Willow
THIRTY-NINE
Imiss normal. Especially this morning.
I sit cross-legged on one of the giant couches in the Hawthorne House living room wearing fuzzy socks and one of Julian’s hoodies while Daisy snores beside me, and somehow, I still miss the sound of the diner coffee machine hissing at six a.m.
Which feels deeply unfair, considering I spent most of my time here complaining about it.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Lara: You alive?
I snort softly.
Willow: Unfortunately, yes.
Three dots appear immediately.
Lara: Place is chaos.
Willow: Good chaos or bad chaos?
Lara: Depends how you feel about middle-aged women ordering “whatever Willow likes.”
I groan and drop my head back against the couch.
Willow: I hate everything.
Lara: No, you don’t. You’re internet famous now.
Willow: I would rather be tax audited.
Another buzz.
Lara: Reporter came in yesterday.
I sit up straighter.
Willow: What??
Lara: Relax. Tommy threw him out before I even grabbed the coffee pot.
That makes me smile a little.
Tommy Bennett has taken the role of “protective local uncle” very seriously over the last few weeks.
Willow: I miss working.
This time the typing bubble takes longer.
Lara: I know you do, honey.
The ache in my chest deepens.
Because I do.
I miss moving around behind the counter. I miss complaining with Lara in the kitchen. I miss Bill pretending he hates everyone while secretly bringing me vegetables from his garden.
I miss being Willow.
Not Willow Jameson: mysterious diner girl dating three former rockstars.
Just Willow.
My phone buzzes again.
Lara: But this whole thing has made the diner busier than it’s been in years. Tourists. Music people. Fans. And your rich tattooed boyfriend paid enough for us to get plenty of staff in during this peak season.
Heat crawls into my cheeks.
Xander.
Of course he did.
Without telling me, obviously. Because apparently communication is optional when you’re repressed and built like a motorcycle gang fantasy.
Willow: He isn’t my boyfriend.
Lara: Which one?
I stare at the screen in horror.
Then I burst out laughing despite myself.
Willow: You’re fired.
Lara: You don’t work here anymore, remember?
Ouch. The laugh fades a little after that.
Because that’s the problem. I don’t know where I work anymore.
Or where I belong. Or what my life even looks like now.
Everything changed so fast I still feel like I’m catching up to it. The internet exploded. The podcast exploded. The Lonely Ones exploded.
And somehow, I’m trapped in the middle of all of it trying not to lose my damn mind.
I lock my phone and sink deeper into the couch with a sigh.
Across the massive living room, floor-to-ceiling windows spill afternoon sunlight over polished wood floors and expensive furniture that still doesn’t fully feel real to me.
Somewhere deeper in the compound, music drifts faintly through the halls. Always music, now. The house breathes with it.
Daisy lifts her head.
A second later, footsteps sound in the hallway.
Julian appears carrying two coffees and looking too attractive for a man wearing sweatpants. “Morning, Trouble.”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Morning is a mindset.”
He hands me one of the coffees before dropping onto the couch beside me dramatically.
“Thank you. Where are the other two?”
“Gabe’s threatening publicists over the phone.” Julian stretches out comfortably beside me. “And Xander has been in Studio A for a while.”
As if summoned by our conversation, Xander walks through the far side of the room toward the staircase, black T-shirt clinging to his shoulders, tattoos disappearing beneath rolled sleeves.
He looks tired. Like he’s been pulled open and hasn’t figured out how to close again.
His eyes land on me, and everything in me stills.
It should be illegal for someone to look at people like that.
“You hiding from work?” Julian calls casually.
Xander’s gaze never leaves mine. “Trying to.”
Julian grins. “Well, unfortunately, Willow’s having an identity crisis.”
“I’m not.”
“You were staring into the middle distance at nothing.”
Xander’s mouth twitches. That tiny almost smile does genuinely embarrassing things to my nervous system.
He walks closer, attention fixed entirely on me now. “What’s wrong?”
Straight to it.
Always.
I shrug lightly even though the answer feels bigger than I know how to explain. “I just…” I exhale. “Everything feels weird.”
Julian snorts. “Strong understatement.”
“I know.” I rub the back of my neck tiredly. “I just feel kinda useless lately.”
Both men look at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“You’re not useless,” Xander says flatly.
“I know that logically,” I mutter. “But everyone else is doing things. Important things. And I’m just kind of… existing in the background while my entire life gets turned upside down.”
Silence settles briefly. Then Xander says, “Come with me.”
I blink. “What?”
“Studio A.”
Julian grins. “Oh, this is gonna devastate her.”
I narrow my eyes. “What is going on here?”
Xander waits near the stairs, patient but clearly expecting me to follow. Which, I do.
The walk through the compound is quieter than usual.
People move carefully around Studio A now, tension and excitement hanging in the air after the podcast announcement. Staff members glance up when Xander passes.
This isn’t just some song.
This is history waking back up.
The studio doors open, and suddenly everything changes.
The room is dim except for soft amber lighting around the recording booth. Instruments rest everywhere. Guitars. Cables. Open notebooks covered in lyrics.
The atmosphere feels almost sacred.
Xander moves toward the soundboard while I hover awkwardly near the couch.
“What are we doing?”
He glances back at me. “You said you feel out of the loop.”
“Yeah?”
His gaze holds mine steadily. “So, I’m letting you in.”
My chest squeezes painfully hard.
He reaches over the console and presses play.
At first there’s only soft guitar. It’s rough and a little raw, beautifully so.
Then, Xander’s voice fills the studio, and I stop breathing. I’ve never heard him so stripped back.
The lyrics are unfinished in places, some lines mumbled half under his breath like he hasn’t fully committed to them yet.
But the emotion in it is overwhelming. It doesn’t sound like some polished rock anthem. It sounds like grief. It’s longing, someone clawing their way back toward life after spending years buried underneath loss. It’s unbelievable.
My chest physically aches listening to it.
The song builds slowly, layered guitars weaving beneath his voice while the chorus hits like a punch directly to the ribs.
And underneath all of it, there’s hope.
By the end of the track, my eyes are burning. I blink quickly, embarrassed.
The room stays quiet after the song ends.
Finally, I look at him.
“That’s…” My voice catches. “Xander, that’s incredible.”
“You really think so?”
The question catches me off guard. Beneath all that confidence and intensity and control, there’s an unexpected vulnerability in the way he asks it.
I stand and move toward him.
“You can feel every second of what you’ve been through in that song,” I say. “It hurts to listen to.”
His eyes hold mine. “Good.”
I shake my head softly. “No,” I whisper. “Not good.”
The studio feels smaller.
He stands, too, towering in front of me beneath the dim studio lights.
“I wrote most of it after LA,” he says.
My pulse skips. “The podcast?”
“No.” His gaze drags across my face. “After you.”
Oh.
I don’t know what expression crosses my face, but his entire body softens afterward like he regrets saying it and means it at the same time.
“You make me feel things I haven’t felt in years,” he admits roughly. “That song exists because of that.”
My chest actually hurts now.
This man. This impossible, emotionally constipated man keeps handing me pieces of himself like he doesn’t understand how precious they are.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for him.
My fingers slide into the front of his shirt gently.
“You know,” I say softly, “for someone so terrifying, you’re kind of emotional underneath.”
A rough laugh escapes him. “Don’t spread that around.”
Too late. I already know.
I think he likes that I do.