Now We Are (Every Summer After #3)

CHAPTER 1 SEVEN YEARS LATER NATE

SEVEN YEARS LATER

NATE

The old barn holds sound the way I hoped it would.

Warm. Clean. No echo unless you ask for it. Wood that's been soaked in music long enough to know when to give and when to stay still. I stood here when it was nothing but beams and dust and a half-built roof, trying to imagine what music would feel like inside these walls.

Not sound—music. There's a difference.

Sound fills space. Music lives in it.

Right now, Julian's voice cracks on the note he's been chasing all night. Not enough to ruin it, but enough to tell the truth.

I don't reach for the talkback. Instead, I let the meters settle. Let the moment land where it needs to.

He's still wearing the headphones when he looks up through the glass, ocean-blue eyes sharp with that specific kind of panic young artists carry—the fear that whatever just happened might be the last time it ever does.

"Again," I say finally. Calm. Even. No edge. "Same spot."

He nods too fast, swallows hard, and sets his feet like he's bracing for impact.

Behind him, the rest of The Row goes quiet. They've been circling each other all night—no blowups, no raised voices, just tension threaded tight between them. Caring will do that. So will wanting the same thing and not knowing how to ask for it without taking something from someone else.

Julian—stage name Thatcher—is twenty-one, but carries himself older. Light brown hair refuses to stay where he puts it, and there's a weight in his eyes that doesn't belong to someone his age. Not sadness exactly, just experience. The kind you don't ask for.

He doesn't dress like a rockstar or act like one because he doesn't need to. The music does the talking.

I lean back in my chair, hands settling on worn armrests. No gripping. No fidgeting. Energy carries in rooms like this. If I'm tense, they feel it. If I'm steady, the space holds.

The room doesn't need my anxiety. It needs my calm.

Through the glass, Julian closes his eyes, shoulders rising with a slow breath. Not the sharp kind he's been using all night—the one that sounds like bracing for something to break. This one is quieter. Grounded.

He plants his feet like he's finally trusting the floor beneath him.

The track rolls.

This time, he doesn't push for the note. He lets it find him.

The sound opens instead of forcing its way through. Breath placed where it belongs, voice landing in the space like it knows it has a right to be there.

It's not flawless. There's a slight rasp on the tail end, a vulnerability he hasn't sanded down yet.

But it's honest.

And honesty always lands heavier than perfection.

I feel it hit somewhere behind my ribs and stay there. That's how you know. You don't think your way into moments like this—you feel them.

The last chord fades. The meters quiet. Silence stretches out, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that means something magical just happened.

I tap the talkback once.

"That's it," I say. "That's the one."

Julian's shoulders drop like he's been holding his breath for the past hour. Relief flickers across his face before he catches it, reins it in, replaces it with something closer to composure.

He's learning how to carry success without flinching.

"How'd it feel?" I ask.

He considers that for a second. "Like… I wasn't fighting it."

I nod. "Good. That means you were listening."

A quiet laugh escapes him, one hand dragging through already-messy hair. The kind of laugh that sounds more like release than amusement.

"It sounds really good, boys. Really good."

Julian's eyes lift to the glass. Not searching for approval—just grounding himself in the truth of it.

I let the praise end there. Anything more would dilute it.

The boys peel off headphones one by one.

Levi drops into the nearest chair like gravity finally remembered him—all long limbs and reckless energy collapsing after hours of controlled chaos.

He's the kind of drummer who plays like the kit owes him money.

Every hit loud, deliberate, full of unspent adrenaline.

Blonde hair hangs in his eyes, sweat-darkened at the temples, and that familiar grin splits his face.

Half-feral, half-boyish. A mess in motion, but not a bad one.

He acts like trouble, but he's got a better heart than he lets on.

Sonny stays standing, bass still strapped across his chest. Quieter. Observant. The backbone type. He watches everything without making a show of it—the way people shift when they're tired, the way tension hums before it breaks. He notices when the room changes temperature before anyone else does.

And then there's Tommy.

Dark hair, darker eyes, tattoos climbing his arms like unfinished stories he hasn't decided how to tell yet. There's an edge to him that doesn't ask for permission. The kind that could tip the wrong way if no one's paying attention.

But he showed up today. That's something.

They've been grinding through their debut album for weeks like it's the only thing keeping them upright. In a way, it is. The Row are newcomers on the block with a lot to say and an audience ready to listen.

"Alright, take ten," I say into the room.

"Fucking finally. I need a drag." Tommy's out first.

Sonny and Levi follow.

Julian stays behind. Like he always does.

Part of why I keep them working this hard isn't just the deadline breathing down our necks. It's the structure. The way the studio gives their days shape when the rest of the world feels too big and too loud.

When you're busy building something real, there's less room for chaos to creep in. Hands stay busy. Minds stay clearer. Mistakes don't have as much space to grow teeth.

"You good?" I ask through the mic.

Julian replies with a simple nod.

I stand and step out of the control room, door closing softly behind me.

The barn turned studio opens up around me—wide, deliberate, built to breathe.

Exposed beams overhead stretch like ribs of something alive, holding the roof and the space itself together.

Each one carries the memory of sweat and labor from when this place was nothing but skeleton timber and loose nails.

Soft lighting pools across the floor and along the walls. Warm without intrusion. No harsh fluorescents, no glare to flatten the room. Every shadow has its place. Every corner its own hush.

The acoustics are meticulous—sound hugs the walls before spreading, fills the room evenly, holds its shape without bouncing violently. It's alive, the way music should be, but forgiving enough to let a voice bend, to let a drumbeat crack without punishment.

Through the open doors, Eden stretches into dark. Fields rolling into shadow. Stars scattered overhead like someone took their time with them.

This kind of quiet used to scare the hell out of me.

Silence felt like a trap once. Like something was waiting in it—some old version of myself, pacing just out of sight. Stillness felt dangerous. Like if I stopped moving, I'd sink.

Now, it just feels like home.

I pull out my phone without thinking. The date glows back at me, stark and simple against the black screen. Seven years ago today. The day I got sober. The day I stopped running from myself and started building something that could last.

Just a number on a screen, unassuming. I don't count anymore, not the way I used to—marking days like battle scars, proof I survived another twenty-four hours. The number lives in me now, carved into the way I wake up, the way I breathe, the way I move through the world.

There are still mornings my body stirs too early, braced for something it doesn't have to outrun anymore.

But the noise is gone. The constant itch. The bargaining. The static.

Clarity isn't loud. That was the first thing I learned.

I built this place exactly the way I said I would, all those years ago in Málaga. Promised myself I'd make something steady. Something clean. Something that was all mine.

Meridian Studios.

Nick named it, technically. We were sitting on overturned crates when the idea clicked, beers sweating in our hands, the barn still a skeleton around us. Wind slipping through the beams. Possibility hanging in the air.

He said something about how every argument worth having starts because people forget they're standing on the same ground. That meridians aren't about division—they're about alignment.

About finding where things meet.

I didn't say much. I just knew it fit.

A place where people could come to disappear from the noise without disappearing from themselves. No substances. No distractions dressed up as inspiration. Just space, time, and work.

The industry didn't know what to do with us at first. A label in the middle of nowhere. No red carpets. No afterparties. No myth-making.

Just music and the freedom to become whoever you want to be in the moment.

Luiza was my first sign that the vision worked.

We met in Spain seven years ago when I was still figuring out who I'd be on the other side of sobriety—touring with her band, learning that music could be medicine instead of escape.

When I came back to Eden and started building Meridian, she was the first artist I called.

The first one who believed in what this place could be.

She slept in the loft for three months, wrote at the kitchen table with coffee rings and lyric sheets spread everywhere, cried when she finally sang a song she'd been hiding from herself.

She didn't care who watched. She just needed the space to find her own voice.

That's what this place is for. Not perfection. Just truth. A place where people can be honest, can make mistakes, can find themselves without losing who they are.

And maybe that's why I've never chased fame. I'm not famous. Not really. People know my work. They know my ear. But they don't know me, and I'm grateful for that.

Awards ceremonies, red carpets—they feel like rooms built to make people louder versions of themselves. Louder doesn't mean better. Louder just means harder to hear what matters.

I don't need to be seen. I need to build things that last. Music that survives. Spaces where broken people can become whole again.

Meridian is that.

Julian finds me near the open doors, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets like he's afraid they'll give him away if he lets them loose.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

I nod. "Of course."

He laughs, nervous then sobers. "How do you know when to stop fixing a song?"

I let the question breathe before answering.

"When it stops needing you to protect it," I say, hands resting on the railing, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm. "When it can stand on its own."

Julian tilts his head, eyes tracing the edges of the porch like he's mapping it in his mind. He nods slowly, testing whether he's allowed to believe it.

"You ever get scared it won't come back?" he asks, voice low, almost swallowed by the evening air. "The feeling. That… thing you're chasing?"

Seven years ago, that question would've cracked me open.

Tonight, it just lands. Calm. Settled.

"No," I say. "It always comes back. When you stop forcing it to stay."

He looks down at the floorboards, shuffling his feet. "I just… I don't wanna waste what I've got. You know?"

His hands curl into his pockets, knuckles white. The words are small, but I hear all of it—the fear, the hunger, the kid who grew up too fast and doesn't trust the world to keep its promises.

I study him for a moment, letting him feel seen.

"You won't."

A soft laugh slips out of him, breathless, like he's testing the possibility. "You have a lot of faith in me."

"Yeah, Julian. I do." I shrug like it's no big thing, but I know it is. "You just need to remember why you started. Hold the vision. The rest will follow."

He runs a hand through his hair—messy and stubborn, the way all twenty-one-year-olds do when they're caught between panic and possibility.

"Why do you do it? Music… all this?" He gestures toward the studio like it's some monument he can't fully grasp yet.

"To feel something," I say, letting my gaze drift across the studio, the cables, the loft, the soft glow of lights. "Not to prove something."

The words land. His shoulders loosen. His chest eases like he's finally letting gravity do its work.

"Thanks, Nate," he says quietly. Not a joke, not an apology—just gratitude.

He steps toward the door, pauses, looks back.

"I'll… remember that." He smiles, small, almost shy, and disappears into the studio. The door swings closed softly behind him.

I stay where I am, letting the night settle.

I rest a hand on the railing, feeling the grain, the warmth, the steadiness beneath my fingertips.

It's nights like this I remember why I built Meridian. Not for me. Not for fame. Not for anything the world could see.

But for moments like this. For them.

For the kids who've been handed too much or too little. For the music that needs a home. For the feeling of watching someone trust themselves enough to let the song find them.

I exhale. Long. Quiet. The kind that pulls tension out of your bones without a word.

I should feel full. Proud. Settled.

And I do.

Mostly.

But there's that low hum again. That quiet ache that isn't sharp, isn't loud. Just… under everything. I carry it like a shadow stitched to my ribs.

I don't need to name it. I just feel it, like weather in your bones you can't explain.

The stars hang over Eden—careful, patient, distant yet present.

I push my hands into my pockets, tilt my head back, and let myself feel the steady, quiet pulse of life around me.

Eden still owns me. Every road. Every quiet stretch of nothing that feels like something if you let it.

I came back and stayed after rehab and never explained why.

This is the life I chose, and most days, it's enough.

But tonight, the quiet stretches longer than usual. My hands press into the railing, fingers tracing the grain, steadying myself the way I've learned to do.

My thoughts drift the way they always do when the world finally goes still. To someone I haven't seen in years. To green eyes that could cut through the noise without even trying.

I tilt my head back and catch the full moon, hanging low over Eden, sharp and clear against the night sky and wonder.

Is she seeing it too, somewhere far away, thinking about nothing or everything?

What if, just for a second, we're both looking at the same light?