Chapter 5 #2
“Right?” Kylie says. “Do you think the lead singer would ever come to one of your games?”
I laugh softly, also amused that they’re focusing a lot on Rafe. “I doubt it.” I’m so full of shit. He’s desperate to get to as many games as possible.
Josie sighs dramatically. “Figures. All the hot ones are always unattainable.”
The word makes something twist inside me.
They go back to scrolling, pulling up more photos—Rafe laughing with people whose names I don’t know, arms slung casually around shoulders, leaning in close the way you do when the night is loud and the moment feels easy. Nothing about it is incriminating. Nothing about it crosses a line.
And still, I feel it like a bruise being pressed. I shouldn’t. I know that. He’s allowed to be existing fully in his world, to be seen and admired and wanted. He hasn’t done anything wrong.
I’m the one who asked for caution. I’m the one who said wait. I’m the one who stays quiet when people make assumptions.
The jealousy sits heavy and sour in my chest, tangled up with something worse. Guilt. Because I don’t get to be angry when I’m the one hiding.
Lindy nudges me with her elbow. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say automatically. “Just tired.”
She narrows her eyes slightly but lets it go, turning back to her friends as they debate which band member is objectively the hottest.
I sit back in the booth, arm slung along the seat behind Lindy, and watch everything carry on without me.
I want him where the world can see him. I want to stand beside him without flinching, without calculating, without swallowing the instinct to reach for him in rooms like this. I want to be proud out loud.
But I’m the one hiding.
And not for the first time, the imbalance feels sharp enough to cut.
After I pay and we pile back into the car, I pull up outside Josie’s aunt’s place, where all three are staying until they head back tomorrow.
Josie and Kylie tumble out, and I promise I’ll respond to their texts the next time they’re in town.
Lindy, who rode shotgun, calls out to them, letting them know she’ll be inside in a minute.
“You were good tonight,” she says suddenly.
I glance at her. “At basketball or at pretending I’m not weirdly tense all the time?”
She smiles softly. “Both.”
The compliment hits harder than I expect.
She turns toward me, expression thoughtful. “You sure you’re okay?” she asks.
The question is simple. The answer isn’t. “Yeah,” I say. “I promise.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then nods. “Okay.” She leans over and hugs me, arms tight around my shoulders. “I’m proud of you,” she says again. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” I assure her.
She gets out of the car, waving as she goes, and I wait until she’s inside before pulling away.
The drive back feels longer without the noise.
By the time I reach the hotel, my phone buzzes with a group chat notification—Josie has already posted a photo from the game on her Instagram and shared the link so I can see it.
Lindy’s tagged. I’m not. The caption is affectionate: Best night ever. I smile despite myself.
Inside, the suite is quiet. Too quiet. Rafe won’t be back for days.
Vegas first, which is where he currently is—doing a pop-up gig on the Strip apparently.
Then he has rehearsals before a quick turnaround and the next leg of planning starts.
I kick off my shoes and drop my keys, moving through the space on autopilot.
I order a protein shake I’m not really hungry for and sip it standing up at the counter. Halfway through, my phone lights up again. This time, it’s a notification from the Steel Saints socials. A photo of the man I love.
Rafe’s laughing outside a venue in Vegas, lights spilling out behind him, hair damp with sweat, arm slung loosely around someone I don’t recognize. Another guy is close on his other side, head tipped toward Rafe like he’s saying something that made him laugh that way—open, unguarded, incandescent.
The caption is innocuous.
Steel Saints lighting up Vegas tonight.
There are already thousands of likes.
I stare at the screen longer than I should.
It’s nothing. I know that. It’s the kind of photo that happens when you’re in a band that’s suddenly everywhere, when your job is to be visible, accessible, desirable in ways that are mostly illusion.
The people around him are probably crew, or friends of friends, or industry-adjacent bodies who will drift in and out of his orbit without consequence.
Hell, it’s the same sort of photo posted of me not so long ago.
Still, something sharp twists in my chest. I scroll the #steelsaintsband feed.
There are more photos. Different angles. Different people. Rafe always smiling, always luminous, always just close enough to someone else to invite speculation without confirming anything.
My stomach drops. I shouldn’t feel this. He’s allowed to enjoy himself. He’s allowed to have friends and be photographed. And yet, I sit down on the couch, phone heavy in my hand, and try to breathe through it.
This is the deal. I’m the one hiding, the one who chose caution. Chose timing. Chose patience and protection and a thousand other words that mean the same thing when you strip them bare. Rafe has never asked me to lie for him. I’m the one who asked him to wait.
My phone buzzes again, this time with a text.
Lindy: Okay… but can we talk about how hot Steel Saints are?? And that next time I visit, you need to let me meet the band.
I groan and drop my head back against the couch. Another text comes in immediately.
Lindy: Like, I knew the lead singer was hot, but Vegas Rafe??? Illegal.
I laugh despite myself, the sound coming out rougher than I intend.
Me: You’re grounded.
Lindy: Worth it.
Three dots appear.
Lindy: They’re everywhere right now. Josie’s convinced she’s going to marry the drummer.
I type, delete, type again.
Me: Dream big.
I lock my phone and set it aside, palms pressing into my thighs. Jealousy is a useless emotion. I’ve always believed that. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make you better. Instead, it just sits there, hot and unproductive, eating at the edges of whatever it touches. And I have no right to it.
I’m married to him, and no one knows. And I’m the one hiding. The contradiction makes my chest ache.
I check the time. It’s not late, especially for Vegas. I could call him. I don’t. Instead, I text.
Me: Saw the photos. You look happy.
It takes a minute before the reply comes through.
Rafe: It was a good show. Crowd was wild.
I stare at the screen, waiting to see if he offers more.
Rafe: Miss you.
That does it. I close my eyes and let the ache settle fully this time. “I miss you too,” I murmur aloud, even before I type it.
Me: Miss you too.
We don’t say more. We don’t need to. The space between the messages says enough.
I lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling, the room dim and quiet around me.
Somewhere in Vegas, Rafe is being seen. Somewhere in LA, I’m learning how to disappear just enough to survive.
I wonder how long that balance can hold before it tips.
Not because I don’t love him, but because love, it turns out, isn’t always the loudest thing in the room.