CHAPTER 3 FAME AND FORTUNE NATE
FAME AND FORTUNE
NATE
Tommy's place is on the second-floor walk-up. I knock once and wait.
A guitar is being tuned on the other side of the door—soft, distracted notes, like he's not really listening to himself.
He never answers right away.
When the door opens, he doesn't look surprised to see me. Just tired. Like he hoped I wouldn't come, but knew I would anyway.
"Thought you'd be at the studio," he says, stepping aside.
"I was," I tell him. "Now I'm here."
The apartment smells like cigarettes and take out. Empty pizza boxes lean against the wall, their lids scrawled with half-finished riffs and chord progressions. A coffee mug overflows with cigarette butts.
There's talent in this room—real talent—buried under neglect like it's been there too long.
I take it in without comment because judgment never helps.
Tommy drops onto the couch, guitar already in his hands. His fingers move automatically, confident even when the rest of him isn't. He plays without looking at the strings, like he hears something the rest of us don't.
That's why I noticed him the first time Julian dragged him into the studio—hood up, eyes down, barely speaking. Then he opened his mouth and let the sound out like it had nowhere else to go.
One of the best guitarists I've seen in a long time.
"You missed three practices," I say, keeping my voice level. "And a recording session."
He shrugs. "Didn't feel like being around people."
"You haven’t been answering your phone. The guys have been worried. I’ve been worried.”
"I needed time."
"For what?"
He stops playing. Sets the guitar down like it's suddenly too heavy.
"Can we not do this right now?"
I sit in the armchair opposite him. It creaks under my weight.
"We don't have to do anything else but sit in silence if that's what you want."
He studies me like he's waiting for the push. When it doesn't come, his shoulders drop a fraction.
So that’s what we do, we sit in silence.
Tommy lights a cigarette. His hands shake—just enough to notice. He exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the far wall.
Julian once told me pieces of Tommy's story in the careful way people do when they're not sure what's theirs to share. The rest came out over time. Half-jokes. Offhand comments. Truth wrapped in humor because it hurt less that way.
A father who abused him. A mother who couldn't protect him. Men who took what they wanted from both of them. Violence that started as defence and turned into habit.
Tommy doesn't know how much I already know. Or maybe he does.
"My old man was a bastard," he says finally. His voice is rough, stripped of performance. "Beat the shit out of me and that wasn't even the worst of it."
I don't interrupt.
"My mom… she was gone most of the time. Even when she was there.
" He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "When she finally left him, I thought that was it.
Fresh start. But it was just different guys.
One after another. Some of them…" His jaw tightens.
"Did the same things he used to do to me. Only worse.”
Something tightens in my chest, but I keep my face steady.
"I got bigger," he continues. "Started fighting back. Beat them before they could try anything. Thought that made me strong." He exhales. “But it just made me a problem. My mom kicked me out when I was sixteen and told me I was on my own."
"That's when you met Thatch," I say.
He nods. "I slept in the car for a week before that. Thatch didn't ask questions. Just let me crash on his couch and fuck around on his guitar."
I've seen that bond. The way Julian watches him on stage like he's guarding something fragile. The way Tommy steadies around him without realizing it.
Kind of like the way I used to be around Jake when we were kids.
Music saved him the same way it saved me. Tommy and I are alike in so many ways. That's why I see him in a way others might not.
The difference is I had someone step in before it swallowed me whole.
Tommy rubs a hand over his face. "Now everyone wants something from me. The label. The fans. The fucking internet. They tell you you're special, then they tell you you're nothing if you don't give them more. I don't know who I'm supposed to be anymore."
I nod once. "Unfortunately, that part doesn't get easier."
He looks up at me. "Then why the fuck would I want this?"
"That's the wrong question," I say. "The right one is whether you want yourself."
He scoffs. "What's that, some horoscope bullshit? I don't even know what that means."
"It means," I say evenly, "deciding you're worth more than what people can take from you. It means choosing to stay long enough to figure out who you are when nobody's watching."
He watches me now.
"This industry doesn't care if you live or die," I continue. "It'll celebrate your funeral if the album charts. If you want to survive it, you have to decide what you're willing to protect."
"Like what?"
"Your body. Your mind. Your relationships. The parts of you that don't belong to the public."
He looks away. The cigarette burns down between his fingers.
"I don't know if I can stay clean."
"I didn't ask if you could," I say. "I'm saying if you want help, you've got people who'll show up when you ask."
He's quiet for a moment. Then—softer. "You talk like you've been there."
I look at him. Same edge. Same guarded posture. Same hunger wrapped in control. Just a different age yet somehow, same storm.
"Yeah," I say. "I have."
He waits.
"My dad used to hit me too," I tell him. "For years, I thought that was just how things were. You take it. You move on." I pause, choosing my words. "I found out later he wasn't even my real father."
Tommy's eyes flick to mine. He doesn't interrupt.
"The man I spent my childhood trying to survive?" I say. "Turns out he wasn't even blood. He was just the guy who stayed."
Most people don't know that part of my life. I made sure of it. When the attention started coming, I learned early what stories get turned into headlines and what pain gets packaged for profit. So I kept mine simple. Let the music speak. Let the past stay where it belonged.
Some things don't need an audience. They just need to be understood by the right person.
"So how'd you come out of it so clean and successful?" he asks. "Like you figured it all out."
I let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh.
"Clean isn't the word I'd use," I say. "I made my share of bad calls. Took a few wrong exits. Hurt people I didn't mean to." I glance at the guitar beside him. "What kept me steady wasn't substances. It was the people who didn't walk away. The work. The music."
He watches me closely.
"Drugs don't fix what broke you," I add. "They just make the noise quieter for a while. Good people? Purpose? That's what actually holds."
Tommy laughs once, sharp and tired. "Sounds nice."
"It's real," I say. "And it's still hard."
Silence settles again. This one feels different. Not avoidance. Processing.
He finally says, "Sometimes I feel like I'm already too fucked up to be fixed. Like the damage won."
I lean forward slightly.
"Damage doesn't get the last word," I say. "Only the next choice does."
He looks at me then. Really looks.
"You're not here for the band, are you?"
"I'm here for you, lad."
His jaw tightens. Emotion contained, not spilling.
"I know it feels like the world is spinning and you can't make it stop right now," I say. "But I also know you don't have to do it alone."
He nods once.
"I think I need tonight," he says.
"You can have it," I reply. "I'll call you tomorrow."
When I stand, he doesn't follow me to the door, but he doesn't turn the music up to drown out his thoughts either.
That's progress.
I sit in my truck for a long moment, hands on the wheel, letting the conversation settle in my chest.
Tommy's face when he talked about his father. The shake in his hands. The way he looked at me when I said damage doesn't get the last word.
I know that look. I've worn it.
The streetlight flickers overhead, casting shadows across the dashboard. I exhale slowly, roll my shoulders, and feel the weight of the night ease just slightly.
My phone buzzes against the console.
Jay
Sonder tonight. You in? Got something to show you.
Nate
Should I be worried?
Jay
Relax. No dead bodies. Just good news and questionable decisions.
Nate
Definitely worried now.
Jay
See ya at 8.
Sonder is alive when I get there.
Warm amber light spills out onto the street, music humming low and steady inside. The place smells like citrus, hops, and comfort—like something familiar that keeps getting better with age.
Jay's behind the bar, moving through the space like it's an extension of him. Checking on tables, shaking hands, fixing small problems before they become big ones.
He wasn't always like this, but he earned it.
Sonder started as Nick's business eight years ago, back when this town needed somewhere people could breathe without judgment.
Now it's a foundation with Jay as part owner.
He's expanded the brand into bars across the country—Los Angeles, Nashville, Austin, Chicago, New York.
On top of that, he's launched his own beer line.
He never brags about any of it. Just keeps his head down and keeps moving forward.
Something the both of us got real good at over the years.
I slide into our booth—the corner one, leather worn smooth from years of use. Same spot where we watched a young kid with more ambition than sense play song after song, hoping one would stick.
Julian.
Same stage I stood on for my first open mic eight years ago, back when Sonder had just opened. That nervous version of me, fumbling through "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls, trying not to let the weight of the night crush the music out of me.
So much has started here. So much has grown.
The beginnings that seemed small then are what made everything else possible.
Jay drops into the seat across from me with a grin.
"How're the boys going with the new album?"
"Going is one way to put it. Tommy's been MIA again and Thatch is freaking out a little," I say.
He smirks. "Looks like karma's a bitch."
“What do you mean?”
"All those times I had to come find you," he says. "Dragging your ass home when you'd go disappearing for days on end without a single word."
"Yeah, fine asshole.” I laugh.
A waiter drops off a beer for Jay and a lemonade with extra ice and lime for me.
Jay lifts his glass.
"Two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days."
I blink. "You actually counted?"
He grins. "Maybe."
I stare at him. "You're insane."
"Dedicated," he corrects. "As your best friend, it's my job to keep count of how far you've come. And as my best friend, it's your job to tell me if what I'm about to do is the right thing."
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small black box.
"I'm going to ask Camilla to marry me."
My smile comes easy. "Okay first of all, fucking hell. That's some diamond. And secondly, what do you mean if it's right? A blind person could see how much you love her."
He exhales, nerves slipping through his confidence. "Yeah, but proposing is like a different kind of pressure. It's Camilla we're talking about here."
I lean back. "Exactly. It's Camilla and she's gonna die when she sees that." I point to the ring. "So what's the plan?"
His grin turns mischievous. "Okay. So. Hear me out."
I already regret this.
"I'm thinking a flash mob."
I stare at him.
"We choreograph something subtle. Cool. Classy. Maybe a remix of her favorite song."
"She'll kill you."
He squints. "Okay, fine. No flash mob."
"I can't tell if you're joking or not."
"Plan B," he says. "I get Nick to dress up as Cupid."
"She'll kill you and Nick."
"Alright, alright." He sighs. "No costumes."
He leans forward, lowering his voice like he's revealing state secrets. "Rooftop dinner. Candles. Fairy lights. Her favorite pasta. I'll tell her it's a work thing. She shows up in heels, annoyed, but hot."
"That part's accurate."
"I give a heartfelt speech. Minimal crying."
"Unrealistic."
He chuckles. "Then I get down on one knee and ask her to marry me like a normal, emotionally stable adult."
I nod. "That's the one."
He sits back, suddenly quieter. "You think she'll say yes?"
"When," I say. "When she says yes."
His smile softens. Real this time.
"Okay well, when she does," he says, "will you be my best man?"
"Of course," I say.
His eyes shine, but he doesn't make a big deal out of it.
"Give me a hug, you dickhead."
We stand and pull each other in. It’s the kind of hug built on history.
For a second, I let myself feel it. All the nights he dragged me home. All the calls he answered. All the mess he stayed for.
We became brothers in every way that counts, and seeing him excited over the future he's about to create with the woman he loves makes me real fucking proud of the man he's become.
The drive home is quiet, the hum of the engine steady, predictable.
Then the radio clicks on, and "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls filters through the speakers. I huff out a breath, a quiet laugh slipping past my lips.
Timing like that never feels accidental. Life has a way of dropping old songs into new moments, asking questions it already knows I'm not ready to answer.
It's strange, the way everyone around me seems to be moving forward in visible ways. Marriages. Babies. Plans stretching years into the future.
And me? I'm steady now. Successful. Needed by a lot of people. I've built something solid, something I protect with careful hands.
And yet there's a quiet in my own life, a stillness I can't shake.
It's not emptiness. It's choice.
When I pull into the drive by the cabins close to the studio, the night is open and clear. I cut the engine and sit for a long moment, listening as the quiet settles over gravel and trees, over the shape of the place I carved out for myself.
The moon is full tonight, casting soft light over the cabin's edges, illuminating what I've worked for—not just the structure, but the life that grows inside it.
I do this every night now. Looking. Waiting. Breathing.
There's something grounding about it—an invisible tether that shrinks the distance between here and everywhere else.
Eventually, I turn toward the cabin.