?” asked, once he’d finished.
“Should be fine,” Nick agreed, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
August came around the corner from the sitting room having smelt the food.
“I’ll figure it out. August, you want to give me a hand?” asked, as August took a plate.
“No.” August sat in front of the TV by the dining table that separated the sitting room and kitchen.
didn’t ask twice. That was the most August had spoken since they had got home—he didn’t like that Phoebe wasn’t staying with them. It was a start, and his eating felt like a win.
On the second floor, hesitated at the end of the hallway. He fought the urge to knock on Cillian’s door before heading in, and his chest tightened as he walked inside. Cillian had been extremely sensitive about his privacy, which made sense considering all the secrets he had.
He tripped over the box of Cillian’s belongings from the tour bus at the end of his bed. The room was rather musty, and he opened the curtains and windows to air it out. Not wanting to linger, he found the collection of suits in the walk-in wardrobe by the wall of trainers. Cillian’s awards suit: he wore it for every award event for good luck. smiled to himself; hopefully it would bring him luck in his next life. He put the suit bag on the unmade bed before searching Cillian’s collection of T-shirts for his favourite Beatles Abbey Road one. Finding it, he slipped it under the jacket in the suit bag and placed a guitar pick inside the pocket, only to find a flask inside. The memory of them sneaking drinks in during reward shows choked him, and he rubbed the tears from his eyes.
sat on the bed to compose himself and picked up their group picture from the opening of their very first tour. Phoebe was on Cillian’s back, while August lay out on the street in front of them. Nick had in a chokehold, and Anita had taken the shot. The best days of his life. Before the band’s original drummer left, he’d been a freelancer hopping from band to band, but joining B.O.A. had felt like coming home. They’d had little to no money, shared one bus and lived on takeout.
Wiping a stray tear with the back of his hand, he set down the picture. Lost in his memories, he accidentally dropped it down the back of the bedside table.
“Hopefully the glass isn’t broken,” he muttered. Reaching down, he eased the frame out carefully only for it to get stuck down the side of the bed. He gave it a shove, and the frame popped out along with a black leather notebook. He flipped through the pages, noticing how similar it was to Phoebe’s. Except, instead of finding song lyrics, he found diary entries that dated from the beginning of last year.
He shouldn’t be reading this. He should give both journals back to Phoebe and mind his own business—but he hesitated. What if what was written inside only hurt Phoebe further? Maybe he should do a quick scan to make sure first.
He felt his conscience shaking his head, but he flipped to the final entry, to make sure it wasn’t Cillian professing his undying love for another woman. He set aside his morals and started reading.
I’m going to tell Phoebe. The lads in AA said that I should come clean. That if I’m serious about my sobriety I need to stop sabotaging our relationship and confront my mistakes. I don’t know how to tell her, I love her so much, and I hate myself for what I’ve put her through. If I’d told her sooner about the cheating, then things wouldn’t have got so out of control. How am I supposed to tell her that I’m going to be a dad? How can I even be a dad when I can’t look after myself?
Fuck, Nick will kill me, and I don’t blame him. I promised him that I’d look after her, that I’d never break her trust. He promised not to tell Phoebe about the cheating if I came clean, but he doesn’t know about the baby. I can’t fire Helen to keep them from finding out, but I’ve already made sure she and the kid are set up. I feel like the shittiest person alive. Once the tour is over, I’ll tell Phoebe. I’ll tell them all everything.
The worst part is that someone already knows. They’re taunting me. Someone left a baby grow in my dressing room with a ‘world’s best dad’ slogan. I thought it was , but if he’d found out about the baby, he’d make me confess. There is no way he would tell Phoebe, he wouldn’t want to be the messenger that breaks her heart. I see the way he looks at her, like he’s waiting to swoop in and be the fucking hero. Maybe I should let him. She deserves better.
Fuck, the paranoia is driving me crazy, and Anita won’t stop nagging me to FIX IT. I would if I fucking could. What if this someone tells Phoebe before I get the chance? I can’t lose her; I can’t lose any of them…
slapped the notebook shut. He wasn’t surprised by Cillian’s accusations about his feelings for Phoebe, but Helen’s pregnancy felt like a gut punch. So that was why he couldn’t end it with her.
He couldn’t bring this to the others; there were too many unanswered questions, and with the funeral in two days, he couldn’t drop the bomb now. He hoped Helen would keep it quiet, but then it struck him.
The will reading. Now it made sense why she was attending. Cillian might’ve been a prick, but he would make sure his kid was looked after.
He grabbed the suit and closed Cillian’s bedroom door behind him. In the safety of his basement, he placed Cillian’s journal in his bedside drawer with Phoebe’s notebook. He stared at the closed drawer and contemplated whether he should give the books back to Phoebe, but this was not the week to do it. Unlike Cillian believed, he didn’t delight in being the bearer of bad news, especially not when it was going to hurt those he cared about most.