Chapter 25
NORA
Just Another Flavor of the Month
We’re parked outside the final venue in Detroit—last stop, last show.
The engine is off, but I can still feel the faint echo of the road in my bones.
The kind of silence that only comes after weeks of noise.
No laughter from the pods. No drumstick tapping.
Just the occasional creak of the bus settling and the low thud of gear being unloaded outside.
I curl deeper into the corner of the front lounge, knees pulled up to my chest, the hem of Max’s hoodie covering half my hands. It still smells like him—like cedar and old vinyl and something I can’t name but crave anyway.
Melody is asleep in my lap, a perfect little comma of purring fur. One of her paws is hooked into the front of my sweatshirt, claws barely grazing the fabric like she’s anchoring herself to me. I drag my fingers over her ears, soft and slow, and try not to cry.
Because I don’t want this to be over.
The tour—this messy, loud, wonderful whirlwind—has become home in a way I never expected.
I made friends. I found rhythm. I laughed until I cried at DeShawn’s terrible impressions, learned the difference between “bad soundcheck” and “total meltdown,” and got weirdly good at brushing my teeth in a moving vehicle.
And Max…
God, Max.
He’s leaning against the counter in the kitchenette, sipping coffee that’s probably cold by now. He’s watching me the way he sometimes does, like I’m some rare instrument he’s still figuring out how to tune. It makes my breath catch, that look.
Outside, Detroit hums like any other city. But in here, everything feels suspended. Like time’s holding its breath.
Talking about Melody and making plans about her future gives me a bit of comfort.
But the moment is shattered by a loud bang against the outside of the bus, followed by slurred shouting that slices through the quiet like a blade.
“Maxwell! I know you’re in there, dammit—don’t you ignore me!”
Max goes rigid.
Lucas pokes his head out from the kitchenette, eyes wide. “What the hell?”
“Was that…?” I start to ask, but don’t finish—because Max is already moving.
“Yeah,” he says grimly. “It’s dear old Dad.”
A ripple of dread sweeps through me. His father.
I rise too, heart pounding. “Should I—?”
“Stay here,” he says, already moving for the door.
But I don’t stay.
I follow him.
By the time I reach the door, Max is already outside, striding into the harsh afternoon light toward the man staggering at the edge of the parking lot.
He looks wrecked—nothing like the polished PR photos I’m used to, all crisp suits and perfectly styled hair.
The man standing in front of me now is not in control. His shirt’s rumpled, hair a mess, a bottle barely hidden in the pocket of his coat.
He looks slightly unhinged.
“There he is!” he bellows when he sees Max. “My ungrateful little shit of a son!”
Security starts to move, but Max holds up a hand. He steps forward.
“You need to leave,” he says flatly. “You’re drunk.”
His father laughs—dry, bitter. “What, no hug for dear old Dad?”
“I’m not doing this with you,” Max says. “You’re drunk. Where’s your wife?”
The question slices something out of the man. “Gone,” he mutters. “Took her stuff. Took the dog. Took my money. Said I was a piece of shit for hiding you from her.” He sways slightly, eyes narrowing.
Max flinches, but doesn’t respond. He just exhales slowly and starts to turn back to the bus.
“Oh, you think you’re too good for me now?” his father slurs, staggering forward a step. “With your perfect little band and your new PR girlfriend?”
He points directly at me.
My skin flashes cold.
“Is that what this is?” he sneers. “Another flavor of the month? You’ll get bored of her too, just like all the others.”
Max’s back stiffens, but before he can respond, I step forward, fury pulsing through me.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not standing right here,” I say, my voice sharp and clean. “And don’t you dare talk to your son like that. He’s built something real—something good—and he did it without you.”
His gaze snaps to me, glassy and bloodshot. “You think you know him? You think he’s some misunderstood saint? He’s not. He’s reckless. He’s selfish. And he’ll leave you just like he left everyone else.”
I plant my feet. “No. You left him. And now you can’t stand the fact that he’s better without you.”
A dangerous silence drops.
And then—he lunges.
It’s fast. Sloppy. But full of heat and humiliation.
His arm swings back and I see the fist coming like a film reel unraveling.
But before it can connect with me, Max moves.
Like instinct.
He steps between us, takes the hit straight to the jaw.
It’s sickening—the sound of it. Flesh and bone and fury.
Max stumbles back a step, catches himself. Blood beads at his lip.
Security swarms.
I rush to Max. “Are you okay? Max—”
He holds up a hand. Nods. “I’m okay.”
His father’s still yelling, still fighting against the security guards dragging him toward the curb.
“She’s nothing!” he screams. “You’ll regret this!”
I turn on him, rage curling hot in my throat. “No, you’ll regret this. Because the man you just tried to punch is more decent and loyal and strong than you’ve ever been. And if you think you can shame him into doing your bidding, you’re wrong.”
He stares at me like I’ve slapped him. Then security hauls him away for real this time, dragging him toward a waiting car. His voice fades into the night, bitter and broken.
Max wipes the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, wincing.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs, but his eyes are wild. “Yes, I did. I won’t let anyone treat you this way.”
With that, he pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my neck, like he’s trying to reassure himself I’m still here.
***
The road hums beneath us, steady and low, a sound I’ve grown used to. Like a lullaby wrapped in diesel and distance.
The rain has slowed to a whisper against the roof. Max’s heartbeat under my cheek has settled, too, but neither of us is even close to sleep. The bus rocks through another gentle curve and his fingertips trace slow circles at the nape of my neck—absent-minded, almost hypnotic.
He clears his throat, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Can I tell you something crazy?”
I tilt my face up. “After the month we’ve had, ‘crazy’ is sort of the baseline.”
A crooked smile. Then—nervous, nearly boyish—he says, “I want you to meet my mom.”
The words land like warm light in a dark room. “You … you do?”
“Yeah.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow to see me better.
“We always do a big ‘back-from-tour’ dinner at her place in Queens—nothing fancy. Just lots of pasta and way too many stories about me being a teenage idiot. Grandpa Sid will be there too—total menace.” He lets out a quiet laugh, then tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I usually go alone. But this time—I want you to come with me.”
I bite my lower lip, suddenly shy. “What if she thinks I’m—”
“She’ll love you,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “She loves anyone who’s good for me.”
I laugh—half-nervous, half-giddy. “Okay, then. When?”
“Day after we roll into New York. Seven o’clock. She’ll make enough food to feed the entire band, so come hungry.”
I hesitate. “Will you tell me about your mom?”
He blinks, caught off guard. Then he smiles—soft, real. “She’s everything.”
I wait.
“She raised me on her own, obviously,” he says. “Worked two, sometimes three jobs when I was a kid. Piano teacher by day, waitressing at night. I used to fall asleep under the counter with a cookie in my pocket.”
I feel a tug at my heart. “She sounds amazing.”
“She is,” he says. “Didn’t matter how tired she was—she’d always ask about my day. She was the one who saved up to buy me my first guitar. Told me music didn’t have to be a hobby. Said if I loved it, I should chase it like it mattered.”
My throat tightens.
“That sounds… nice,” I say, voice quiet. He must hear something in my tone of voice, because he asks:
“What about your parents? How did you grow up?”
The question lands gently, but still I feel a small tug in my chest. I pull my legs in closer and glance down at Melody, who’s burrowed into a ball between us like a tiny guardian of secrets.
“Well,” I start, slow, “my childhood was… quiet.”
Max waits, patient, his fingers drawing lazy patterns on my thigh.
“I grew up in upstate New York. Small town. Tree-lined streets, library within walking distance, that kind of thing. My parents were... dependable. Predictable. We weren’t wealthy, but everything was tidy. Stable.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“It wasn’t,” I admit. “Just… safe. My mom was a schoolteacher. My dad worked at a local insurance company. Every Thursday was meatloaf night. Every summer we vacationed at the same lake. They’re good people. Kind people. But not exactly… expressive.”
Max hums softly. “You mean emotionally?”
I nod. “They weren’t cold, but feelings weren’t something we… explored much. If I had a bad day, I was told to read a book, take a bath, sleep on it. We didn’t really talk through things. Especially not messy ones.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, but he doesn’t press. Just says, “And now?”
I hesitate. “We still talk. Holidays. Birthdays. I call once a week—like clockwork. They love me, in their own quiet way. But I think I confuse them.”
Max tilts his head. “Why?”
“Because I don’t want what they wanted. I moved to the city. I went to grad school. I didn’t marry the boy next door. I’m still not married. I don’t own a house. I think they’re… baffled by me.”
He studies me with something warm and fierce in his eyes. “They don’t know what they’re missing.”
I try to laugh it off, but emotion catches somewhere behind my ribs. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know? To feel like your life doesn’t quite fit the mold they envisioned for you.”
Max’s hand slides up to cradle my cheek. “You’re not meant to fit into anyone else’s mold, Nora. You’re meant to rewrite the damn blueprint.”
Something in me unlocks at that. The weight of old expectations, childhood silences—it lifts, just a little.
I lean into him, let his steady heartbeat replace the questions in my head. He presses a kiss to my hair.
“I like your messy, mold-breaking life,” he murmurs. “And I really like being part of it.”
I smile into his chest, one hand resting over his heart.