TWENTY-SEVEN Willow
TWENTY-SEVEN
Willow
Something is absolutely going to explode.
I don’t know if it’ll be the label, the brothers, Gabe’s blood pressure, or my own nervous system, but there is a very distinct feeling in the air today that something somewhere is one wrong sentence away from becoming a crater.
Which is why I’m aggressively avoiding all of it.
Unfortunately, all of it keeps finding me anyway.
“You look tired,” Lara says as she slides a plate into the kitchen window.
“I’m exhausted.”
“You’re twenty-five.”
“That’s old in waitress years.”
She snorts and points a spatula at me. “You’ve been jumpy all morning.”
I grab the plate. “That’s because people keep slamming doors like they’ve got personal beef with hinges.”
“Mm.”
I narrow my eyes at her and carry the food out before she can say anything else terrifyingly accurate.
The diner is busy today.
Busier than usual for a weekday, which I’m blaming entirely on tourists and the fact that half the town is currently pretending not to care that Redemption Records exists while simultaneously discussing it every fifteen minutes like it’s a local event.
I pass table four, moving toward the counter, but my attention keeps drifting.
Toward my phone, the memory of last night, toward Xander standing in that kitchen looking like rage was the only thing keeping him upright.
I haven’t heard from him today.
Or Gabe.
Which feels worse than if I had.
Julian texted around nine this morning.
Julian: You alive?
I stared at it for a full minute before replying:
Willow: Physically, yes. Emotionally, unclear.
Julian: Same.
Helpful.
Very stabilizing.
I drop off another order and nearly collide with Nina as she walks into the diner.
“There you are,” she says. “The town’s most emotionally avoidant waitress.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re wiping the same counter.”
I glance down. I am, in fact, cleaning a perfectly clean section of counter with concerning intensity. “That means nothing.”
“It means you’re spiraling. In public.”
I point the rag at her. “You don’t live with my brain. You don’t know what’s normal in there.”
She studies me. “Bad?”
I hesitate, because where exactly do I even start?
Sorry, Nina, I accidentally got entangled with three damaged former rockstars and now the estranged brother of one of them has arrived like the world’s hottest family disaster.
Instead, I sigh and say, “Complicated.”
“That’s been your favorite word lately.” Her expression shifts a little. “You okay, though?”
The softness in it almost gets me.
I shrug. “I think so.”
That’s the truth, technically. I’m just not sure which version of okay we’re measuring against anymore.
Before Nina can push further, Lara leans out the kitchen window again. “Willow!”
“Yes?”
“Pete called out. I need someone to do the lunch deliveries.”
Relief hits me so fast it’s embarrassing.
“Yes,” I say.
Lara blinks. “You didn’t even ask where.”
“I don’t care if it’s Canada. I’m going.”
Nina snorts into her coffee.
Lara narrows her eyes suspiciously. “You trying to escape something?”
“Yes,” I say.
She considers that for one long second. “Fair enough.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m in my car with three delivery bags in the backseat and Daisy’s fur still somehow on my jacket despite the fact she’s not currently here.
The freedom feels immediate.
No diner noise. No worried glances at my phone. No customers casually asking if I’ve “seen those music guys around lately.”
Just roads, trees, silence.
Well, silence until my phone rings through the speakers.
I glance at the dashboard.
Julian.
I answer with one hand still on the wheel. “If this is another devastating update, I’m driving into the river.”
“Wow,” he says. “Hello to you, too.”
“You called me.”
“You answer phones aggressively.”
“I answer everything aggressively. It’s a core personality trait.”
He laughs softly, but there’s a thinness underneath it today.
That catches my attention. “You okay?”
There’s a beat too long before he answers. “Not really.”
I slow at a stop sign. “What happened?”
A long exhale crackles through the speakers. “Dylan posted online.”
I close my eyes briefly. “Oh no.”
“Yeah.”
“What did he post?”
“Just a photo.”
“That doesn’t sound bad.”
“It’s him at our place.”
My stomach drops.
“The fans figured it out?”
“Immediately,” Julian says tiredly. “They’re already dissecting shadows and timestamps like the FBI.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“It’s actually impressive in a deeply unhealthy way.”
I can practically hear him rubbing his face. “What are they saying?”
“That The Last Rebels are signing with us. Or that The Lonely Ones are reuniting. Or that Dylan and Xander fought. Or that someone heard music through a wall and now there’s a conspiracy thread about a secret album.”
I blink. “People really need hobbies.”
“They think this is a hobby.”
I turn onto the next road, trees flashing gold green through the windshield.
“So,” Julian says lightly, in the exact tone people use when pretending they’re not losing their minds, “the house feels super relaxed today.”
“How bad?”
“Well, Xander looks like he wants to bury Gabe under the patio.”
I wince. Partly because I can imagine it perfectly. Partly because underneath all the anger last night, there’d been something worse in Xander.
Hurt.
“What are you doing?” Julian asks.
“Delivery run.”
“Fun.”
“It’s actually deeply glamorous.”
“Can I come with you?”
I blink. “What?”
“I need to leave the house before somebody starts another catastrophic conversation in a hallway.”
I laugh despite myself. “That specific?”
“Shockingly specific.”
“You want to ride around Redemption Falls while I hand people mozzarella sticks?”
“I’ve done worse things for companionship.”
“That’s… weirdly sweet.”
“Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ve got a reputation.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “Fine. I’ve got two more deliveries after this. Meet me outside the diner in ten.”
“You’re rescuing me.”
“Don’t make it dramatic.”
“Too late.”
I hang up before he can say anything worse.
Ten minutes later, I pull into the diner parking lot and spot Julian leaning against the hood of a black SUV, wearing sunglasses like he’s trying and failing to disguise the fact that he’s extremely recognizable.
He straightens when he sees my car.
And despite everything else currently happening in my life, my stomach still does that annoying little flip when he smiles at me.
I roll down the window. “You look like a divorced celebrity dad waiting for his visitation.”
Julian gasps. “That’s devastating.”
“It’s the sunglasses.”
“These are fashion.” He opens the passenger door and slides in beside me, smelling like sandalwood and coffee.
“You have fries?” he asks.
I stare at him. “You got in my car and asked about fries before saying hello.”
“You still haven’t answered the question.”
I point toward the paper bag in the cup holder. “Emergency fries.”
His face lights up with genuine delight. “This,” he says, stealing one, “is why I like you.”
“That’s concerning for both of us.”
He eats the fry like it will heal him. Then, he leans back in the seat with a long exhale, and just like that, some of the brightness slips.
I glance at him as I pull back onto the road. “You really okay?”
Julian stares out the window before answering. “It’s weird seeing him back.”
“Dylan?”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “He and Xander used to…” He shakes his head. “They were loud together, you know? Even when they fought, it still felt like they were connected somehow. Now, it’s just…”
“Awful?” I offer.
He looks at me. “Yeah.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel. Last night flashes through me again.
“I don’t think he knows how to forgive him,” I say.
Julian huffs softly. “I don’t think Dylan knows how to forgive himself, either.”
Well, that’s depressing.
I pull into the next delivery stop and grab the paper bags from the backseat. Julian follows me out.
“You don’t have to help.”
“I’m fragile today. I need tasks.”
“That’s probably the healthiest thing anyone in your house has ever said.”
“I’m growing.”
We walk up the driveway together.
An elderly woman opens the door before I knock. Then she squints at Julian. “Oh.”
He smiles politely. “Hi.”
“You’re famous.”
“I try not to make it everyone’s problem.”
She looks delighted by that answer.
Five minutes later, we leave with a container of homemade lemon bars because apparently old women in this town can smell instability like sharks smell blood.
Julian holds the container gently as we get back in the car. “I’d die for her,” he says solemnly.
“You met her thirty seconds ago.”
“That’s enough time for meaningful connection.”
I laugh again. A real one this time.
And beside me, Julian relaxes into the sound of it like maybe he needed it as much as I did.