Chapter 22
NINJA TURTLE MASK
JOEY
Look to Windward by Sleep Token
Idig through my closet, rejecting everything I own. Jeans and sweaters won’t work tonight. Something tells me this show will be different, and I refuse to show up like I wandered in from the barn.
Maggie’s side of the closet beckons, her clothes hanging in deliberate disorder, a rainbow of textures and colors that scream confidence.
I pull out a black dress I’ve never seen her wear, something with a deep neckline and fabric that clings in the right places.
It’s beautiful and impractical and definitely not me.
But that’s exactly what I need tonight.
My phone rings like Maggie has some kind of sensor on her clothes.
“I’m about to commit a felony, and I need you to talk me out of it,” Maggie’s voice blasts through the speaker.
“What happened now?” I settle onto my bed with the dress draped across my lap.
“Dylan. That’s what happened.” Her voice drips with indignation. “He wants me to film Felix doing a duet with Ivy fucking Nova tomorrow night, so now I get to document him making heart eyes at pop music’s princess while they sing some romantic ballad.”
I can practically hear her pacing through the phone. “That sounds like work. Isn’t that literally what they’re paying you for?”
“Don’t be logical right now, Joey. I’m having a crisis, and you know Dylan’s not even paying me.
” The frantic clicking of keys sounds in the background.
“Do you know what Ivy Nova looks like? She’s like a Disney princess who moonlights as a Victoria’s Secret model.
Perfect everything. And I’m supposed to stand there with my camera and pretend I’m fine watching Felix get dreamy-eyed over someone who probably has her own constellation named after her. ”
“You’re jealous.” I can’t keep the amusement out of my voice.
“I’m not jealous.” The denial comes too fast, too sharp. “I’m professionally concerned about the artistic integrity of the documentary.”
“Right. And I’m professionally concerned about the artistic integrity of horse manure.”
Silence stretches between us before Maggie lets out a dramatic groan. “Fine! You want the truth? I’m dickmatized, Joey. That’s what happened. Felix and his stupidly perfect abs completely dickmatized me, and now I can’t think straight!”
I let out a giggle before I can stop it, which makes Maggie even more outraged.
“This is not funny!” she protests. “There should be laws against musicians having bodies like Greek gods while wielding guitars like weapons of mass seduction.”
“Sounds more like he’s wielding something else that’s got you out of sorts.” I dissolve into fresh giggles.
“Oh, you’re hilarious,” Maggie deadpans. “Really. I should quit filmmaking and become a comedian’s assistant since apparently my romantic disasters are such quality entertainment.”
“I thought you were having fun,” I say carefully.
“So did I.” Her voice gets smaller, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
“But somewhere between documenting his creative process and watching him interact with fans, I got invested. And that’s the problem, Joey.
What happens when this tour ends? He goes to his rockstar life, and I go to…
what? Home to the smell of horse manure and no job prospects? ”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“God, I should have stuck to my rule about not getting involved with rockstars. Professional distance exists for a reason.” She lets out a long breath. “Anyway, enough about my romantic disasters. How are things with you? Still obsessing over rescue horses and avoiding human contact?”
“I’m not avoiding human contact.”
“Please. When’s the last time you went out? And I mean actually out, not to the feed store or the vet clinic.”
The words sit right there on the tip of my tongue, to tell her about Jesse, about everything that’s been happening. Part of me needs someone to talk to about this boy I’ve fallen in love with. The secret is heavy, carrying it alone.
“Maggie, move your ass!” a gruff voice barks in the background.
Maggie lets out an annoyed breath. “God, I swear living on the road is like being trapped in a testosterone-fueled pressure cooker. I gotta go, love you.”
The line goes dead.
I press the phone against my chest and stare at the ceiling.
I pick up the black dress from where it’s pooled across my lap and hold it against myself, catching my reflection in the mirror. The girl staring at me could be someone else entirely. Someone who doesn’t hoard the people she loves like secrets.
I slip into the dress before the feeling can pin me down.
The fabric clings and transforms my reflection into someone bolder, more sophisticated, and right now, I need to be anyone other than the girl who can’t tell her own sister the truth.
I pull on a pair of boots and force a smile at my reflection.
A little bit of the old me to go with the new me.
The kitchen lights are on when I make my way down the hallway.
“Going somewhere?” Mom peers up from where she and Dad sit at the counter, sharing a piece of cherry pie.
“Meeting up with Becca and Zoe,” I say, not meeting either of their eyes.
I’d never lied to my parents before Jesse. Never had a reason to. But now I catch myself doing it without hesitation, and each time it gets a little smoother, a little more natural. The ease of it terrifies me. What kind of person am I becoming?
“The same band from last week?” Dad raises an eyebrow, taking in my outfit with barely concealed surprise.
“Uh, yeah,” I say, grabbing a bottle of water and heading for the door.
“In that?” Dad stops me.
“What?”
“Where the fuck is the rest of it?” he says.
I look down and then at him, confused. “This is it.”
Admittedly, it’s not what I usually wear. It’s on the shorter side, but not scandalous. Maggie wouldn’t be caught dead in anything longer than mid-thigh.
He stands up from the table and grabs a coat from the hook, shoving it at me. Mom intercepts the coat, giving Dad a look. “Cash,” she uses her warning voice. “Leave the girl alone.”
“You look beautiful, honey,” Mom says. “Have fun.”
I take the opportunity to head out the door, but I hear my dad call after me, “Not too much fun!”
The Fonda Theatre sprawls before me, with a line halfway down the street. As I join the crowd flowing through the entrance, I check the time, worrying I’ll miss the beginning. The line crawls at a snail’s pace as they check tickets and slap on wristbands.
When I finally make it inside, it’s standing room only. Everything is bigger, more professional, more serious, more permanent.
I try to make my way to the front, but the crowd is packed tight. I’m not going to get anywhere near the stage. There are no gaps to slip through, no space near the barrier.
I retreat to the raised table area near the back, where I can see over heads but still ride the energy of the room.
When the lights dim and the band takes the stage, the roar is deafening.
Jesse steps into the spotlight and I can feel the shift, the way everything about him transforms. I’ve seen him perform a handful of times, and it’s hard to reconcile the man on stage with the man who traces constellations across my skin and whispers my name like it’s the only word he’s memorized.
The crowd presses forward, bodies straining toward the stage like he’s pulling them on invisible threads. Women throughout the venue lean forward, adjusting their tops, whispering to friends with smiles that make my stomach twist. Phones rise like offerings, capturing every angle.
My jaw tightens. The way they stare at him, like he’s something to consume rather than someone to hear.
He’s lost in the performance, pouring himself into every note, and they’re cataloging his body, his voice, his movements for their own private collection.
Jesse moves across the stage like he owns every inch of it.
He tilts his head, lost in the music, and every scream in the building sharpens to a single, desperate pitch.
When he leans into the microphone during the chorus, I’m split open by something that’s somewhere between pride and possession.
The girl next to me lets out a breathy moan. “Jesus, that voice. I want him to whisper dirty things to me.”
He does. To me.
Jesse had explained his need for privacy, to not let this industry consume him, and I didn’t get it until now. Every person in this room wants a piece of him, and not one of them cares about the person behind the mask.
Look at him up there. Look at what he’s built, what he’s become. The way he commands every soul in this room with nothing but his voice and six strings. The way he moves like he was born for stages this size.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it. I press my hands to my chest, overwhelmed. This is Jesse unleashed, and he’s magnificent.
I’m watching someone I love outgrow everything I’ve ever understood about him.
“What in the actual fuck?”
The voice cuts through my thoughts, and I turn to find Jack O’Donnell standing beside me, trying and failing to appear incognito in a baseball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses. The only reason no one’s noticed him is because every eye in the building is aimed at his son.
I’m too stunned to speak, as if my vocal cords have shriveled up and died. Jack O’Donnell is intimidating in a normal setting, but here, he’s terrifying.
“What’s with the Halloween costumes?” He crosses his arms over his broad chest, his stance wide as he watches Jesse on stage.
I clear my throat, finding my voice. “It’s part of the mystique.”
Jack shakes his head. “Mystique? In my day, mystique would get the shit beat out of you in an alley.” His expression softens. “Though I gotta admit, the kid sounds incredible.”
The pride in his voice makes my chest ache.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I wanted to see what my son is up to,” Jack says, and then his eyes narrow on me with knowing amusement. “Question is, what are you doing here, Joey?”
Shit. Busted.
“I…” I scramble for an explanation. “I’m here for moral support?” It comes out sounding more like a question, and I cringe. I’ve been so good about lying these past couple months, but something about Jack O’Donnell’s stare strips away every rehearsed excuse.
“Nice try, kid.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “You got it bad, huh?”
My face burns. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.” Jack’s attention shifts to the stage where Jesse is lost in his guitar solo, and the silence between us fills with the roar of the crowd singing along.
I fidget with my horseshoe necklace, the metal warm against my skin. The denial sits in my throat, but it won’t come. Not with the way my entire body is angled toward the stage, not with this dress I borrowed to be worthy of a world I barely understand.
“I love him,” I say.
The words spill out before I can catch them. “I’m in love with your son, Jack. And I understand if that’s complicated because of our families, but I need you to understand…”
“Kid.” Jack holds up a hand. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Breathe.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
He studies me for a long moment, the stage lights strobing across his face, shadows pooling beneath the brim of his cap. “You’ve been looking at my son like he invented oxygen since you were fourteen years old.”
The blush spreads from my cheeks down my neck, and I’m grateful for the darkness.
“All I care about,” Jack says, his voice dropping below the roar of the crowd, “is whether he’s happy.”
I gesture toward the stage where Jesse is mid-song, the crowd hanging on every note. “What do you think?”
Jack nods, slow and deliberate. His gaze drifts to Jesse on stage and something complicated passes across his face—pride tangled with worry, the kind only a parent carries.
“And he’s doing okay?” The question is casual. Too casual. “Managing everything?”
Something about his tone makes me pause. The way he says everything, weighted, careful. Like there’s a specific answer he’s fishing for.
“I think so.” I glance at the stage, then at Jack. “I don’t think he loves the pressure, but he’s figuring it out.”
Jack watches me for a long moment. Something shifts behind his eyes, not disappointment exactly, but a quiet resignation. Like I’ve confirmed something he suspected.
“Just…” He stops himself. Scrubs a hand over his jaw. “Keep an eye on him for me, yeah? This industry eats people alive.”
Something about the way he says keep an eye on him, like it’s a job, not a suggestion, leaves something unsettled in my chest. The sense that I answered wrong, even though I told the truth.
On stage, Jesse launches into the bridge, his voice raw and soaring, and the crowd roars.
“Kid’s got a voice that could move mountains,” Jack says, “and he’s hiding behind some Ninja Turtle mask?”
I laugh despite the anxiety still buzzing under my skin. He makes fun, but there’s an unmistakable pride in his expression.
“He wants to be recognized for his music, not for…”
“Being my son.” Jack finishes for me.
“I think it’s more than that,” I say, but I don’t want to speak for Jesse. I’ve had a feeling for a while that his reasons go deeper. Something I can’t name yet. Something he holds close.
Jack makes a deep grumble. He watches the show for another full song, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his face the entire time.
I turn to him. “Look, I don’t want you to say anything to…”
“Don’t worry, kid,” he cuts me off. “Neither of us were here.” He winks, and then slips into the crowd like a man who’s spent decades disappearing from venues unnoticed.
I stare after him, relief and gratitude settling into my ribs.
I turn my attention to Jesse as he finishes the song to thunderous applause.
When the show ends, I make my way through the thinning crowd toward the stage.