Chapter 64 Chase
Chase
Six Months Later
“You’re on in fifteen!”
Carter’s voice slices through the noise of The Soundproof like a bolt cutter. He paces around, headset probably crooked as he wrangles cables or people or both. I can’t see him clearly, just a smear of motion and energy in the corner of my periphery.
But I feel everything else.
The buzz of amps in standby. The soft thud of boots crossing the room. The vibration of laughter. Zach cracks his knuckles as Kenna argues with someone over whether glitter is allowed onstage.
Either way, she’s using it.
Annie hums a melody under her breath, half distracted as she braids her hair or rewires her in-ear pack. I can’t tell anymore unless I ask.
And I don’t always ask.
Because sometimes not knowing keeps me from mourning the fact that I can’t see it.
I’m seated on the edge of the couch in the green room, fingers working across the frets of my guitar out of habit, not thought. Muscle memory keeps me grounded. The strap’s a little frayed at the end, soft from years of sweat and calluses, and my thumb rubs the edge like it’s braille.
Something I can still read.
“Chase,” Annie says quietly, close now. Her hand finds my shoulder and squeezes gently. “Come on. Everyone is here to see you.”
She leans in a little, and I catch the faint trace of peppermint on her breath. No more smoke, no sharp spice of nicotine clinging to her skin. She gave it up months ago. Said she finally wanted to breathe easier again.
I rise with her, slow and steady.
We step into the corridor, and the sound deepens—low conversation, echoing heels, the shifting of bodies.
I don’t see faces.
But I feel their presence.
We wind through the hallway and out into the edge of the crowd where friends, family, and fans mingle.
Someone says “miracle.”
Someone else says “inspiring.”
Someone claps me on the back while another calls my name. It’s a blur of voices, warmth, and scent.
I feel Annie beside me, a breath away, guiding me without pushing, always a heartbeat ahead. “Your parents are over there,” she says near my ear. “Even Parvati and her father showed up.”
I pause, heart tightening as their names sink in. The crowd fades for a second, voices dulling, space stretching wide like the venue itself is holding its breath.
I didn’t expect them to come.
“Chase.” Parvati’s voice is steady, and there’s a softness in it tonight. Something less clinical, more earned.
Annie touches my elbow, angling me toward her.
I extend a hand. She takes it.
“I couldn’t miss this,” Parvati says. “Look at you. Back on your feet, looking like a genuine rock star.”
A half smile quirks as I recall Annie smothering my hair in gel and muttering something about “controlled chaos” while pinning back a rogue curl.
She straightened my collar multiple times and dressed me up in three different leather jackets, debating which one offered equal parts comfort and aesthetic.
Not because she didn’t trust me to do it, but because touching me calmed her down.
Helping is her love language.
“I was going for half-feral prom king,” Annie chirps, linking her arm through mine. “I think I nailed it.”
“Certainly.” Parvati chuckles, squeezes my hand with both of hers. “I’m proud of you. You’re quite the success story.”
I nod through the ache in my throat. “Thank you. For everything.”
My mind reverses back in time, recalling those foggy days post-surgery.
They didn’t take it all. That was never on the table.
Parvati explained it slowly, almost afraid the words might break something in me if they landed too fast.
First came the targeted radiation, fractionated over weeks, to shrink the tumor and relieve the pressure before they ever dared go in. Then came the surgery. Endoscopic, trans nasal, through the skull base.
They mapped every inch with real-time neural monitoring, lighting up my brain like a constellation, because even a fraction off course meant more than losing what little vision I had left.
It meant losing everything.
They called it a debulking. Took what they could from around the chiasm without disturbing the structures that kept me breathing, speaking, remembering who I was. Left the rest in place like a landmine defused but not removed.
She said it was delicate, but they got what they needed. The pressure’s gone, the swelling’s down, and the tumor hasn’t grown.
For now, I’m safe.
I don’t know what that’s supposed to feel like yet. I’ll need regular MRIs for the rest of my life, every six months. Maybe sooner if something shifts. We’re not out of the woods.
We’re just not running out of time.
And somehow, against every warning, every impossible scan, every too-careful voice telling me not to hope, I get to keep the story.
The music still plays.
“No need to thank me,” Parvati replies, voice kind. “You’re my success story too. I’ll always be able to say I had a hand in saving the Chase Rhodes. The man who created the guitar that lights up like it belongs in a sci-fi movie.”
I breathe out a laugh, ducking my head.
“My mother saw your guitar line at a music therapy convention,” she adds, voice pitching with amusement. “The one that looks like it makes lightning. She took pictures and said, ‘Isn’t that the man you helped save?’ I didn’t even have to look. I just said, ‘Yeah. That’s him.’”
My smile pulls wider, the lump thickening in my throat. “It was just supposed to be a gimmick. Something to catch the eye while we were playing empty bars.”
“Well, it caught more than that,” she muses.
She’s right; it’s everywhere now. Our sound might’ve catapulted us forward, but that design—that glowing Frankenstein of wood and wire—that’s what turned heads first.
They put my name on the line when it went national. Rhodes Series. Custom run. Full production. I still get emails from teenagers learning their first chord on something I dreamed up on a folding table with duct tape, a drill, and a defiant dream.
“I never imagined it would outlive my vision,” I admit, wincing slightly.
“But it didn’t outlive you. That’s what’s important.” She makes a humming sound. “You lit up the world, Chase. Even before it went dark.”
She lets go of my hand.
Then another voice cuts in. Masculine, gruff, familiar. “Just promise me if they make a glow-in-the-dark surgical scalpel, you’ll name it after my daughter.”
A warm hand takes mine, grip strong and solid. “Mr. Singh,” I murmur. “Thank you for being here. Means a lot.”
“You’ve done a lot for us. For our store, our family. We will let bygones be bygones.”
I shake his hand, holding for several beats, not saying anything. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me now: a mistake, a thief, a stain on his memory.
But I don’t press. Don’t ask for more. Because something tells me he sees everything I’m feeling.
Forgiveness. Humanity. Grace.
At the end of the day, we’re all just broken strings, still part of the same song.
We say our goodbyes, and their footsteps are swallowed by the hum of the crowd. The moment lingers, unfinished in the best way.
Not a beat later, two arms wrap around me, and I’m pulled into the scent of something familiar and old as memory. Lavender, dryer sheets, and whatever intangible thing turns a house into a home.
“Oh, honey. You look amazing.” My mother’s voice cracks as she squeezes me tighter than I expect, like she’s been holding this in for six months.
Or maybe since Stella.
I hug her back, pressing my face against her shoulder, letting the moment seep. Her breath is shaky, full of something too big for words.
“You doing okay?” I manage.
She nods against me. “I am now.”
Dad steps in beside us, clearing his throat. He doesn’t do hugs, not usually, but today he rests a hand on the back of my neck and keeps it there. A solid, anchoring touch.
His thumb brushes the edge of my collar as he leans in close. “She’d be proud of you, son.”
I swallow hard, blinking back the sting. “Yeah. I think she would be.”
“She’ll be watching you tonight.” Mom releases me with a final squeeze, stepping back to dab her eyes, just a whir of motion. “Sing a song for her.”
“They’re all for her,” I say, distorted images flashing through my mind of sun-dappled water, ripples, and teal. “Every single one.”
Annie makes small talk for a minute before taking me by the hand. “Five minutes,” she whispers.
I nod, saying goodbye to my parents. The crowd is starting to swell, and the din of it builds, bone-deep. Electric.
We retreat into the wings.
I hear Kenna pull Tag into a hug. Rock whoops at the top of his lungs. Zach smacks me on the shoulder while Carter calls out something into his headset, and Crowley offers a staticky reply. Annie helps me shoulder my guitar, her fingers skimming down my arm, tethering me.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
My throat tightens. “We’ll find out.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just cups my face between both hands and leans in until her forehead touches mine. “But you’re ready,” she whispers.
“Yeah. I’m ready.”
I’m ready.
Even with the darkness still lingering around the edges.
Even with the music feeling different now. Less clean, more raw.
I grip my guitar, find the pick where I always keep it, and roll it between my fingers like a coin I can’t afford to lose. The keychain Annie gifted me is clipped to my belt loop, and I give it a squeeze before heading onto the stage, the band following, vibrating with newfound energy.
Then the house lights dim.
The crowd erupts.
Crowley nudges my shoulder and murmurs, “You’re on, my friend.”
Annie presses her lips to my cheek, then reaches up, fixes the fall of my hair. “Let’s go burn it down,” she says.
I do.
Not because I can see the path in front of me.
But because I know the sound of coming home.
***
We finish the set with a final song. A cover.
A juiced-up, fast-paced version of “I Only Want To Be With You.”