Resonance – By Monica Ross #5
"Looking for someone?" Teague's guitar tech, Nate, handed me a bottle of water.
"No." I stepped back. "Just looking."
I tried to focus on my brother absolutely killing the complex driving rhythm of "Storm Break," Teague’s scuzzy anthemic guitar riffs, Johnny’s chunky bass lines, and Green’s soaring voice, but I kept returning to the spot where Lobo had put his arm around me.
Where everything had felt perfect for one moment before it all fell apart.
“You fit perfectly here.”
Between songs, Karst caught my eye, tilting his head in silent question. I gave him double middle fingers, the same dark humor we'd used since we were kids and coping with our parents' shouting matches.
The band shifted into "Soar", and I swallowed a lump when I heard its familiar power chords.
Just hours ago, Lobo had excitedly explained the bridge progression.
Now he probably thought I'd been laughing at him, humoring the guy who didn't realize he was teaching music theory to Karst Wilk's kid sister.
One last scan of the crowd, hope warring with hurt, knowing the door had slammed shut on that relationship before it even crossed the threshold.
By the time the band hit their last song, the ache in my chest had settled into something dull and familiar — the price of being forever tied to something as huge as Broken Wing. I'd known better than to risk the floor seats. Known better than to keep my identity from someone I wanted to be with.
Green's voice filled the arena: "Thank you, Los Angeles! We love you!"
Karst tossed his sticks to fans in the front row — a tradition since Broken Wing’s first tour.
Once, I’d loved watching the pure joy on people's faces when they caught a piece of the magic.
Now it felt like my heart had slipped askew and gotten stuck in some fucked up rhythm that stopped me from giving a shit.
"Ready to go?" Karst appeared beside me, still dripping sweat from the show. "Our ride's waiting at the loading dock."
"Yeah." I handed him a towel. "That new fill in 'Storm Break' was sick."
"You weren't watching."
"I was listening."
"Soraya." He draped the towel around his neck. "I know I was a dick before, and I’m sorry. Wanna talk about him?"
"No point. Just another guy who couldn't handle the Wing nuthouse."
"His loss." But Karsten's scowl meant he thought Lobo was a chickenshit dumbass.
I checked my phone one last time before following my brother toward the exit.
My messages remained unread.
In the SUV, I deleted my carefully curated benefit playlist. I'd never be able to listen to it again without remembering Lobo's joy when we went through the songs.
I had homework to finish for Monday's classes. Normally that meant the library, and SEG.
Now, it meant studying elsewhere.
I got in three good days of sulking before Jane noticed. My housemate and oldest friend was sweet but usually one hundred ten percent focused on her acting career, so I must’ve been scraping bottom when she came into the living room Wednesday morning and considered me through narrowed eyes.
"Okay, what's wrong? You've been shuffling around the house like a sad little penguin."
"I'm fine."
“You’re couch camping, Yaya.”
“No, I’m not.”
"You totally are. You've been in the same pajamas since Saturday night."
"They're comfortable."
“They stink.”
“Do not.” But, yeah, they did.
"You've watched that documentary about tire compounds three times."
I hugged my pillow tighter. "It's interesting."
"Soraya, please. Drew Katterman’s books are interesting.” His romances were her obsession, and she inserted them into every other conversation. “Tire compounds are not ." Jane dropped onto the couch by my feet. "Is this about Sound Engineering Guy?"
"No."
“Yes.”
“Maybe.” I'd almost deleted his number a dozen times, along with our text history. Almost. But I couldn't bring myself to erase our conversations about dirty air and sound waves, or the photo he'd sent of his coffee with Ready 4 F1 class written on the cup.
I couldn't hate him for walking away. Not really. Everyone had limits.
Her expression softened. “He’s not the first to disappoint you.”
“No, but I kinda feel like he woulda been the best.”
Jane sighed and pulled my feet into her lap. “What happened sucks ass.”
I nodded and loved her for not marching out platitudes or telling me some “buck up” bullshit. Neither had Karst, for that matter. My brother had texted multiple times offering ice cream, tequila, and to break Lo’s legs. In that order. I took him up on the ice cream.
Jane squeezed my feet. “If you’re gonna hide in the house forever, promise you’ll shower weekly and change clothes daily.”
I sighed. "I wish, but I gotta go to the engineering library. Big presentation Friday on wing profiles, and I need to do research."
"But you’re avoiding it because SEG studies there."
I blew out a long breath. “Yeah. But I can avoid him without avoiding the library.” I stood, feeling stiff from sitting too long. "I'll use the stacks. No one goes down there except grad students with no love lives."
Jane stood and hugged me, then stepped back, seized my shoulders and turned me toward my bedroom. “Really, Ya. Shower. It’s getting dire.”
I laughed and obeyed. After getting clean, I pulled on jeans, a tee, and a Formula SAE hoodie. I was still ever so pissed about my McLaren cap.
The drive to campus felt longer than usual, each turn heavy with the knowledge that I couldn't avoid this forever. I had another year of engineering classes. Another year of avoiding Lobo.
At least the basement was safe. No windows and bad lighting. Perfect for hiding.
The familiar scent of old books and older carpet crawled up my nose as I wound through the narrow aisles. I wasn't thinking about the study room upstairs, definitely wasn't wondering if Lo sat at his usual table. Wasn't imagining him looking up every time the library doors opened...
Stop.
I found an empty carrel tucked between Aerospace Engineering and Fluid Mechanics . Perfect. No one would look for me here.
Now. Focus.
I pulled up my presentation notes. Wing profiles. Simple. Mathematical. No emotions involved in calculating lift coefficients. No memories tangled up in drag equations.
Except...
"Sound waves are essentially fluid dynamics in air."
“Fuck.” I pressed my palms against my eyes.
I needed resources on multi-element airfoils, not replays of Lobo explaining acoustic flow modeling.
Not the memory of how his hazel eyes lit up when I understood his sound wave graphs.
Not the way his hands sketched patterns in the air, the warmth of his fingers grasping mine, his lips against my ear…
My phone sat dark and silent beside my laptop.
I hadn't posted on Instagram since Saturday — couldn't deal with the DMs from Wingnuts asking about the concert, about my brother, about the "cute guy" I was with.
Someone had snapped a photo of us in our seats, his arm around my shoulders, our heads close together.
We looked happy, and the fan sites were abuzz.
I forced my attention back to the screen. “Multi-element airfoils, Yaya.” I had research to do, a presentation to nail, a future to build that had nothing to do with bands or brothers or a guy who was ignoring my texts.
The quiet hum of the basement's ventilation system helped me settle into my work. Drag coefficients. Pressure distributions. Numbers that made sense, followed rules, didn't leave you with coulda, shoulda, wouldas.
The opening drum fill from "Storm Break" sounded hella-loud in the hushed stacks. I snatched up the phone and answered my brother’s call. “’Sup, butt-munch?”
“We’re heading to San Fran tomorrow, then Portland. Wanna come? Private jet equals no TSA. Plus you love fancy planes.”
I smiled despite myself. Karst was trying to balance protective big brother and hovering worrywart . I appreciated the effort, even if worrywart came through loudest.
“Can't. Got a presentation on Friday.”
“Poopy. After? Hang with me in Portland?”
What he meant was: Portland's far from L.A. and the guy who never returned your texts. Come hide out with your big brother who can protect you.
“Thanks, but rain check. I can’t run away from life.”
He sighed. “Yeah, well, if you change your mind, text me. Okay?”
“I will. Gotta go. I’m way behind on this.”
“’Kay. Love you, Shortie.”
“Love you, dickhead.”
I set the phone aside, trying to recapture my concentration. But I kept thinking about Lobo and how I wanted to explain everything, how the mess in San Francisco had screwed up my head, how being Karsten Wilk's sister meant never trusting that someone wanted to know me .
But Lo hadn't given me the chance to explain any of it.
Another epic sigh escaped me.
Multi-element airfoils , I reminded myself firmly. That was what mattered now.
My phone chimed with a text from Mina, Green's forever-girlfriend:
Sure you don't wanna hang out in Portland? We can do nails & podcasts.
My throat tightened. Mina had helped me through the aftermath of San Francisco, spending hours painting my nails while playing true crime podcasts, letting me process without pushing. Now she was showing up again for me.
I’m OK. Focusing on school. Thx tho.
Always. He's an idiot if he walked so easily, Yaya.
I stared at the text, heat pricking behind my eyes. Trust Mina to cut straight to the heart of it.
Not his fault. I should’ve told him.
Maybe. But running away w/out letting u explain? That's on him.
I set my phone down. I didn't want to think about Lobo running away, or how it felt watching the crowd, hoping to spot him. I definitely didn't want to think about how he'd made me feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with Karst and Broken Wing.
“Goddamn it.” I had the lamest First World problems ever.
I focused on my computer screen and started typing. No more listening to the protests of my stupid heart. Just wake interactions between airfoil elements, drag reduction, and downforce.