Chapter 39 Annalise
Annalise
Thirty-six hours later, the van is jam-packed with five worn-down duffels, a tangled mess of cables and gear, and enough snacks to shame a college frat house.
Kenna triple-checks the merch crates before she heads off to the airport to meet her niece, while Tag tunes his guitar in the passenger seat, his foot propped on the dashboard. Rock is already asleep in the back, curled up like a house cat beside a bass amp.
Toaster is with Solomon for the week—Chase’s old boss who pretends he’s not obsessed with the dog, even though he hand-feeds him rotisserie chicken and calls him “The Toastinator.”
Chase slides into the driver’s seat, shooting me a small, unreadable glance in the rearview mirror. It lasts less than a second. Then he turns the key and the engine purrs to life, the gas tank full and prepped for a week of travel.
I climb onto the back bench and wedge myself between an amp and Rock, a bag of Takis in hand and my hoodie acting as a pillow. The smell of coffee and vinyl fills the air.
It’s cramped. Chaotic. Magical.
Zach untangles himself from his daughter’s hug in the driveway, the last to enter the van as he waves goodbye and hops in, sealing the door shut.
Music blares from the radio.
A crisp fifty-degree breeze sneaks through the open window, filling my lungs.
I pop up from my seat and lean outside as the van rolls forward. “Bye, bestie!”
Kenna slaps a sun hat to her head just before it floats away, shouting at the top of her lungs, “Honey Moons, bitches! That’s my best friend!”
She points at me, blows me a kiss, and I try not to sob.
Tag whoops loud, raising a fist in the air. “First stop, Boston, motherfuckers! Let’s go melt some faces.”
Laughing, I return to my seat, reaching into my backpack and pulling out my battered notebook.
The one that started it all.
I uncap my pen, press it to the page, and write.
***
Ten Songs, Six Cities, And A Van That Smells Like Cheese Fries
Boston
It’s sweaty. Loud. Perfectly imperfect.
The crowd screams before we even strike the first chord, and someone holds up a sign with my lyrics scribbled in pink glitter. I nearly forget how to sing.
Nerves get the better of us, and we mess up the second verse.
No one seems to care.
Afterward, we sit on the curb scarfing gas station nachos while reading comments from fans who drove six hours just to see us. My body is still shaking with adrenaline.
Chase holds my hand until the shivers die down.
I let him.
This is real. We’re doing this.
***
Philadelphia
The van breaks down two blocks from the venue. We haul amps through a monsoon, and I lose a boot in a puddle the size of Lake Michigan.
Inside, a guy hands us weed, while a woman in a tie-dye tulip skirt and denim jacket asks if we’re “the group that strums stars.”
Chase scribbles his name on her chest in black marker.
His first autograph.
Someone cries during our slowest song.
Barefoot and rain-soaked, I cry too.
Later, we all crash in the van. I sleep on a pile of jackets. Rock snores like a tractor.
I don’t care.
I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
***
New York City
There’s a line around the block. The venue smells like beer and dreams.
Strobes dizzy me. The sound is thunder. Chase’s plasma guitar illuminates the stage for “Night Song” like a lightning show in the dead of night.
The audience goes ballistic.
When it’s over, we huddle in the back alley with overblown hearts, gasping and grinning.
No one speaks.
We don’t need to.
Before I retreat to the van to pass out, I glance over at Tag.
He just stands there, staring up at the full honey moon.
A tear glistens on his cheek.
***
Baltimore
We’re all exhausted.
My brother slams the side door and storms off mid-argument about who forgot to grab batteries for the mics. Everything feels heavier when you’re this tired.
I sit in the front seat, pretending not to cry.
Zach tosses me a box of Sour Patch Kids because, according to his kid, sugar makes everything better.
By soundcheck, we’re talking again. Sort of.
That night we play with raw nerves and red eyes. Somehow, the crowd eats it up. Maybe honesty sells.
Someone throws a rose onstage.
Tag slips on it.
We make it look like choreography.
When midnight finds us, we’re all cramped inside the van, our gear stacked Tetris-style, chugging water and gorging on cheap pizza.
Everyone tells stories, reliving the past few days, laughing until our stomachs ache.
When Chase sends me a bright smile, it reminds me that the music isn’t the only thing keeping me going.
My brother wraps his arm around me.
We forget about the fight.
***
Richmond
Beach show. Acoustic set.
No stage. Just a circle of strangers on blankets and sand.
I feel weightless.
We play until the sun sets, the tide creeping closer with every chorus.
I sing for the teenage girl in the back row with flamingo-pink hair and winged eyeliner. The girl who DM’d me that our music pulled her out of someplace dark.
When I scan the crowd, I catch someone filming.
The video has a million views before we even pack up.
***
Atlanta
It’s my birthday. Twenty-two. And it’s our biggest show yet.
Sold out. Packed.
Our name flashes on a marquee. A real marquee.
The promoter hugs us like we’re old friends.
We play as if we’ve been doing this forever, but inside, I know it’s the last show of the leg. And something’s shifting.
We’re not the same band we were back in Rutland.
Fame is starting to stick.
So is fear.
Just before midnight, Chase finds me on the lumpy bench seat, the belt buckle digging into my hip and my head pressed against the window like a makeshift pillow. He wraps a coffee-stained quilt around me. Pulls it up to my chin. Brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes.
“Happy birthday, Annie,” he whispers.
I turn to thank him.
But he’s already gone.
Beside me is a notebook. New. Blank. Bound in soft brown leather with a violet ribbon tucked between the first two pages.
There’s a note slipped beneath the cover, folded once.
For what comes next.
—C