Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
MYA
T he bass rumbles through the floor like a living thing, a steady, pulsing heartbeat that thrums in my ribcage and makes the walls vibrate. Even back here, behind velvet ropes and industrial doors marked “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY,” the sound is electric—alive. The crowd on the other side of the concrete vibrates with it, chanting a single word that still makes my breath catch.
“Eighteendust! Eighteendust!”
It’s surreal hearing it echo through the bowels of Madison freaking Square Garden.
My laminate pass swings from my neck as I jog down the narrow hallway, past roadies wheeling in last-minute gear and security guards barking into radios. Penelope’s somewhere behind me with the backup camera, red hair pulled into a tight ponytail, all business as usual. But me?
I’m not pretending to be cool about any of this. I’m glowing. Beaming. And not in the pregnant-glow way—though, okay, maybe a little. I’ve got that “tour kickoff, sold-out arena, history-in-the-making” kind of glow that no highlighter can fake.
“Holy shit, you’re here!” Carson yells when I walk into the dressing room. His blonde hair is a sweaty, chaotic mess already, even though they haven’t hit the stage yet, and he practically tackles me in a hug, careful not to crush my belly.
Benji isn’t far behind, his signature black hair wild as ever, eyeliner smudged like he slept in it. “Look at you,” he grins, pulling me into a tight, swaying hug that smells like guitar strings and dry shampoo. “Mama Mya in the flesh!”
“I missed you guys,” I laugh, heart squeezing. “Even if you are sweaty and way too enthusiastic for a greenroom.”
“Excuse you,” Carson says, mock-offended. “This is not just a greenroom. This is sacred pre-show space. Temple of ritual. Altar of snacks.”
Benji throws an arm around my shoulders. “You should’ve seen Carson earlier, pacing like a dad in a maternity ward.”
“Was not,” Carson mutters. “I was tuning.”
“You were pacing,” Penelope confirms as she walks in behind me, camera already in hand.
The energy’s insane—amped, buzzing, a weird mix of adrenaline and nerves and nostalgia all rolled into one. It feels like the start of something big, something permanent. Like this isn’t just a show—it’s the beginning of a legacy.
I glance around, trying not to overthink the one very noticeable absence.
Fletch isn’t here.
And even though I try not to dwell on it, not to read into the empty stool in the corner or the unclaimed bottle of Gatorade on the dressing table, it prickles at the edge of my thoughts like a splinter.
Before I can spiral, the door swings open again, and in walks Alex, crisp and collected in a charcoal Armani suit that probably costs more than my rent. His salt-and-pepper beard is trimmed sharp, and his expression is all business.
“We’re on in ten. Let’s move.”
“Time to make history,” Benji says, chest puffed with the kind of cocky confidence that only comes with playing to a sold-out crowd of screaming fans.
“Let’s go blow the roof off,” Carson grins, grabbing his bass
As they file out, I trail behind with Penelope, slipping into our spot just offstage. The energy back here is a living beast, snarling with every cheer from the crowd, every vibration of the sound check humming through the steel scaffolding.
Penelope passes me the gimbal rig without a word. We’ve done this dance a dozen times already—me behind the lens, her keeping everything else running. Her eyes scan the side monitors while I get into position, fingers already flying across my phone as I upload teaser clips to the band’s socials.
The second the lights drop and the crowd erupts, the stage explodes in a riot of sound and light. Eighteendust takes the stage like they were born for this exact moment.
And me?
I film.
I post.
I breathe it in like it’s oxygen.
Even if he isn’t here, even if his absence sits heavier than I want to admit, I do the one thing I’ve always done:
I keep moving.
Because this isn’t just their tour.
It’s mine too.
The house lights drop.
A beat of silence.
Then—
BOOM.
The first hit of the kick drum detonates like a canon blast through the arena, and the crowd answers with a roar so loud it nearly lifts me off my feet. The stage explodes in a kaleidoscope of strobes and pyro, chasing each guitar riff like lightning across the night sky.
Benji stalks forward into the spotlight, hair flying, fingers dancing across strings like he’s conjuring demons and melodies all in one breath. Carson leans into the music, his bass slung low and steady, eyes closed like he’s already somewhere else—lost in the sound, the swell, the electricity.
Thorin commands center stage like he was built from it—shoulders broad, voice slicing through the air, rasp and heat wrapped in lyrics that make half the crowd scream and the other half weep.
And still, my gaze keeps flitting back to the rear of the stage.
To him.
Fletch is a force behind the drum kit. Raw power and precision, muscle and motion. His biceps flex with every crash, every roll, every punishing beat that ricochets through the stadium and straight into my sternum.
He’s in all black, the sleeves of his shirt torn off and his jaw clenched in a way that makes my stomach do a slow somersault. His dark hair clings to his temples, sweat-slicked and wild. And even in this chaos of light and sound, he looks like he’s carved from something mythic—rage and rhythm molded into flesh.
The lights hit him in flashes, a flicker of silver cymbals, a blaze of red across his face.
And I can’t stop watching him.
No matter how many times I remind myself this isn’t about him—not tonight, not anymore—I still look.
When Thorin swings his mic out and bellows, “NEW YORK CITY—ARE YOU READY FOR US?” and the crowd erupts like a volcano… I don’t look at Thorin.
I look at Fletch.
And I swear, for half a heartbeat, he looks at me too.
The briefest flick of his eyes over the cymbal line. Barely there. Gone before I can even be sure it happened.
But it hits like a sucker punch.
I focus the camera on him without even thinking, the lens capturing every piston-driven movement, every twist of his torso, the fire in his expression as he builds the bridge of the song like he’s trying to tear something open inside himself and pour it out through the snare.
He’s not smiling—not the usual rockstar grin he throws out like confetti. Not tonight. He looks like he’s drumming to survive. Like if he stops, the whole damn world might fall apart.
And maybe mine with it.
Penelope nudges me gently, pulling me out of my trance. She flashes a thumbs-up, nods toward the screen where the feed I’m filming is being streamed in real-time to the band’s official story.
I nod back, all autopilot.
But my fingers are trembling.
Because even surrounded by fire and light and twenty thousand screaming fans…
It’s still him I see.
And it’s still him I feel.
God help me.
The second song rolls in hard and fast, a gritty anthem that’s always been a crowd favorite—built on driving percussion and lyrics that sound like a rebellion wrapped in heartbreak. Benji and Carson hit the chorus in perfect sync, shoulders bumping, faces lit with unfiltered joy.
Thorin belts the bridge like a man possessed, and Madison Square Garden sings it back to him like a prayer. It’s goosebumps on top of goosebumps, the kind of moment that feels suspended in time—like maybe this is where the world stops spinning, just for a little while.
The camera’s steady in my hands, but inside I’m the opposite—spiraling. Because no matter how good they are—how goddamn perfect every note, every light cue, every drop of sweat flung into the air is—I’m still watching Fletch.
He’s a machine back there, but not in the way that means cold or robotic. He’s kinetic. Electric. Each hit of the snare is like a heartbeat, each crash of the cymbal a raw, guttural exhale. His arms are slick with sweat, hair falling in his eyes, chest heaving like he’s tearing through something invisible.
And when the tempo kicks into that rapid-fire outro, his head tips back.
That smile finally flashes.
Rockstar.
It’s quick—there and gone in a blur of strobe and fog—but it’s the kind of smile that makes you forget how to breathe. That reckless, unapologetic grin that says I was born to do this. The kind of smile that used to crack jokes over diner pancakes at two a.m. The kind of smile that used to be just for me.
Now?
Now it belongs to the lights. The fans. The music.
And still, I feel it in my bones.
The drums build, thunder rolling in his hands. Thorin prowls the edge of the stage, hyping the crowd, while Carson kneels at the edge, letting a lucky fan clutch his hand as the arena goes wild.
But it’s the silence between one cymbal crash and the next that grabs me. A sliver of breath. A beat that hangs too long.
Fletch falters.
Only slightly—so small the crowd would never know. But I see it. Feel it. My fingers tighten on the camera as he recovers seamlessly, but his jaw is tense again. His eyes darker. Somewhere between here and somewhere else.
And I know that look.
He’s in it now. Not just the music—but the moment. The memories. The ache.
The part of him he doesn’t show the crowd.
The part of him that still breaks the same way I do.
Penelope shifts beside me, mouthing something I don’t catch. But I nod, angling the camera up as a rain of pyrotechnic sparks lights the edge of the stage like it’s catching fire.
And still, my lens drifts back.
Back to the guy behind the kit.
The one who’s always been a little too loud, a little too wild, and somehow always the one I can’t stop loving, even when I know better.
Especially when I know better.
The song ends in a wall of sound and light. The crowd screams. Thorin lifts his arms in triumph, sweat dripping down his face like war paint.
And Fletch?
Fletch throws his drumsticks high into the air and catches them one-handed.
Like a dare.
Like a challenge.
Like he knows I’m watching.
And dammit—I am.
The lights dim again.
Not in that wild, heart-racing way from earlier. This is gentler. Like the sky before a storm. That heavy pause right before the first drop of rain. The crowd settles, thousands of bodies shifting, breaths caught, waiting.
A single spotlight slides across the stage, landing on her.
Reese.
She stands alone, barefoot, in a slinky black slip dress that clings like second skin and shimmers like the night itself. Her hair is down, curls untamed, and for a second, she doesn’t look like a rockstar.
She looks like a secret.
Her hand closes around the mic, and when she starts to sing, her voice is low. Fragile. Like she’s still trying to make peace with the words.
“We were a storm destined to collide
You were a story I had to write
Between the pages filled with ink, and the wild skies filled with thunder
You became my safe place to hide, so way up high,
Because we simply existed under the same sky.”
The crowd is silent. Reverent. Even the flashing phones seem to hold their breath.
Then Thorin steps forward into the halo of light beside her, his voice cutting through the hush with quiet devastation.
“But I was so wrong to believe
That you’d stay and never leave
And I was so wrong to believe
That you’d always be there for me.”
His voice is rough. Unsteady in the way that only real heartbreak ever is. Like each word costs something.
Reese glances at him—just for a moment—but it’s enough. Enough to make the air shift. Enough to make you feel like maybe, maybe this song was never written for the world.
Maybe it was just for them.
The second verse builds, Reese leading now, her voice stronger. Clearer.
“It’s been a few years now, and I’ve wondered where you are
Thought about the moments and the laughter we shared under the stars
I wanted to see it all through your eyes, see the world from way up high
Until I remembered that you’d left me behind.”
The screen behind them floods with images—stars, galaxies, paper pages dissolving into clouds. It’s cinematic and intimate all at once, like watching a dream unravel in slow motion.
I film with trembling fingers, the crowd around me a sea of lit-up faces and blurred eyes. Penelope mouths wow beside me, but I can’t look away. My gaze keeps drifting back.
To him.
To Fletch.
He’s barely moving behind the kit, shoulders tight, head bowed like he’s trying to disappear behind the crash of the hi-hats. He’s playing quieter now, restrained, like he doesn’t want to intrude on something too sacred.
But I see the muscle twitch in his jaw. The tight grip on his sticks.
I know that tension.
I know him.
And I know this song is hitting too close.
Thorin and Reese hit the chorus again, together now—two voices carrying the weight of the past between them.
“But I was so wrong to believe
That you’d stay and never leave
And I was so wrong to believe
That you’d always be there for me.”
A few sobs break out in the crowd. One girl nearby clutches her chest like she’s been personally gutted. I get it. God, do I get it.
The final verse rises like dawn.
“Time has passed, and we’re strangers now
I made it without you, somehow
And now I see the storm we were meant to be,
Why you meant so much to me
Because when two stars collide, so way up high,
They always crash and burn and fall in love,
When they’re under the same sky.”
The spotlight fades to soft blue. Their voices fade to nothing.
And for a beat, there’s silence. No applause. No screams.
Just feeling.
Then the arena erupts.
Thunderous applause. Screams. Whistles. People on their feet, shouting their names.
But I can’t move.
My camera’s still on.
And I’m still staring at Fletch.
Because while the rest of the band leans into the applause, soaking it in…
He doesn’t.
He’s still sitting there, shoulders hunched, chest rising and falling too fast. Like he’s not on stage in front of twenty thousand people.
Like he’s somewhere else entirely.
Maybe somewhere we were.
Maybe somewhere we never got to be.