Resonance

Chapter 3 #2

“Singer,” I muttered, keeping my eyes glued to the menu, lingering a little too long on the description for Galette Bretonnes.

“Don’t worry if you can’t remember them all,” Clara continued.

“If you just shout, ‘Hey, you!’ someone will probably answer.” Iggy nodded, so Clara turned to the rest of us.

“And Iggy here will be taking over for Sasha, so be nice, okay? Make sure you tell him exactly what you want when you’re in the chair.

Or he’ll just guess, and you’ll have no right to complain if you go onstage looking like Alice Cooper. ”

“That’s Luc’s usual anyway,” Riff retorted, and Thump snickered.

“Fuck you, asswipe,” Luc said, sliding into the final seat at the head of the table between Thump and Mick.

Thump leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands. “Aw, look, Sleeping Beauty finally woke from his slumber.”

“Leave me alone,” Luc grumbled.

The two of them immediately fell into bickering like an old married couple, but thankfully the waiter arrived to take our orders. I ended up ordering the Galette Bretonnes, since it was the only thing on the menu I’d been paying attention to the whole time.

“Just a fruit salad for me, please,” Iggy said with a smile.

“Of course, miss,” they replied, and Iggy’s body stiffened, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

“Thank—”

“He’s a man.”

The chatter around the table froze. It took me a second to realise I’d said it out loud. Everyone stared at me, including Iggy, whose green eyes widened in surprise.

I cleared my throat and fiddled with my napkin. “You called him ‘miss,’ but he’s a man. So, uh . . . you shouldn’t assume.”

The waiter gasped, immediately turning back to Iggy and apologising in a mix of English and French. Iggy waved them off like it was nothing. “It’s okay.”

When the waiter left and it was just us, I snuck a glance at Iggy. He was watching me, coffee cup in hand, a smile tugging at his lips that almost looked fond.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“It’s fine,” I replied, picking up my own cup. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Iggy shrugged, leaning back in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other.

The hem of his tiny shorts rode even higher, revealing more pale thigh than I needed to see.

“It’s fine. Happens all the time.” He lifted the cup to his lips and took a slow sip, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “So . . . what’s your nickname?”

“Huh?” I frowned, still avoiding his eyes. If I looked at him directly, it’d be obvious to anyone watching that we knew each other. And I wasn’t ready to admit that. Not here. Not now.

“Everyone else has one,” he replied, grin turning downright mischievous. “Riff, Thump, Ghost, Mick. What should I call you, Bodhi?”

Hearing my name on his lips sent goosebumps scattering up both arms. Suddenly I wasn’t on a noisy Paris hotel terrace.

I was back in the Willow with him. Back in those overstuffed armchairs surrounded by boxes of tissues.

Wandering the gardens before dinner, losing track of time in the hedge maze, lying in a field of wildflowers while he talked about everything and nothing.

Watching him grin despite the shitstorm we’d both crawled out of and thinking, maybe I’ll be okay after all.

Feeling . . . safe.

A plate of golden crêpes appeared in front of me, snapping me back to the present.

The smell of ham and cheese hit my nose, and I glanced up to find everyone else already digging into their food.

Everyone except Iggy, who hadn’t touched his colourful bowl of fruit and was very clearly waiting for my answer.

“Um, I . . .”

“We call him Bones,” Thump chimed in.

Luc snorted, nearly choking on bacon.

“Dude, no we don’t,” Riff said around a mouthful of eggs. “And that nickname sucks.”

“It’s a great nickname!”

“Coming from a guy named Thump,” Luc shot back.

“You gave me that nickname, you asshole.”

“No, I did,” Riff said proudly. “That’s why it’s great. Bones is way too cliché.”

I looked back at Iggy. He still hadn’t looked away. “I don’t have one,” I said finally. “I’m just Bodhi.”

“Okay,” he replied, spearing a piece of watermelon and popping it into his mouth. “I’ll stick with that, Just Bodhi.”

My lips twitched despite myself, and his smug little grin told me he absolutely noticed.

The two of us fell into silence as we ate, listening and watching those around us. But every now and then I felt the weight of his green eyes on my face from across the table. And no doubt he was aware of each and every time I glanced at him in return.

I was almost done with my plate when a shadow fell across the table.

“Excusez-moi.”

We all looked up. The same waiter from earlier stood behind Iggy, now accompanied by a trolley holding a pitcher of orange juice, and an ice bucket cradling a bottle of—

“We would like to offer you some champagne as an apology for our earlier mishap,” he said. “There is also orange juice, if you would prefer a mimosa.”

I straightened in my seat, and across from me, I saw Iggy do the same.

The champagne bottle was behind him, but visible to me over his shoulder, and I could see the way he trembled as he resisted the urge to turn and look.

His fingers curled around the glass of water beside his bowl, knuckles whitening.

While I watched him, the others were watching me.

Every single one of them. Measuring my breathing, the set of my jaw.

Waiting to see if I was about to crack and demand the bottle be opened right away.

Honestly, even if I tried, I was pretty sure Riff would pin me to the ground before letting it anywhere near my glass.

But what they didn’t realise, even as Iggy’s gaze stayed locked on a point directly behind me, was that I wasn’t the only one fighting off old ghosts. Not anymore.

Riff opened his mouth to speak, but I lifted a hand to stop him.

It would’ve been easy, comforting even, to let him shield me.

To let him wrap me in cotton wool like some overprotective parent.

But he wouldn’t always be there. Sooner or later I had to stop leaning on everybody else and learn to stand on my own two feet. To grow some balls and say no.

“N–no.” My throat felt like sandpaper. I swallowed and forced it out again, louder. “No. No, thank you.”

“Are you sure, monsieur?” the waiter asked, brows lifting like he couldn’t fathom anyone turning down free champagne.

“He said no,” Riff snapped before I could speak again, shooting the man a glare sharp enough to cut. “We don’t drink.”

The waiter gasped and bowed his head. “My sincerest apologies, monsieur. I will bring more fresh orange juice instead.”

“It’s okay,” Clara said, giving him a polite smile. But from where I sat, I could see it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We need to head out anyway. Can you just charge the meals to our rooms?”

“Of course, madame.”

When he finally disappeared, taking the trolley and that damn bottle with him, I slumped back in my seat and shut my eyes. A long, shaky breath slipped out of me, and when I opened them again, the whole table was looking my way.

All except Iggy.

He stared down at his lap, shoulders tight, looking even paler than before. His fingers toyed with the edge of his cardigan, twisting the fabric like he needed something to keep his hands busy.

“You did good, man,” Riff said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. Mick bumped my shoulder in quiet solidarity.

“Okay, boys,” Clara said gently, her voice pitched low like she was scared of startling me.

“Time to head out. Micah, Rafe, we’re getting a cab to the station at two thirty.

Luca, you’re meeting the podcast team in one of the hotel conference rooms this afternoon.

Theo, I’ll come to your room before the Threadline call. ”

We all nodded or grunted in acknowledgement.

“Iggy,” she continued.

His head snapped up, eyes immediately on her, like he’d been waiting for his cue.

“I’ll show you around backstage when we head to the venue,” she said. “You can relax until we leave for the arena just after five. The boys aren’t onstage until eight thirty, so you’ll have plenty of time to get them ready. Sound good?”

“Got it,” he said. And maybe no one else noticed, but his voice had the slightest tremor to it. One I recognised all too well.

“What’s on my agenda today?” I asked Clara, who was already scrolling through her phone, probably juggling ten different fires at once.

She glanced up and gave me a real smile—not the professional one she’d used on the waiter, but the warm kind she saved for us.

“Absolutely nothing. You’ve got an interview before the show in Amsterdam, but today?

” She flicked her screen off. “You’re free as a bird.

So relax, okay? Take some time to just chill out before the show. ”

I nodded, relieved . . . but also restless.

The seven of us left the table and headed back towards the elevators.

Clara had told me to take the day easy, and part of me wanted to explore Paris, even if only for an hour or two.

But after what had just happened, after how close that champagne bottle had felt .

. . wandering off alone didn’t seem like the smartest idea.

I could pretend I was strong enough, but I knew damn well where “just a walk” could end.

Not today.

The elevator deposited us on our floor, and I drifted down the hallway, gnawing at the side of my thumb. I was halfway to my room when a hand settled lightly on my shoulder.

“Bodhi.”

I froze, and Iggy’s hand disappeared almost instantly, like he thought he’d burned me. When I turned, he was staring at the buttons on his cardigan, fingers fussing with them the way he had at the table.

He looked off-kilter, unsteady in that quiet, brittle way I recognised all too well.

Maybe he needed someone to talk to. And yeah, I had the band, I had people in my corner.

But Iggy? He’d told me enough in the Willow to know his family wasn’t part of the picture.

And I doubted anyone on tour, not even Clara, knew about his recovery.

So who did he have?

Watching him now, shoulders hunched, looking like a kid expecting to be scolded, it made the guilt twist a little deeper. He was unsure how to act around me, all because I’d been avoiding him.

I turned fully towards him and reached out, placing my hand over his, and stilling his restless fingers. Just like in rehab, some part of Iggy was always moving, and it was down to me to remind him to take a breather.

“What’s up?”

His head snapped up, and the green in his eyes seemed to spark under the warm hallway lights.

“Did you want a coffee?” he blurted, immediately sucking in a breath like he wished he could drag the words back in.

I frowned. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and tried again, slower this time.

“I was wondering if you’d like to grab a coffee. With me.” The last two words were tacked on clumsily, like he was terrified I might pretend not to understand.

The problem was . . . I understood too well.

He wanted to hang out. Just like we had a thousand times in rehab. Exploring every nook and cranny of that old manor because there was nowhere else to go and nothing else to do except stay clean and stay alive. But that had been a controlled bubble. Other addicts. Counsellors. Safety nets.

This was the real world, where temptation lived on every corner and in every café and behind every bar. I didn’t trust myself out here, not really, and the last thing I wanted was to be the reason Iggy slipped.

Besides, my whole brilliant plan had been to avoid him, not stroll around the city together like some painfully nostalgic reunion.

But then he looked at me, eyes bright, lip caught nervously between his teeth, and something in my chest went soft and stupid. I wanted to go back. To whatever we’d been. To the one person who made those months feel survivable.

So, before I could think better of it, I nodded.

“Sure. Give me ten minutes to change.”

His grin spread so wide it was ridiculous. “Make it twenty and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

I turned and slipped into my room, fully aware I should be tearing myself a new one for caving so fast. For saying yes when no would’ve been safer. Smarter.

But as always, whenever Iggy smiled, that quiet voice in the back of my head told me it was worth it.