36. Thirty-Six
Thirty-Six
Nate
We’re in Miami tonight for a one-night-only sold-out show.
I slam into the drums harder, letting the vibrations rattle through my bones as the Wild Band tears through our latest single. The crowd is wild, their energy electric, but it barely touches me. The music should be enough—it used to be enough. But not anymore.
Now, without her in my life, every beat, every rhythm pounds in my chest without meaning. The energy of the crowd washes over me, but it doesn’t sink in. The music, once my refuge, feels empty—it’s just noise. Without Lacey, it all feels off, like playing a song with the wrong rhythm, the melody slightly out of tune. Sweat drips down my neck, my muscles burning as I pour everything I have into the beat. It should feel good. It used to feel good.
“Good night, Miami!” Cass’s voice reverberates through the crowd as we make our final encore. The audience roars with approval, clapping their applause. It’s an energy that always previously felt like more than enough. Now, it just echoes in the spaces she left behind.
Another few days have gone by, and I can hardly think straight. Sleep barely comes, and when it does, it’s restless—filled with half-remembered dreams of her laughter, her touch, the way she felt against me. I skip meals without thinking, my stomach too twisted up to care. Conversations slip past me, and I catch the guys exchanging worried glances, like they’re not sure how much longer I can keep going like this. But the truth is, neither am I.
The loss of Lacey haunts me, creeping into every quiet moment, every beat of the music. I go through the motions—playing the shows, doing my job—but the spark is gone. The guys are really getting concerned. They keep glancing my way like they’re just waiting for me to crack.
But it’s Emily who’s finally brave enough to try one more time to get through to me.
The green room is strangely silent as the rest of the band leaves me alone to stew. The door quietly opens, and it’s Emily. “I wasn’t sure if I should share this with you or not. But I think you need to know.”
At my confused look, she hands me her iPad so I can read the emails.
My eyes scan the first letters from Family First’s board of directors. Words jump out at me: ‘unprecedented response,’ ‘donation surge,’ ‘expansion possibilities.’ My throat tightens as I scroll further.
“The community response has been overwhelming,” Emily says softly. “After the news segment aired, Family First received calls from three other cities wanting to implement similar programs.”
I keep reading, my chest growing tighter with each message. Parents are writing about how their kids can’t stop talking about music now, how they’ve never seen them so excited about anything, and how the exposure has given them hope.
Then I see little Emma’s email. It’s simple, the way only kids can be:
‘Dear Mr. Nate and Miss. Lacey,
Thank you for letting me be on TV! My grandma cried when she saw me playing the drums. She said she’s never seen me smile so big. I practice every day. Maybe someday I can be in a band like you.
Love, Emma
P.S. Don’t forget I want to be friends with your babies.’
Attached is a photo of her beaming behind one of the drum sets, her hair a little wild, holding the sticks like I showed her.
“Lacey insisted the footage be sent to local news stations only,” Emily explains, watching my face carefully. “She didn’t sell it or sensationalize it. She just... let them tell the story. The real story.”
I set the iPad down, my hands unsteady. “How much?”
“What?”
“The donations. How much came in?”
Emily’s eyes soften. “Enough to fund the program for three years. Plus, startup costs for two more locations.”
The weight of it hits me like a physical blow. All this time, I’d been so angry about the invasion of privacy, about the cameras, about exposing the children’s vulnerabilities. But while I was busy being furious, these kids loved being on TV. Loved being seen. They were finding their voices and their courage—their dreams.
And Lacey... she saw that possibility before I did.
“She was trying to help,” Emily says quietly. “In her own way. Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but her heart was in the right place.”
I lean back, closing my eyes. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“A little bit, yeah.” I can hear the smile in Emily’s voice. “But you can still fix it.”
“Can I?” The question comes out rougher than I intended.
“That depends,” Emily says.
“On what?”
She gives me a pointed look. “On whether you’re willing to admit you were wrong. And if you’re able to admit that somewhere along the way, this fake engagement turned into something very real—“
I nod, pocketing my phone. Some mistakes you can’t take back with a simple phone call. Even if every fiber of your being wants to try.
“Emily.” My voice comes out rough. “I need you to clear my schedule for the next few days.”
She’s already pulling out her phone. “Going to California?”
“Yeah.” I stand, energy suddenly coursing through me. “Book me on the next flight to L.A.”
“What about the radio interview tomorrow?”
“Reschedule it.” I’m already moving, grabbing my jacket. “There’s also supposed to be a meet and greet with the sponsors—“
“I’ll handle it.” Her fingers fly over her phone screen. “There’s a red-eye leaving in two hours. I can get you on it if you hurry.”
“Do it.”
She looks up, a small smile playing at her lips. “What are you going to say to her?”
“I have no fucking clue.” I run a hand through my hair. “But I need to see her. Need to make this right. Fix it—if I can.”
“Well, you’ll have plenty of time on the plane to figure it out, “ she says, showing me the confirmation on her phone. But you barely have time to make it to the airport. Your flight leaves in two hours.”
I nod, then pause at the door. “Emily?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For showing me those emails. For ‘not minding your own business’—for ... everything.”
She waves me off. “Just don’t screw it up this time. And Nate?”
I turn back, arching an eyebrow.
“When you see her? Lead with your heart, not your pride.”
I nod once, and then I’m out the door, taking the stairs two at a time. My phone buzzes—it’s the flight confirmation from Emily. This is crazy. Impulsive. Possibly too little, too late.
But as security flags down a taxi and I slide into the back seat, I feel more alive than I have in weeks. Because for the first time since she left, I’m not just stewing in my regret.
I’m finally doing something about it.
I just pray I’m not too late.