Chapter 22 #2
Rafe looks at me across the island, eyes brightening in anticipation. The carefulness from earlier is still there, but this—this is familiar. This is his world. This is something he can hold without fear.
“What’s up?” he asks.
Rachael exhales like she’s been waiting for this moment and also dreading it because of the chaos. “You’ve been invited to perform at the LUMINA Awards.”
There’s a half second of stunned silence.
Then Eli screams, “NO!”
Drew shouts something incoherent.
Miles laughs, disbelieving. “Rachael.”
Rachael’s voice is tight with satisfaction. “Yes. The LUMINA. Live performance slot. Prime time.”
Rafe’s mouth parts slightly, like his brain has short-circuited. I feel it in my chest anyway. The surge of pride. The sharp warmth. Because I know what that means.
That isn’t just a gig. That’s a line crossed. That’s legitimacy stamped on their foreheads in permanent ink.
Rachael continues, cutting through the noise, “And you’ve been nominated.”
Eli makes a strangled sound. “For what?”
Her voice turns crisp and official. “Two categories. Song of the Year for ‘Hollow Ground.’”
Rafe’s eyes widen so fast it’s almost comical. He grips the edge of the counter like he needs something solid.
“Hollow Ground” is the song he wrote half asleep in our apartment, voice hoarse, guitar low. The one he played for me first with that vulnerable look that always undoes me. The one that felt like a confession even when the world thought it was just good lyrics.
Rachael’s voice stays steady. “And Best Rock Performance.”
Eli yells, “WE’RE GOING TO THROW UP.”
“We’re not,” Miles says, voice shaking anyway. “We’re not throwing up.”
“I’m throwing up,” Drew announces.
“Stop it,” Rachael snaps, but I can hear the smile in her tone now. “The show is April fifth. In LA. You’ll have rehearsals the week prior. I’ll send the details, and—yes, before you ask—the label is thrilled. Everyone’s thrilled. You are going to behave.”
Eli laughs hysterically. “We can’t behave. We’re nominated.”
“We’re performing,” Miles corrects, like saying it out loud might make it more real.
Rafe finally finds his voice. “April fifth,” he repeats, slow.
“Yes,” Rachael says, softer now, like she’s giving him space to feel it. “Congratulations, Rafe. Congratulations, all of you.”
There’s another burst of shouting on the other end.
Rafe’s gaze stays locked on mine, like he needs to anchor himself in something familiar while the world expands again. His eyes are glossy with it, though he’s trying to play it cool.
“You deserve it,” I mouth, and I’m grateful I’m not speaking aloud as my voice would likely crack.
He swallows hard and bobs his head.
Rachael cuts back in, all business again. “Okay. I’m letting you go. Enjoy your time off. And please, for the love of God, do not post anything stupid about this until we do the official announcement.”
Eli makes a wounded sound. “Why do you hate joy?”
“Because joy gets you sued,” Rachael replies instantly.
Then the call ends.
The kitchen is suddenly too quiet again. Rafe is still holding his phone like he expects her to call back and say, Just kidding.
I watch his face change in real time—the shock dissolving into a grin he can’t hold back, the kind that breaks wide across his mouth and makes him look younger. Like the kid from a small house with working parents who used to dream about this stuff and pretend it didn’t matter.
“LUMINA,” he says, breathless.
I push back from the island and stand, unable to help myself. I cross to him and wrap my arms around him hard, pulling him into my chest the same way I did at the door when he first arrived.
Rafe makes a sound that’s half laugh, half exhale. He clings to me, forehead pressing to my shoulder. “Holy shit,” he murmurs.
“Holy shit,” I echo.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes bright and a little wild. “Song of the Year,” he says again, like he can’t make it fit in his mouth.
“You’re going to be insufferable about this,” I tell him.
Rafe laughs, real and unguarded. “Abso-fucking-lutely I am.” He leans in and kisses me—quick, instinctive, full of joy.
Then he winces. It’s small, subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But I feel it because I’m too attuned to his body, to the micro-flinches that mean something is wrong.
My hands tighten on his arms. “Hey,” I say quietly. “What—”
“It’s nothing,” he says too fast, and I know immediately that it isn’t nothing. His smile wobbles for half a second before he steadies it again, forcing brightness back into place.
He doesn’t want to stain the moment. I understand that impulse. I live it.
“We should celebrate,” he says, rallying, voice determined.
My chest warms. “Yeah?”
Rafe’s eyes dart toward the window, toward the street, and I see him calculate. Even here, even now, he isn’t fully free of the mental math.
Then he shakes his head once, decisive. “Just here,” he says. “The two of us.”
The words should feel safe. They do, but they really fucking don’t. Because “just here” is starting to feel like the only place we’re allowed to exist as real.
I push the thought down and smile anyway. “Okay,” I say. “We can do that.”
Rafe starts pacing slightly, phone in hand like he might call the guys back just to hear them scream again. “April fifth,” he repeats, then looks at me. “I’ll be back in LA for it. Obviously.”
My stomach tightens, but I nod. “Yeah.”
He keeps talking, excitement spilling out now that it’s found a path. “Rehearsals. Press. Probably some stupid red-carpet thing.”
My chest does that small, familiar dip.
Red carpet.
Public.
Flashbulbs.
A world where he shines and I stand off to the side of it like a ghost.
Rafe doesn’t stop. He’s riding the high. He deserves to. “I’ll probably ask my sister to come,” he says, simple as fact. “She’ll lose her mind.”
The words land quietly. No dagger. No accusation. Just a statement. And my face falls anyway, because my body betrays me even when my mind tries to stay calm.
Rafe sees it. Or maybe he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t pause. He doesn’t pivot. He doesn’t soften it for me.
He just keeps moving through the reality he’s learned to live in. The reality where he can’t invite me without risking the inevitable outcome: me freezing, me panicking, me saying no, me making his joy smaller.
So he doesn’t ask, and I don’t blame him.
Not really. But the quiet hurt blooms anyway, sharp and aching, because it’s confirmation of what I already know: This is what my choices have built.
A marriage that exists behind closed doors and disappears at the exact moments it should be allowed to stand tall.
I swallow hard, forcing my smile to stay in place. “She should go,” I say, voice steady. “She’d love that.”
Rafe’s gaze flickers to mine, unreadable for a second. Then he nods once. “Yeah.”
We stand together, the morning light bright around us, the kitchen smelling like coffee and toast and the faint promise of champagne.
He’s glowing with success, and I’m proud enough to burst.
And underneath it, there’s that same old bruise, tender and unhealed, reminding me that loving him isn’t the problem.
The problem is that I keep loving him in the dark.
I don’t want to ruin the mood. I don’t want to be the weight on his joy.
I don’t want to drag us into another conversation we can’t finish.
Rafe’s gaze flicks to the fridge before I even move.
It seems instinctive, maybe even automatic.
He swallows, shoulders easing just a fraction, like his body already knows what comes next.
I smile and turn toward the fridge where the bottle of champagne sits—bought before he came because I’d promised myself we’d celebrate something, even if that something was just surviving.
My fingers curl around the foil. I start peeling it back, slow and careful.
Behind me, I hear Rafe exhale, like he’s trying to hold on to the high.
I force my breath to stay even and keep my hands moving.
If I stop—if I let myself stand still with that quiet sadness lodged in my chest—I might finally have to face what I’ve been refusing to name.
And I’m not ready. Not today. So I twist the wire cage free, smile over my shoulder, and say, “All right, rock star. Let’s celebrate.”
The cork shifts under my hand, ready to pop. And for now, I let the sound of it be the only thing that breaks the air.