Chapter 50 Chase
Chase
She’s lying in bed beside me, pressing a warm compress to my forehead. Her touch is butterfly-soft, voice melted velvet.
“I’m here,” she whispers.
I close my eyes, focusing on the brush of her knuckles across my cheek.
Complex migraine with vasovagal syncope.
That was my official diagnosis after a brief post-fall hospital visit. My vitals were good, blood pressure stable. By the time I got there, I was lucid, oriented, and answering all of their how-many-fingers-am-I-holding-up questions.
I played it cool. Cracked a few jokes. Blamed it on stress, too much whiskey, and a brutal tour schedule. I let them run their tests—everything but a scan.
Because if they find something, it stops being a maybe.
And if it’s real, if there’s something in my head waiting to take everything from me…
Then it’s over.
Her.
The music.
All of it.
And I’m not ready for that.
No one pushed for imaging once I was talking. No slurred speech, no long-lasting effects. Just a jaded rock star who took a nosedive into a sea of people.
Annie wanted more. I could see it in the way her eyes searched mine, like she was waiting for a punchline I never delivered.
But I shut it down.
Said I was fine.
Said it wasn’t that bad.
Said what I had to.
Now I’m here, two days later, lying in the dark beside her, the room still humming like the stage never emptied. She presses the compress to my head again, gentler this time, her fingers brushing my temple as she curls up beside me.
“A new listing came through,” I say, reaching for her hand. Our fingers intertwine. “Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. There’s a screened-in sunroom off the kitchen, perfect for late-night writing. A big patio too. For when the moon is full.”
A little croak escapes her. “That sounds perfect.”
We’ve been scrolling the real estate apps for weeks, looking for a place to call our own after my contract on this rental is up at the end of June. In the meantime, she’s moved in with me while we navigate our upcoming tour schedules.
Toaster jumps up on the bed, plodding over my legs until he’s nestled on the opposite side of me. My free hand lands in his thick mane of fur, fingers skimming and scratching.
“My brave little Toaster…”
Annie rolls my ring between her thumb and finger, head resting on my shoulder. “I think we should cancel the Vegas show. Until we figure out what’s going on with you.”
I tense. “That’s not necessary.”
“Chase—”
“That was a one-off. I had too much whiskey, my meds wore off, and I lost my footing.”
“I never saw you drinking.”
My jaw clenches. I hate lying to her, but I don’t want her to worry.
To think I’m going to hold us back. Her career is resting on my shoulders.
Tag’s too. Rock, Zach, even Kenna. We’re in our prime, gaining momentum every day, and the only thing that’ll kill me faster than my head is the notion that I might be the reason it all falls apart.
I refuse to be the one to smother their dreams.
Removing the compress from my forehead, I toss it onto a pillow. “We’ll do Vegas,” I tell her. “It’s our last scheduled show.”
Her breath catches. “Chase, please reconsider—”
“One more. Then we break. House hunt. Breathe. Reconnect.” I pull her across my chest as Toaster paws at my side, nosing my ribs. “After that, I’ll handle it. The band can pause for a while, and I’ll be back on my feet soon. I’ll be okay.”
“What if it’s something…worse?” Her breathing all but stops.
It’s not.
It can’t be.
“They’re just migraines,” I tell her with as much conviction as I can muster. “My family has a history of them. I can manage this. One day at a time.”
“Promise me you’ll get a scan after Vegas.” She burrows her face in my neck, begging, needing me to swear. “Please, Chase.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, kissing her hair. My eyes close as I breathe her in, memorize her soft skin, and stamp her scent into my bones. “I promise.”
***
Vegas is a dream. Another much-needed reprieve.
But the last time I had a reprieve, I plunged off a goddamn stage and faceplanted into a swarming mass of people.
At first they thought it was part of the show—rock star takes a dive, crowd goes wild.
Meanwhile, I was sprawled on the ground and twice as pathetic, choking on static and sweat, praying no one saw the panic in my eyes.
Or worse, that I couldn’t see theirs, not until my vision sparked back to life.
But sure. Let’s roll the dice in Vegas.
What could possibly go wrong?
So far, nothing. Not for the hour-plus set where I pour everything out, let my soul bleed across the stage, feel the reverb like red-hot shockwaves licking down my spine, and duet with Annie as if we’re invincible.
The crowd’s electric. My girl’s glowing.
The guys are shredding like their lives depend on it, while I’m praying I make it to the last note before the lights go out again.
I do.
I finish the set, alive and whole, dancing on thunder as the crowd roars.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear my sister’s voice:
Always end on a high note.
My throat burns.
This feels like a high.
But I’ll lie down and die before I let it be the end.
After we decompress backstage, swapping bottled water for beer, we sign autographs and mingle with fans in the courtyard before heading back to the hotel.
One more night away from home. Then reality will set in, and I’ll be forced to tackle the brain-eating monster in my head.
Because I promised her.
I swore it.
The air is thick with heat and leftover adrenaline, voices hissing in my ears. I keep moving, smiling, nodding, gripping Sharpies tighter than I should. Annie stays close.
Then the crowd shifts.
And everything stops.
They’re just…there.
I blink, squint, keep blinking, wondering if my vision is fucking with me again.
But no.
I see them.
My parents.
Fredrick and Donna Rhodes.
Not much older than I remember. Not younger either.
They look exactly the same, like time’s dared to skip over them but slammed into me at full force.
Mom is in a slate-gray blouse and pearls, clutching her purse like a shield.
My father’s hands are tucked behind his back as he stares at the son he hasn’t seen in years.
My vision tunnels.
The noise drops out. All I can hear is a funnel cloud in my ears and the hollow hum of memory slamming into my ribs.
I grip a wrought iron fence just to stay upright.
I should move. Say something. Anything.
But I can’t.
Because suddenly I’m standing in a black suit that didn’t fit, watching them bury my sister. I’m packing a bag in silence while my mother cries in the next room and my father tells me to “be strong.”
I’m hearing Stella’s voice, raspy and begging.
“Please don’t make me go. Please. I feel sick. My head is killing me…”
And I’m seeing them wave her off anyway, chasing medals instead of mercy.
My throat closes.
I can’t breathe.
Annie’s hand finds my arm.
I didn’t even know I was shaking until she grips tighter.
“Chase,” she says, low, steady. “What’s wrong? Your head?”
I blink. Once. Twice.
They don’t move. Just stand there, like they have any right to be here.
I look away before they can approach. Before I collapse under the weight of everything I never said.
Because if I don’t, I’ll drown in it.
Just like she did.
“Um…” I turn to Annie, straightening from the fence. “No. Sorry, my head’s fine.”
“You’re trembling.”
“Just the postshow high. It’ll wear off.”
She doesn’t believe me. I don’t blame her.
I steal another glance over Annie’s shoulder. They’re still there, rooted to the pavement, blurring into the white lights like ghosts here to haunt me when I’m already long past plagued.
My mother’s hands twist around the strap of her purse. My father shifts his weight, wanting to come closer but unsure if he can.
The pressure builds behind my eyes. Heat and grief and all the things I’ve refused to say out loud for years. I could walk away; I’ve done it before. I could grab Annie’s hand, disappear into the hotel, and pretend this night was nothing more than a killer show.
But then I hear her voice again.
Always end on a high note.
And maybe that doesn’t mean what I thought it did. Maybe it’s not about applause. Maybe it’s about finally finishing the song.
My pulse skips. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur.
Annie frowns. “Chase?”
“I just…I need to handle something.”
She starts to follow, but I shake my head. “Stay.” I force a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’m okay.”
I don’t know what I’ll say. I don’t know if I’ll yell or fall apart.
But my legs move anyway. Because silence didn’t save her.
And it sure as hell won’t save me.
I cross the courtyard in slow, uneven strides. Every step feels like walking into a fire I swore I’d never touch again.
My dad straightens as I approach. Mom’s eyes brim with hope, nerves, maybe guilt.
I stop a few feet away. Not close enough to hug, but not far enough to run.
None of us says anything at first, the silence wrought with a coal mine of fossils and decay.
Then my mom’s voice cracks through it. “You were incredible up there.”
Dad clears his throat. “You’ve done well for yourself, son. We’re…so proud.”
Words elude me. My jaw aches from holding it shut.
I stare at them for a long while, unblinking. And I realize they do look older now. Tired. Smaller than I remember. Threads of silver vein their tawny brown hair, while flecks of gray reflect in their once-golden eyes.
“What are you doing here?” I manage.
“We weren’t sure if we should come,” my mother says, her voice shaky. “But when we saw the tour date…Vegas was close. Only a few hours.”
“We thought maybe it was time,” Dad adds quietly.
Time.
Like the clock mattered once she drowned.
I scrub a hand over my face, shake my head. “Fuck. I can’t do this.”
“Chase…” Mom’s hand finds my arm, curling around my bicep. “We don’t blame you anymore. We want to move forward. Find our way back to each other.”
“Blame me?” My brows arch, voice pitching with audacity. “Yeah. I don’t blame me either.”
That’s not entirely true.
But it’s easier to lie. To pretend I was a helpless bystander when I could have dragged Stella to my car and taken her to a hospital instead of a goddamn swim meet.
“We were angry,” she says, wiping at a tear, her eyes hazel and haunted. “Broken. Furious you turned your back on us after everything…” She pauses, regroups. “You just disappeared, Chase. No goodbye. No explanation. You even took the dog.”
Guilt slices through me, bitter and damning.
I shove it down, twist it into something uglier. Something I can control.
“You made her go,” I breathe out, the pain still fresh, still buried deep. “She was sick and begged to stay home. And you made her go anyway.”
“You say it like we knew,” Dad snaps, voice tight with emotion. “Like we actively signed her death warrant that day. Like we looked her in the eye and said, ‘Go die in that pool.’”
I swallow, closing my eyes, forcing back the black cloud of missteps and warning signs that went unread. “She didn’t even know if she wanted it anymore. Swimming. She told me. But you never listened. You just wanted a shining success story.”
“We never dreamed it would kill her,” Mom chokes.
She takes a breath, tries to pull herself together.
“I know this isn’t the place. But we didn’t know how else to reach you.
We tried—we tried so hard—but you changed your number.
You vanished, drove off to God knows where.
And we were left with nothing but two empty rooms.”
Dad’s face crumples. “We lost both of our children that day. And we’ve been trying to find at least one ever since.”
My heart clenches as the ache behind my eyes spikes.
I blink hard, trying to clear the haze, but the courtyard lights are too bright, the crowd too loud, everything pressing in from all sides.
My breath shortens.
Not here. Not now.
I press my fingers to my temple, jaw clenched, trying to ride it out without giving anything away.
But Mom notices. “Chase?” Her voice is soft again, braided with concern. “Are you okay?”
I nod too quickly. “Fine. Just…the noise. It’s nothing.”
She steps closer, instinctively reaching for me like she used to when I was a kid with the flu. “Are you getting migraines?”
Her question lands like a dart.
My parents share a glance.
Before I can respond, Dad clears his throat. “There’s something else,” he says.
The shift in his tone pulls me up short. My headache throbs harder.
I look between them. “What?”
“Let’s go somewhere. Grab a cup of coffee,” Mom says. Then she takes my hand, grazing her thumb against my knuckles. “There’s something you should know.”