Chapter Fourteen
Right now?!”
When Dax meets my gaze again, I know our reprieve from being responsible is over.
The heady lust that scorched through my inhibitions turns to ice water, shocking me back to my senses.
Everything I’ve been ignoring froths to the surface.
My deadline, my career that I was about to fling the same way as my underwear—
Dax shifts so he’s sitting beside me, and I draw my knees to my chest so I can do the same, tugging the hem of my dress back down. I’ve never done a walk of shame, but I imagine it would feel something like this—and we didn’t even do anything. But it feels like we did.
Dax runs a hand over his face, staring at the wall when he speaks. “It’s the Final album.”
I wait for him to say more. He doesn’t. “What about it?”
His attention cuts to me, shoulders curled inward. “It’s the final album,” he says again.
This time, I understand what he means. Technically. But it doesn’t—It couldn’t—Why? “What?” I splutter. Shock, rage, grief, and confusion fight for dominance.
“I wanted to tell you from the start, but… I was overruled. It’s why we decided it was time to do another interview—one last interview,” he amends, studying his hands, not looking at me.
“The guys didn’t want the article to read like an obituary, so we didn’t tell you.
And it’s one thing to keep a secret from my ex, from a journalist, but you’re not just some ex, some random journalist. I can’t lie to you if we’re—” He gestures to the couch, the memory of what we did—almost did—a palpable thing.
We crossed an invisible line just now, one that I don’t know we can redraw. “This changes things.”
He meets my gaze at last and I look away. It’s my turn to stare at the wall, unsure how to even begin digesting everything he’s just said.
“Sloane,” he calls softly, but it only makes my eyes prickle. “Say something, please.”
I rub the scar on my ring finger, trying to ground myself.
As shock, rage, grief, and confusion fight it out, embarrassment sneaks in and wins.
It makes complete sense. Why they decided to do the article, why they’d pick me, someone whose eyes they could pull the wool over.
I’ve been fighting so hard to protect them with this article, and to know they’ve been lying to me, withholding information much bigger than a secret album… Betrayal stings my eyes.
“You’re right,” I say numbly, my voice sounding a thousand miles away, a thousand leagues underneath the crush of conflicting emotions inside me. “This does change things.”
Hurt flashes across his face, and I wish I hadn’t seen it, because underneath my own hurt, I know this is a huge decision for him—for all of them—to have made, but I’m too blindsided to coddle him right now. They’ve had god knows how long to sit with this news. I’ve had less than a minute.
I need to think. Pushing off the couch, I begin gathering my things, trying to will my hands to stop shaking.
“Sloane, please.”
I don’t bother being gentle with my papers or my notebooks, shoving them unceremoniously into my bag. What’s the point? It’s not like I have any clue where I’m going with this article anyway.
He places a tentative hand on my arm, the same one he so lovingly reclaimed earlier. “Please don’t leave.”
I blink, and we’re in the back of Barrett’s SUV. Don’t leave. I’m gonna fight.
“Why?” I ask, slipping out from under his touch. “Fuck.” I pull my hand back with a wince as my thick notebook cover splits my skin. I stick my middle finger in my mouth, the tang of blood coating my tongue.
The instant I take my finger out of my mouth to inspect the damage, it wells with blood again.
Dax is halfway to his bedroom when he pauses. “Please don’t leave.”
The fight is already ebbing from my body, but it leaves a hollowness in its wake. I nod in confirmation, and he slips out of the room for a moment, the only sounds my racing heart and the opening of bathroom cabinets. Dropping my bag to the floor, I sink onto the couch.
Dax reappears, sinking down in front of me and easing my finger from my mouth. Carefully, he smears antibacterial ointment on the cut that claimed a chunk of my cuticle before wrapping it with a bandage.
Once he’s done, we stare at each other for a long time, breathing heavily, swallowing thickly. There’s so much to say, but I have no idea where to start. I don’t know why I’m so upset. It’s not like it’s my career that’s ending. Except… if this gets out before my article, it might be.
“How could you—” I inhale shakily. “But you are Final Revelations.”
I swear the color leeches from his face, his gaze casting downward and away.
“Why?” I ask again.
He sinks back against the couch cushions, toying with the chain around his neck.
“We’ve been at this for over a decade,” he says hollowly.
“Touring almost nonstop, writing an album as fast as we could so we could get back on tour. Until the past few years. We slowed down a bit, and…” He runs his finger along the chain, his gaze unfocused as he thinks.
“Cain got engaged and had a baby. Marcus has had time for his solo project. Barrett’s doing other stuff.
Jonah moved in with his girl. Things are finally good with my family.
Mariah just graduated—she’s the baby and the favorite…
Well, Breanna’s pregnant, so maybe she’s the favorite now?
I’m so excited to be an embarrassing uncle,” he says with a look so sweet my teeth ache.
“Daisha’s doing something new every week, but she’s the other middle child after me, so she gets away with everything.
We have dinner at our parents’ every other Sunday, and—” He shrugs.
“It’s nice, being home—having one again. ”
He’s rambling, which is so unlike him, and my anger softens, knowing how much work it took for him to get to this place.
He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees.
“We’ve done it, y’know? I started when I was seventeen, and I’m turning twenty-nine next week.
I started out singing and writing about shit I’d never experienced, then went out and had a bunch of experiences—some good, some bad, some I regret but can’t change.
And that gave me a lot to fucking unpack, and I finally had the time to.
” He exhales heavily. “I was really fucked up for a really long time, but I’m not that anymore—or I am, I always will be, it’s me, but I don’t want to keep living in that headspace.
I’ve written a lot of angry music about all the ways I fucked up.
I needed it once… But I don’t anymore. But I don’t want to change Final, either.
None of us do. We made something great, something we all needed back then, something that we’re really fucking proud of, but it’s time for us to do something else.
Maybe we’ll come back to it—I don’t know.
But none of us want to be just Final Revelations anymore.
We want lives, partners, families, to unpack our fucking suitcases.
And we did that for the past two years, and…
” He nods slowly. “We wanna keep doing it, but last time we were on tour, we weren’t doing it like it was the last time, because we didn’t think it would be.
It didn’t feel right to go out that way.
So, this is it. We’re throwing everything we’ve got left at this album, this tour. We wanna go out right.”
I nod slowly. “Thank you—for telling me, for explaining.” I push to my feet, easing the strap of my backpack over my shoulder.
“Sloane,” he pleads, standing. He’s between me and the door. “Don’t leave.”
“I need to think, Dax,” I say wearily. “And I can’t do that if we’re—” I gesture to the couch.
His phone on the coffee table buzzes, and we both stare at it as it goes to voicemail, then resumes buzzing.
I glance at the clock. “You’re late for rehearsal.”
“Fuck.” He snatches up his phone, tapping out a message before tossing it back on the coffee table. “It doesn’t matter—”
“Go to practice,” I say definitively. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Don’t be late for the shoot.”
“I won’t be.” He places his hands on my shoulders, massaging them comfortingly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve known.”
“Known what?”
One of his hands drifts to the back of my neck, his thumb brushing along my pulse point. “That if you were in my life, I would be trying to get you back. That it was pointless not to tell you from the jump.”
I hate that the lopsided grin he gives me makes me soften.
I hate that he’s not even giving me a minute to breathe.
He went from not-kissing me on the couch to announcing a career implosion, to declaring his intentions all in the span of a few minutes.
I hate that I’m confused and yet completely clear about him, all at once. “I cannot fucking stand you,” I mutter.
His smile grows until his dimple is winking at me. “I know,” he says fondly. “Me, too.”
I duck my face to hide my disappointment. That’s not your line, I want to tell him.
Suddenly, my feelings aren’t so clear. How can he say he’s ready for our reunion tour when he doesn’t even remember our greatest hits?
When he pulls me in for a hug, I wrap my arms around his middle, rubbing the scar on my ring finger all the while.
I let my focus slip for a moment, but not anymore.
[Excerpt from Sloane Donavan’s Final Revelations interview transcript]
1999: Bad Decisions
DAX: I remember the last week [of the IC tour], all the guys talking about how ready they were to be home, and it hit me: I don’t think I have a home anymore.
Before tour, I quit school so I could rehearse—I had a lot of songs to learn and not a lot of time to do it.
But after a week of missing classes, the school called my parents.
There was a big fight that culminated in my dad kicking me out.
I was leaving to go on tour, so I didn’t really care—I mean, I did, but I told myself I didn’t.
I crashed at Barrett’s, which meant all I had to do to get to rehearsal was walk downstairs.
But then, after tour… I don’t know if Barrett knew I had nowhere to go, but while we were all loading out the van, Barrett put my duffle in his guest room, and we never really talked about it.
BARRETT: I knew something was going on with the kid—I mean, the whole time we were on the road, I don’t think he called home once.
DAX: I wanted to. I probably could’ve called my sisters—my older sister had a phone in her room, but all we had was the one landline, and I was too scared of my parents being the ones who picked up.
I remember being insecure that I didn’t have anyone to call.
Like, how fucked up is that? I wasn’t worried about losing my relationship with my entire family who I’d always been close to.
I was worried how other people would perceive it.
Or… I dunno, if family could cut me off, what were the odds this band wouldn’t, too?
And then I’d have nothing, nowhere to go.
JONAH: I was the youngest after Dax, so I watched out for him on that first tour. He was pretty tame. He’s always been quiet, which is why I think he was able to hide it so well. Or we just stopped looking. I don’t know. Shit.
BARRETT: We all kept an eye out for him at first, but he was a good kid.
He’d drink a few beers with us after the show, but never before a set.
He didn’t really party. I think he wanted to be in the band so badly he wouldn’t do anything that would jeopardize it.
It wasn’t ’til after the IC tour that he really started getting into shit.
CAIN: We were setting up the keg for the Halloween rager Barrett was throwing when Dax said he had to go and we were like, Why? Dax never really went anywhere or did anything outside of the band and his job at the mall.
JONAH: He was going to get a tattoo.
BARRETT: At first, we were like, Right now? Then we realized: Ho-ly shit. He’s old enough to get a tattoo.
CAIN: Our lil boy was a man now.
MARCUS: We’d been together all day and he hadn’t said shit about it being his motherfucking eighteenth birthday.
JONAH: The party at Barrett’s house still happened, but Barrett wasn’t there. We all missed it so we could sit with Dax while he was getting inked.
CAIN: The ugliest fucking tattoo you’ve ever seen.
BARRETT: [uncontrollable laughter]
MARCUS: He covered it up not too long after.
JONAH: Labels were starting to court us, and we were all kinda caught up in the promise of things happening, and I remember sitting in that tattoo shop and feeling so shitty that I didn’t even know when Dax’s birthday was.
Like, we’d almost missed it. He was going to let us miss it.
And I thought that was maybe one of the saddest things I’d ever heard.
That was the first time I thought maybe Dax wasn’t okay.
DAX: I dunno. I tried not to draw attention to the fact that I was so young.
I was really insecure about that—how much less life I’d lived than them.
I’d been singing Marcus’s songs for months and feeling like such a poser.
I hadn’t experienced most of the things I was singing about.
I was trying to grow up at warp speed. If I got enough piercings, enough tattoos, no one would see I was a quasi-homeless high school dropout who was still deeply afraid of being told he didn’t fit in.
That was the start of me making a series of bad decisions.