11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Kayla
It’s been a couple of hours now since Clay let us in, I’m still in disbelief that Logan is here. He made it, he found me… The boarding house is quiet, the kind of stillness that’s like we have been removed from time. I sit cross-legged on my bed, the old wooden floor cool beneath me, listening to the faint hum of the city outside. Logan’s checked into the next room, probably sprawled out on top of the blankets like he always used to do, breathing steady, unaware of the storm still raging inside me.
We need to talk. Now I’ve had a little time to myself to pull my thoughts together I know it’s inevitable.
The thought circles my mind, over and over, until it’s impossible to ignore.
We need to have the conversation.
No matter how much it’s going to hurt.
No matter how much I want to pretend, we can’t just slip back into easy smiles and playful banter, like none of it ever happened. Because he deserves the truth. I owe him that much.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. I didn’t hear him approach—no creaking floorboards, no warning—just the quiet tap against the wood. Then another.
I knew this was coming. Logan never leaves things unsaid for long. A blessing and a curse. I’m grateful for it. Resentful, too. There’s no hiding now.
“Mac?” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “Can I come in?”
I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around the comforter. This is it. No more running, no more avoiding. I exhale slowly, forcing myself to find the courage I’ve been trying to muster all night.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Come in, we need to talk.”
Logan stands by the window, gazing out into the twilight. The room is dark except for the dim glow of the streetlights outside, spilling through the gaps in the curtains. Shadows stretch across Logan’s face, but they don’t hide the raw emotion tightening his features. He looks more somber now. I don’t like serious Logan—it frightens me. Not because of him, but because of how he makes me feel.
He looks wrecked. Not just tired, but worn down, like he’s been carrying the weight of the world for too long. Heartbreak and devastation linger in the set of his jaw, the slump of his shoulders. A vein pulses in his neck, his hands balling into fists as he glances around, waiting for me. Always waiting.
I lick my lips, trying to find my voice. Come on. Speak. Just open your mouth.
But the words won’t come.
And it’s because of me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers twisted together in my lap. He doesn’t move. Just stands there, staring at me like I might disappear all over again.
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his voice breaking when he finally speaks. He beats me to it—of course he does. I’m lost, my thoughts tangled in a mess too thick to unravel, choking on all the words I want to say but can’t.
“Was it me, angel?” His voice is quiet, raw. “Did I… do something wrong?”
I blink, my chest tightening at the desperation in his tone.
“What?” The word escapes before I can stop it, carried on a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My well-intended reasoning, my carefully built walls—none of it stands a chance. I’m already unraveling.
Logan lets out a breath, raking a hand through his hair.
“I don’t—I don’t understand, Mac.” Logan’s voice is rough, unsteady. “We gave you space, like you asked. I didn’t want to. I wanted you with us—with me.”
His eyes spark with something sharp, his tone edged with bitterness. “But months went by. No replies. I thought, enough is enough. So I went to find you, and you were just… gone. No word. No explanation. Months without a single fucking message.” He exhales harshly, raking a hand through his hair. “It scared the shit outta me, angel.” His voice drops, hoarse with emotion. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t found Braden’s phone.”
My heart clenches. His words crash over me, a physical force, each one hitting harder than the last.
Panic wells up. The thought of the situation reversed—if I had gone looking for him only to find nothing—makes my stomach twist. I thought leaving would ease the weight pressing on my chest, but was it selfish?
Looking at him now, like he’s missing a piece of himself, I realize just how much I broke him by leaving.
And now, here he is. Standing in my tiny room, in a city he never belonged in, asking if he’s the one who did something wrong.
I shake my head quickly, my throat tight with emotion. “It wasn’t you, Logan.” The words spill out, snapping me out of my daze before I choke on the guilt of sitting here, watching Logan Dale in pain.
“Then why?” His voice cracks, his jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. “Why did you leave? Why didn’t you tell me where you were? Why did you make me go months without hearing from you?”
I suck in a shaky breath. I have no answer that will take away the hurt in his eyes. No excuse that will make him understand.
All I know is that I never wanted to see this look on his face.
I drag in a shaky breath, wrapping my arms around myself like it might somehow keep me from unraveling. Logan is watching me—waiting—his blue eyes burning into mine, demanding the truth.
I owe him that much.
“I just… I needed time.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “At first, that’s all it was. Just time to breathe, to figure out how to exist in a world where Braden wasn’t in it. Without my parents. Grams.” My throat tightens, my vision blurring. “But then… then I didn’t know how to reach back out.”
Logan doesn’t move, but something in his expression shifts—like he’s bracing for the next words.
“I didn’t want to make you leave your tour. I knew you’d come if I told you I was struggling, and I couldn’t do that to you. Not when you’ve worked so hard for this. I didn’t know what to do, who to speak to, where to go… I was suddenly alone.” My breath shudders, and I shake my head, biting my lip to keep it from trembling. “In a house full of ghosts.”
His jaw clenches.
“That house was never just a house,” I whisper. “It was them. My mom, my dad, Grams, Braden… Every single room, every single hallway… I could still hear them. And I couldn’t stay there, Logan. I couldn’t wake up every day surrounded by memories of everyone I’d lost. I felt like I was being buried alive in a place that should have felt like home. It was a mausoleum, and I couldn’t take it anymore, I was deafened and afraid in a house of echoes.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he stays silent.
I wipe at my eyes, exhaling unsteadily. “I wanted you. Needed you. So fucking badly. But I was scared. Scared of what it meant. Scared of all your commitments, your tour, your band, your life. You were everywhere and everything, and I was just… drowning.” My voice cracks. “So, I left. I thought if I could just get myself together, then—eventually—I’d find a way to reach out again.”
I look down, twisting my hands together. “But the more time that went by, the harder it was. And then one day, I looked at my phone and realized I hadn’t called you in weeks. Then months. And I thought… maybe you were better off without me.” My lips tremble as I force out the words. “Maybe if you forgot me, you could escape the pain.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence.
I slowly lift my gaze, and the devastation on Logan’s face shatters something deep inside me. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides like he’s barely holding himself together.
He takes a step closer, the floor creaking softly beneath his weight.
Logan’s breathing is uneven, but it’s his eyes that destroy me—burning, desperate, filled with something so raw it steals the air from my lungs. “Better?” His voice is hoarse, breaking on the word. “Mac, nothing about these past months have been better.”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
He shakes his head, his gaze locking onto mine, pinning me in place. “It was hell for me too, you know?” His voice is lower now, rougher. “Not knowing where you were. If you were okay. If you needed me and I wasn’t there.” He lets out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair before gripping the back of his neck like he’s trying to steady himself. “I didn’t want to leave you. After Braden…” His voice cracks, his eyes glistening. “After he died, I just wanted to be there. For you. In whatever way you needed me. None of the other shit mattered. The band, the commitments, the tour… none of it was ever as important to me as you.” Logan steps closer, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’ll never be as important as you, Mac.” His voice is soft but unwavering, like he’s carving the words into my soul. “You’ll always come first. Always.”
My breath shudders as I stare up at him, drowning in those unwavering blue eyes. The air stifling, thick with unspoken words, years of history, and something so much deeper than friendship.
I want to tell him I’m sorry, like it could somehow erase the misery. But even well-meant, the words feel hollow.
That I never meant to hurt him—it matters less than the fact that I did. I thought I was doing the right thing. I see now that I wasn’t.
But the words won’t come.
I just stare, lost in his gaze, as mine—already misty—begin to overflow.
He reaches out, slow and hesitant, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away. But I don’t. I can’t.
His fingers brush my jaw, his touch featherlight, and I swear my heart stops. He tilts my chin up, forcing me to hold his gaze, his thumb grazing the corner of my mouth in a way that makes my entire body tremble.
"You’re the most important person in my life, Mac." His voice is barely a whisper, but to me, he’s deafening. "You always have been."
My pulse stutters, then quickens, sorrow shifting into something else—something raw, something electric.
His gaze drops to my lips.
And just like that, I feel undone.
For a second—just one—I think he’s going to kiss me.
And God help me…
I want him to.
The bed dips beside me as he sits down.
The warmth of his body, the familiar scent of cedar and something undeniably him, the sheer gravity he carries—it all pulls at me, wrapping around my chest and squeezing.
I don’t stop him when he shifts closer. When his arms slide around me, pulling me onto his lap. I’ve needed this. Needed him.
His arms tighten around me, like he’s afraid I’ll disappear again. I lean my forehead to his shoulder, breathing him in, feeling drunk on his scent. I let my fingers graze over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
God, how did I ever think I could do this without him?
He says nothing, just holds me close, and in that moment, it feels so natural. There’s no awkward tension, no hesitation—just ease. Like we’ve never been apart, like everything is as it should be. It feels effortless, like no time has passed at all, like I haven’t spent months convincing myself I didn’t need them, didn’t need him.
Slowly, gently, his hand drifts up my back, tracing light patterns over my spine before sliding around to my jaw. His fingers are warm, steady, reverent as they trace the curve of my face. He brushes his thumb along my cheekbone before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering for just a second too long.
I swallow hard, the sound of static filling my ears as my pulse thrums. What’s he thinking? In those beautiful blue eyes, what’s going on in that handsome head of yours, Logan Dale?
Maybe I should pull away. With how his touch, his words, are making me feel... I should say something.
But I don’t.
Because I want this. I want him.
Logan shifts beneath me, his thigh pressing between mine, his fingers still curled lightly at my jaw.
My gaze drops to his lips, and for a split second, I wonder—what if?
What if I closed the space between us? What if I let myself give in to the pull that’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface?
Would he kiss me back? Would it change everything?
Or would it ruin us?
Logan’s fingers tighten, just slightly, like he’s caught up in the same storm. His breath is warm against my skin, his lips a whisper away. My heart hammers against my ribs, my entire body locked in place, waiting, wanting, terrified.
He lets out a breath, low and shaky, and drops his forehead against mine.
A silent surrender.
A choice not to cross the line.
Not yet.
It doesn’t feel like rejection. I don’t feel further upset, nor do I notice any more pain. I can feel my body calling out to him, and my tears have almost boiled away. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed—maybe both, maybe neither.
All I know is that I stay in his arms, my fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, my face still close enough to feel his breath. Then, my stomach betrays me with a loud rumble.
He looks at me, one brow quirked, a roguish smile playing on his lips.
“Perhaps we should get some dinner.”
My ability to speak is limited, so I simply nod.
The diner is quieter in the evening, the usual lunch rush replaced by a handful of regulars and the occasional drifter looking for a late bite. The air smells like coffee and something sweet—brownies, if I had to guess. Patty always bakes a fresh batch around this time, and if Logan thinks her eggs are life-changing, he’s about to have a religious experience.
I lead him to a booth by the window and slide into my seat, watching as he takes the one across from me. “Alright, rock star. Now’s your chance to make an impression.”
Logan raises a brow, his lips curling slightly. “Make an impression? I already met the Bruja, and she left a big one. My guess is she already took my measure.”
I smirk, twisting a napkin between my fingers. “Oh, most definitely.”
He leans back in the booth, stretching his arm across the backrest. “Then I’ll focus on enjoying your company and the bountiful feast she will bestow upon us.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Fine, fine. So…” I let the conversation lull for a moment, replaying the past hour in my mind—the honesty, the confessions, the weight that had lifted between us. The lightness feels new but not unwelcome. I could sit in this easy peace, just watching him, soaking up the way he looks at me like I matter. And every time I catch his gaze, my stomach tightens with butterflies, my heart climbing higher in my chest.
Maybe I should get an Apple Watch just to track what he does to me. I bet my heart rate is off the charts.
Logan’s lips twitch like he’s trying not to smile. “What’s got you grinning, angel?”
“Oh, uh… just thinking about getting a watch.”
His eyes soften as he shakes his head, that knowing smile tugging at his lips. “I wouldn’t handle one of those smartwatches. I’d feel the electricity flowing through me.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the little laugh that escapes. Logan’s always had this weird aversion to technology, like it personally offends him. Not quite a technophobe, but close enough.
Before I can tease him about it, I reach for the menu—not that I need it. I already know what I want. Logan, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother picking his up. He just tosses it aside like he’s got everything figured out.
“Not even gonna pretend to look?” I ask, arching a brow.
He smirks but doesn’t get a chance to answer before Patty steps out from behind the counter, making a beeline straight for us. She moves with purpose, like she knew the second we walked through the door.
Stopping at the edge of our table, she plants her hands on her hips, eyes flicking between us like she’s sizing up a situation she already has figured out. “Back again, eh?”
Logan straightens slightly, like he’s suddenly under a spotlight. “Yeah. Wanted to thank you properly.” His voice is a little rougher than usual, sincere. “For looking out for her.”
Patty waves a hand, brushing it off like it’s no big deal. “Girl landed on her feet just fine. Just needed a little push in the right direction.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “You mean a shove.”
Patty chuckles. “Same thing.”
Logan looks at me, curiosity lighting his electric-blue eyes. “So… what was the push?”
I shrug. “I was looking for work. Patty took one look at me, handed me an apron, and told me I started the next day. No interview. No questions.” My chest tightens for a second, but I push past it. “She pointed me toward Rosewood too. Said she had a feeling I’d fit in there.”
Patty winks. “Told you, I get a good read on people.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Logan’s been telling me all about your witchy ways.”
She laughs before turning back to him. “You should listen to him. He’s an old soul. So, what can I get you, Logan?”
Without hesitation, he says, “Eggs.”
Patty smirks, like she expected nothing less. “How about I fix you up with chicken pot pie and some mash? Don’t wanna spoil you on just scrambled eggs and bacon.”
Logan looks a little affronted, like she just suggested something truly outrageous, but after a brief pause, he sighs in defeat. “If they’re anywhere near as good, I’ll trust you.”
“What a charming young man,” she teases. “I’ll treat you to some peach cobbler for dessert.” Then her gaze swings to me, sharp and knowing. “Kayla… I know you’re thinking about just the brownies, but growing ladies need more than dessert. How about I get you the special of the day—beef and noodles?”
I hesitate, glancing at Logan. Maybe I should stop teasing him about Patty steamrolling him, because clearly, I’m not immune either.
“Thanks, Patty. I suppose you’re right."
“Darn tootin’.” She scribbles on her pad before disappearing behind the counter, returning moments later with two milkshakes—one pink, one brown. I glance between them, my gaze lingering on the chocolate one. I want it. I really do. But a part of me hesitates, wondering if Logan would be weird about drinking the pink one. I’ve dated my fair share of insecure guys, the kind who’d insist I take the girly drink just so no one questioned their masculinity. Ugh.
Logan doesn’t strike me as that type, but still, old habits die hard. Before I can say anything, he picks up the strawberry shake, eyes crinkling with amusement.
"Angel, would you mind if I have the berry one? I haven’t had a strawberry shake in some time, and I find myself in dire need of some," he says, his voice laced with playfulness. "Unless, of course, you want it—or we could share?"
I beam at him, warmth unfurling in my chest. "You sure you don’t mind being seen drinking a pink milkshake, oh mighty rock god?" I tease.
Logan lets out a deep, rich laugh. "Angel, anyone who knows anything about me knows that what they think of me doesn’t matter. Only those I choose to care about, no?"
My heart clenches, but in the best way. He says it so simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to not give a damn about outside opinions. I reach out and give his hand a squeeze. It’s like gripping solid stone, his skin warm, fingertips calloused from years of playing guitar.
"Truth be told, I was hoping for the chocolate one anyway, so it’s all yours."
Logan clinks his glass against mine. “Here’s to Patty knowing best.”
“She always does,” I mutter, and Logan’s chuckle rumbles through me, warm and familiar.
A smirk tugs at his lips as he lifts his glass, plucking the straw out and resting it on the side before taking a deep, unbothered sip. His eyes widen slightly, then flutter shut as he savors the taste. I take a sip of mine as well, groaning in appreciation as the creamy chocolate coats my tongue.
A giggle bubbles up when I glance at Logan again. He’s got a perfect whipped cream mustache. He opens his eyes at the sound of my laughter, brows lifting in question.
"What?" he asks, and I bite my lip, pointing at his face.
He swipes a hand over his upper lip, blinking as he realizes what happened. Then, instead of wiping it off, he tilts his chin up and wiggles his nose. "It suits me, no?" His voice is playful, but there’s an edge of mischief there, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
I shake my head, sipping my own shake daintily. "Oh, definitely. Very distinguished."
Logan chuckles, the sound rich and lazy, before finally licking away the lingering cream from his lips with a slow, deliberate sweep of his tongue. My stomach dips. He sighs dramatically, stretching back against the booth like a man utterly satisfied.
“I will not be able to come here often, angel,” he muses, tapping his stomach with faux regret. “I will get too fat.”
I snort. “Please. I’ve seen you inhale a double burger and fries with a milkshake after a two-hour set. You’ll survive.”
His lips twitch, eyes gleaming with amusement, but before he can argue, Patty swoops in, setting our plates down with a knowing shake of her head.
“Dig in and enjoy.” She gestures toward my bowl. “Oh, and Kayla, that white ceramic thing is called a chirirenge. It’s for the broth—try some.”
“We most assuredly will. Thank you, Patty.” Logan dips his head in a small bow, his voice all deep, velvet appreciation.
The scent of buttery crust and rich, slow-cooked filling drifts between us, curling into the air like a temptation all on its own. Logan eyes his plate with reverence, the golden chicken pot pie practically taunting him with its flaky perfection. Steam rises from the buttery mashed potatoes pooled with thick gravy. My own bowl of beef and noodles is just as inviting, the dark broth shimmering with sesame seeds and finely chopped spring onions.
I slide my mostly drained shake to the side, Logan mirroring me, and dig in. The first spoonful is heaven—savory, rich, and deep with flavor. The warmth of the broth spreads through me, a stark contrast to the lingering sweetness of the milkshake. But it works, the balance unexpectedly perfect.
Silence settles between us, comfortable and easy, punctuated only by the soft clink of my spoon against the bowl and the crisp crackle of Logan breaking into his pie. The quiet doesn’t feel awkward—it feels intimate, like we’re wrapped up in something neither of us is willing to break.
At one point, I glance up and catch him watching me. His fork hovers midair, forgotten, his green eyes hooded and smoldering, tracking the way I lift the spoon to my lips. My breath hitches. Heat licks at the back of my neck, pooling low in my stomach.
“Angel…” His voice is thick, slow, like he’s still lost in the taste of it. “That was…”
I swallow, suddenly shy. “I’m right there with you.” I gesture to my bowl. “I meant to offer you some, but after trying the broth, I kind of got lost.”
His laugh is warm, indulgent. “I was thinking the same thing.” He exhales, raking a hand through his dark hair before leaning back against the booth, looking thoroughly wrecked in the best way. “Dios mío, angel.”
Something about the way he says it—low and reverent—sends another unwelcome flutter through me.
“You two ready for dessert?” Patty’s voice cuts in, making me jump slightly as she clears the plates with a knowing look.
Logan glances at me, a little dazed, like he’s still recovering from the meal.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says before he can answer.
Logan watches her retreat, brows drawing together slightly. “I can no longer tell if she means well or not, angel. I remember Hansel and Gretel and what the bruja planned.”
A laugh spills from me before I can stop it.
The rest of the night passes in an easy blur—the food ridiculous, the conversation light. By the time we climb into a Uber back to the Rosewood, we’re both sleepily content, too full for anything more than a murmured goodnight at my door.
The moment my head hits the pillow, sleep claims me, pulling me under without a fight.
The smell of coffee curled around me as I stood in the quiet kitchen, my hands wrapped around a warm mug. The old boarding house was still, the kind of hush that only existed this early in the morning. Outside, the streetlights flickered off one by one, the sky still heavy with dawn’s gray light.
I took a sip, letting the bitterness settle on my tongue—then froze. An engine rumbled down the street. I knew that sound. A van. My breath caught as I slowly set my coffee down. Doors slammed. Boots hit pavement. Low voices murmured outside. Then a knock.
I forced my legs to move, even as my stomach twisted into knots. My fingers trembled slightly as I gripped the doorknob to pull it open. And there they were.
Sam stood in front, arms crossed, his massive frame blocking out the rest of the world. His skin gleamed under the soft glow of the porch light, dark eyes locked onto mine. I sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the goatee lining his jaw. That was new. But the way he looked at me—like I was a ghost, like he was afraid to blink.
“Mac,” he said, voice rough, full of something I wasn’t ready to face.
I swallowed hard. “Hey, Sammy.”
His face crumpled, and before I could react, he grabbed me, crushing me into his chest. I barely had time to breathe before the weight of him—the sheer strength of his grip—hit me all at once. Sam smelled like cedarwood and clean sweat. Like the gym. Like early morning jogs with Braden.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I gripped the back of his jacket, my fingers curling into the worn leather. “Shit, it’s really you.” He muttered against my hair.
I let out a broken laugh. “Yeah. It’s me.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his big hands still on my arms, like he was afraid I might disappear. But then movement caught my eye, and my breath hitched.
Chace.
His golden hair was a mess, tangled from sleep, and his green eyes—God, those green eyes—were filled with something raw. Something that made my chest ache.
“Jesus, Kay.” He murmured, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how much we’ve missed you?” I barely had a second to react before he yanked me into his arms.
Chace was solid, warm, steady. He always had been. He wasn’t the loudest, the wildest, or even the most reckless—but he was the one that kept everyone else from falling apart. Right now, though, as he held me like he was afraid to let go, I could feel the tremble in his grip.
I pressed my face into his shoulder. “Yeah.” I whispered. “I think I do.” When he finally let go—I turned, and locked eyes with Trey.
I swallowed hard.
Trey hasn’t changed—except for his expression. He looks hurt, concerned. And I hate it. It reminds me of after the funeral… the funerals. Everyone treating me like I’d shatter if they so much as looked at me wrong.
His face is still sharp, still angelic, framed by that messy brown hair. The beauty mark on his jaw is still there—a tiny thing that always drove the girls wild. But the ink—the tattoos crawling up his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt—seems darker somehow. Like they carry more weight now.
But it’s his brown eyes that hit me the hardest. Because they’re haunted.
“Trey,” I breathe.
He doesn’t speak. Just closes the distance between us and pulls me in. He smells like cigarettes and faded cologne. Like sleepless nights and too many drinks.
“I should’ve called,” I whisper.
His grip tightens for just a second before he exhales. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You should have. It doesn’t matter now though. Tag. You’re it.”
Trey nudges me back a step, and I blink at him, confused.
A sting burns behind my eyes, but before I can say anything, another voice cuts through the moment.
“The hell are you guys doing here?”
I turn toward the doorway. Logan stands there, barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, arms crossed over his bare chest. His eyes flick between them, unimpressed.
Sam smirks. “Nice to see you too, brother.”
Logan lets out a slow breath. “Phil sent you, didn’t he?”
Chace sighs. “Of course he did. We have a show coming up, and you, Logey-Fogey , haven’t turned off your location.”
Logan groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “My cell has that?”
“Uh, Logey , every cell since, like, the noughties has that feature,” Chace says.
Logan lets out a low growl—the kind that should be intimidating. Unfortunately, being surrounded by these guys, it just isn’t.
“Hush now, Logey baby ,” Trey says, snapping his fingers in a dramatic flourish before strutting up to Logan. “You know the rules. We’re familia or something else that sounds Spanish.” He grins. “Growl at me all you want, big guy, but we found your little love nest, you dirty birdy, you.”
In about two seconds, Logan has Trey wrapped in a half-hug, half-headlock.
“He’s adaptable for a caveman, eh, Mac?” Chace muses.
My heart feels so full it’s almost overwhelming—even if it’s all a bit much this early in the morning.
“Phil was all pissed, you know?” Sam says with a grin. “We told him we understood and that we’d come get you guys. Right, Chace? You talked to him—tell her.”
Chace pointedly does not answer. It does not go unnoticed.
“Slipped right out of some press shit too,” Trey adds. “Pretty dope. But, hey, we can do calls. Videos. So no biggie, ya know?”
“Wait, why’d you guys get the old kit van and not just bring the bus?” Logan asks. Trey was yelling something about getting hard if Logan wouldn’t let go.
“Felt right.” Chace said with a half-hearted shrug.
“Anyways Mac book, you got any grub, getting these up at four was not a treat.”
“Four!?” I snorted. “Why the hell would you do that?” Chace looked a little sheepish.
“Because its funny.”
“Wait…” Sam put one of his bear paw sized hands on Chace’s shoulder.
“You said Phil said it was then or not at all.”
“Nope, didn’t speak with him, it was four in the morning. Did leave him a note and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol though.”
“Chace you little shit. You’re supposed to be the good one.” Trey gasped, Logan had let go of him and he was more than thrilled at this outcome. Logan and Sam started arguing with Chace, Chace tried to placate them with reason, Trey tittered like this was the best joke ever, and before I realized, my eyes misted and I felt a single tear track down my cheek. It irritated me as it dropped off my chin, tickling me a little, my skin feeling dryer from the track it took. It wasn’t a bad tear, a sad tear. It was a revelational tear. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt home. This crushing weight of grief and guilt I have been carrying didn’t disappear, but I realized, I could live with it. Providing I had these beautiful idiots in my life.