Chapter 24
MAX
Dear Old Dad
There’s something weirdly comforting about routine on the road.
Even when every night means a new city, another stage, the chaos starts to follow a rhythm. Load in, soundcheck, backstage nerves, lights up, lights out. Repeat.
But this tour?
This tour is different.
Because Nora’s here.
And now the routine includes the way she’s always up first, shuffling into the front lounge with her ridiculous fuzzy socks and that sleepy little “morning scowl” that disappears the second someone hands her a cup of tea.
It includes the way she perches in the jump seat beside the driver when she wants quiet, headphones in, some moody audiobook humming in her ears while the rest of us play poker or argue over playlists.
It includes me finding excuses to sit next to her. Always next to her. Whether we’re passing time on the bus or killing hours backstage, I’ve got one eye on the setlist and the other on the way she curls her knees up when she reads.
We’ve got a routine now.
Before shows, she’ll help Annie run over the social posts, or make fun of DeShawn’s pre-gig affirmations ("You’re a goddess, you’ve got this, hydrate or die-drate"). She’ll pretend to gag when Lucas sprays himself with too much cologne, then steal his gummy bears anyway.
And when the lights go down and we take the stage?
She’s always there. Side stage. Watching.
I can feel her eyes on me, even through the fog machines and the screaming crowd. There’s something about it that grounds me. Makes me feel like I’m performing for someone who actually matters.
After the show, we fall into our own little orbit. She waits for me with water and a knowing smile. I pull her in for a kiss before the adrenaline has time to fade.
And when the others head to the bar or back to the hotel, we sometimes sneak off.
Once, to a twenty-four-hour bookstore in Portland where she dared me to read Bronte in a dramatic British accent. (I did. Poorly.) Once, to the roof of the venue with a bottle of wine and a blanket, where we watched satellites skate across the sky like they had somewhere more important to be.
But it’s not always big moments.
Sometimes it’s me helping her hunt for her misplaced phone charger under a pile of guitar pedals.
Or her handing me painkillers before I even ask, because she can see I overdid it on stage.
It’s the way she slips her hand into mine when no one’s looking.
Or how she pretends not to notice when I pull her into my pod just to have her close.
It’s the way her shampoo clings to my pillows now.
The way her laughter changes the sound of the bus.
The way she teases me for having too many black T-shirts, but wears them to bed anyway.
And the way she comes for me when we take pleasure from each other—God.
The sex has woven itself into the fabric of tour life for me.
Sometimes, it’s frenzied—after a show, when the adrenaline’s still raw and I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me from side stage. Eyes dark, lips parted, hands clenching the edge of the curtain like she wanted to drag me off the stage by my collar.
Sometimes it’s slow. Stretching into hours that blur beneath the low thrum of the road. In my bunk, lights dimmed, her breath soft and close, her fingers trailing over my chest like she’s memorizing the map of me.
We’ve gotten good at being quiet.
She bites her lip now—just a little—when she’s about to come. Fists the sheets or buries her face in my shoulder. Once, she actually apologized after, like she’d gotten too loud. I told her if she ever muffles a moan again I’ll make her start from scratch and earn it proper.
She slapped my arm.
I kissed her so deep we both forgot our names for a minute.
It’s not just the sex. It's the routine of it. The trust of it. The comfort in knowing that when the doors close and the lights are off and the world shrinks to this bus and this bunk and this moment—she’s there. Warm. Wanting. Mine.
It’s the way her breath hitches when I kiss the back of her knee.
The way she digs her nails into my shoulder when I tell her what I want to do to her next.
The way she tugs me into the shower with her after a long show, just so we can laugh and steam up the glass and maybe fuck with the water still running down our spines.
And then there are mornings.
When I wake up with her legs tangled in mine, her body pressed to my chest, her palm splayed over my ribs like she’s keeping me grounded.
She always stirs first. Always tries to move without waking me.
She never succeeds.
I usually catch her ankle, drag her back into bed, and murmur something filthy in her ear until she’s laughing and breathless and right back where she belongs.
Sometimes, Nora and I wander the city to fill the hours between soundcheck and the show. It’s become her tradition to visit at least one bookstore in every place we play.
The first time—in Austin—she ducks into a dusty little shop with a crooked sign that reads Whitman & Daughters, Rare & Used.
The bell above the door chimes, and she inhales like she’s just stepped into a cathedral.
She forgets I’m behind her. That’s my first clue this is sacred.
So I don’t talk. I follow.
The shop smells like paper and ink and time. Sunlight filters in through grimy windows, catching on suspended dust motes, like the whole place is floating in slow motion.
Nora moves like she belongs here. Like the building reshaped itself the moment she walked in.
Her fingers skim the spines. Leather, cloth, cracked bindings.
She tilts her head to read the faded titles and hums to herself under her breath—some tune I can’t place, but I’m pretty sure it’s a soundtrack for happiness.
I lean against a shelf, watching.
She ends up walking out with a battered poetry anthology, fourth printing, margins stuffed with someone else’s underlines. Says she doesn’t mind. “Books with history are the best kind,” she tells me, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
So now, every stop, every city, I keep my eyes open for places like that. Places where the air smells like ghosts and forgotten verses.
She calls it her bookstore hunt.
I call it the only part of tour that makes her forget she’s on tour.
By the time we roll into Cleveland, I’ve made a few calls. I’ve got a guy here who knows a guy in New York who once bought a drink for a guy who curates rare editions. I don’t ask too many questions. I just make sure he gets what I need.
When I pull the slim box out of my backpack, we’re backstage, the muffled thump of drums vibrating through the concrete floor.
Nora’s curled on the couch, knees pulled up, her nose in a paperback. She doesn’t notice me at first.
“Nora.”
She looks up, eyes a little bleary, blinking like she’s surfacing from deep water. “Hmm?”
I hold the box out.
She frowns. “What is this?”
“Open it.”
She does, slowly, cautious like it might explode. Then she sees the title—and freezes.
Her breath catches. “No way.”
It’s Jane Eyre. First U.S. edition. Signed.
She doesn’t speak for a long moment, just traces the name on the inside cover with trembling fingers.
“This must’ve cost—Max, I can’t—”
“You can,” I cut in, quiet but firm. “And I wanted to.”
She closes the book gently and presses it to her chest like it’s something alive. Then she looks up at me with eyes too full, too soft, and I feel it in the center of my ribs—that aching twist that always shows up when she looks at me like I matter.
“Do you know how much this means to me?” she whispers.
“Course I do,” I say. “You light up like a damn sunrise every time you step into a bookstore.”
She laughs, blinking fast, like she’s trying not to cry. “You’re gonna make me ruin my eyeliner.”
I grin. “I like it when it’s smudged.”
She swats at my chest, but the edges of her smile are unsteady.
I sit beside her on the couch. She leans into me without thinking, head against my shoulder, the book still tucked in her lap.
For a long time, we just sit like that. The chaos of tour humming outside the door, guitars and shouted instructions and the thump of boots on concrete—but none of it touches us.
Right now, it’s just the two of us. Her, me, and a goddamn 1848 edition of Jane Eyre.
And I think—if she asks, I’d do this a thousand more times.
Because nothing feels louder than her silence when she’s happy. Nothing feels better than being the one who caused it.
***
We’re parked outside the final venue of our tour in Detroit—engine off, stage crew unloading gear while the city hums just beyond the tinted windows.
Inside the tour bus, it’s strangely quiet.
Nora’s curled in the front lounge, knees tucked under her, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists.
Her hair’s in a loose knot, and Melody is asleep in her lap, one tiny paw hooked into the fabric of her sweatshirt.
I lean against the kitchenette counter, sipping lukewarm coffee, watching her stroke the kitten’s ears in slow, absent patterns.
I almost don’t say it.
But then Melody lets out a soft, kitten-sized snore, and something in my chest squeezes.
“We should probably talk about her,” I say.
Nora looks up, brows knitting slightly. “Melody?”
“Yeah.” I nod, pushing off the counter and walking over. I crouch next to the couch so I’m at her level. “It’s been almost three weeks. We’ve hung flyers, posted on socials, called every shelter in a hundred-mile radius.”
“And no one’s claimed her,” Nora finishes, her voice quiet.
I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Not a single hit. Either no one’s looking… or she didn’t belong to anyone to begin with.”
Nora’s gaze drops back to the kitten. Melody shifts a little in her sleep, tiny chest rising and falling like she doesn’t have a clue how close she came to being forgotten.
“She always looks so surprised when we feed her,” Nora murmurs. “Like she still doesn’t believe she gets to stay.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “I know the feeling.”
She glances at me, her mouth softening into a smile. “You mean the kitten or you?”
“Both,” I admit, trying to play it off with a smirk. “I mean, you let me stay. Feed me. Occasionally pet my ego. I’m basically your stray.”
Nora huffs a laugh. “Please. Your ego was feral and thriving when I met you.”
“Still is. But it purrs when you’re around.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile lingers.
I nudge her knee. “Seriously, though. She’s… ours now, right?”
Nora looks down at the tiny furball nestled in her lap. Her voice is soft, but certain when she answers.
“Yeah. I think she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.”
Just then a muffled shout breaks the moment.
There’s a thump against the outside of the bus. A voice—slurred, loud, unmistakably angry—follows: “Maxwell! I know you’re in there, dammit—don’t you ignore me!”
My blood ices.
“What the hell?” Lucas mutters from the kitchenette.
Nora looks up sharply. “Was that…?”
“Yeah.” I’m already heading for the door. “It’s dear old Dad.”