29. Twenty-Nine
Twenty-Nine
Nate
The roar of twenty thousand fans fades as I step off stage, my shirt soaked with sweat, drumsticks still warm in my hands. Tonight’s show was fire, but my mind’s already drifting to Lacey, wondering if she caught any of it online. Two weeks without seeing her feels like too long, and that thought alone should scare the hell out of me.
In the quiet of the green room, I scroll through my phone, finding a photo from her latest movie promotion. She’s stunning in an elegant outfit, lighting up the room like she’s in her element. Which she is. I try not to think about the distance between us—her in L.A., me in whatever city we’re playing tonight.
The guys make it look so easy. Cass with his devotion to Kendrick and their daughter. Sam and Emily planning their next toddler play dates. Luke and Lila somehow manage to coordinate private time together despite the crowded tour bus. Even Vince, who swears he’ll never settle down, is texting his current hook up between sets.
Could Lacey and I find that rhythm? Our worlds are so different—her film schedules, my tours, press interviews and recording sessions. Sure, every entertainment magazine is filled with cautionary tales of failed Hollywood relationships. Musicians and actors trying to bridge their worlds and falling short.
But then I think about Nevada, when she flew in for that week together between film shoots, how she showed up at our performance out of the blue, exhausted but smiling. How natural it felt to pull her close. How right it felt when we had dinner with my mom and Richard. How her ridiculous idea of being a normal couple now has me looking forward to those silly outings.
My phone buzzes—it’s Lacey. ‘Just watched your Indianapolis set. You were amazing tonight.’
I smile, feeling that familiar warmth in my chest. Maybe it’s crazy to think we can make this work: two different worlds, insane schedules, and constant travel. But watching my bandmates navigate their relationships and seeing how they’ve found ways to keep their connections strong despite the distance makes me wonder. What if we tried? What if we found our own way to bridge these worlds?
Because lately, every city feels a little emptier without her in it.
After the show, Cass suggests dinner at some upscale place downtown. I check my phone first, a habit now, and I am pleased to see my latest investment is up twelve percent. At least that’s going right.
“Nate,” Vince waves his hand in front of my face. “You coming or what?”
The restaurant has all sleek lines and soft lighting. We’re led to a private room in the back, and I’m just settling in when a familiar voice cuts through the quiet murmur of conversation.
“Nate Stone. What a nice surprise.” She flicks her eyes over me. “I saw the band was in town. Thought I might run into you.”
Melissa. My last serious relationship before Lacey. It feels like a decade ago, but in reality, it’s only been a couple of years.
She looks good—elegant in a red dress that shouts expensive. But looking at her now, I feel nothing. No spark, no remnant of what we once had. Just a polite acknowledgment of shared history.
“Melissa. You look well.”
She slides into the empty chair beside me—uninvited—while the guys exchange looks.
“I’ve been following you on social media,” she says, her smile practiced but her eyes sharp with something that might be regret. “Your engagement’s been everywhere. She’s gorgeous, by the way. A famous actress...” She lets out a small laugh. “I always knew when you finally fell, it would be for someone who could accept the long hours apart.”
No, I think, studying her calculated pose. Melissa liked the idea of a rockstar boyfriend. But she didn’t like the reality—the long hours spent in the studio, a guy who lived and breathed music, who couldn’t give her the attention she craved.
I grimace remembering how Melissa told me to grow up and stop using the band as an excuse to avoid a real relationship. That my inability to commit to her meant I was emotionally stunted. But looking back now, I realize she was just bitter that I couldn’t give her what she wanted—couldn’t manufacture feelings that weren’t there.
Instead of being emotionally unavailable, the truth was—I just wasn’t in love with her. Not like…
I cut that thought off before it can fully form because thinking about how I feel toward Lacey is dangerous territory.
Instead, I just nod, keeping the conversation light as Melissa catches me up on her life. Her newest relationship. Some man who has a high-powered job in finance.
“He’s out of town right now,” she murmurs, glancing sideways at me. “I know how lonely it can get on the road.” The implication is clear. And if it were another time—another version of me before I met Lacey—I might have entertained it.
But I’m not that guy anymore.
Because I know what it’s like to really want someone. To need them in a way that makes everything else fade into the background.
And no matter how beautiful Melissa is, she’s not Lacey. She never could be.
I push my chair back and stand, offering a small smile. “Good seeing you again.”
She tilts her head, stunned by my sudden disinterest. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. I’m engaged, remember?”
Melissa hesitates for half a second, then laughs lightly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around then.”
When she stands to leave, I automatically rise to get the door. It’s nothing—just basic manners. But as I open it, a camera flash goes off.
Great. Just fucking great.
The next morning, my phone blows up. The photo is everywhere, carefully cropped to exclude the rest of the band, and the angle suggests intimacy that wasn’t there. “TROUBLE IN PARADISE?” the headlines scream. “Rockstar’s Secret Rendezvous!”
I’m about to call Lacey when another photo catches my eye. It’s of Lacey standing too close to her co-star, Leo, laughing at something he said. The picture is taken at just the right angle, the rain and soft lighting giving it a romantic glow. To anyone who doesn’t know better, it looks like an intimate moment.
Except I do know better. I recognize the setting—the scene—it’s from their movie. She’d shown me the script and explained how her character finally confronts her feelings in the pouring rain.
It’s not real. Not even close. But the tabloids, the vultures, don’t care about context. They just want drama. I read the headline: ‘Has Lacey Monroe Already Moved On?’
I exhale sharply, gripping the edge of my phone.
They’re trying to start shit, trying to turn nothing into something.
And I understand exactly why Hollywood celebrities get so damn frustrated with the industry’s constant meddling—Because I feel it, too.
The suffocating weight of not being able to control the narrative. The ache of knowing the truth but having to watch the world believe something else.
Luke watches me carefully. “You okay, man?”
I swallow hard, pushing my phone into my pocket.
“Yeah,” I lie.
But as I stare out the hotel window at the city below, at the never-ending cycle of noise and speculation and bullshit—I wonder how much longer we can keep playing this long-distance game before something actually does get broken.
My phone suddenly buzzes—it’s a text from Lacey.
‘ Just saw those ridiculous photos. You okay? Though I have to say, if you’re going to have a secret rendezvous, you might want to pick somewhere more private than a five-star restaurant with the entire band present.’
I stare at the message, something tight loosening in my chest. Because that’s my girl—cutting straight through the bullshit with her unwavering trust and that sharp sense of humor. Of course, she knows it’s all garbage. She makes me smile even from thousands of miles away.
But my thumbs hover over the keyboard because how do I tell her that the only woman I want to be photographed with is her? That every city feels gray and empty without her in it. That I’m wondering what would happen if we decide not to walk away after the six months end.
Keeping it light, I text back: ‘ What can I say? My secret affair planning skills are clearly rusty. How’s filming?’
Her response comes quickly: ‘ Wet. Very wet. 3 hours of rain scenes. I think I’m growing gills. Also, my passionate embrace with Leo had to be reshot 6 times because he keeps stepping on my toes. He doesn’t have your superior sense of rhythm. Miss you.’
I smile despite everything, picturing her soaked and probably complaining between takes. But something hot and uncomfortable twists in my gut at the mention of Leo. Not because I think something might be happening with them—I don’t—It’s just...
My phone buzzes again. She’s sent a selfie—hair plastered to her face, makeup running slightly, fist raised to the artificial rain. The caption reads: Hollywood glamour at its finest. Bet your date looked way more glamorous than me. Sigh.
Something in my chest constricts. Because even soaking wet and angry at the rain, she’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. I save the photo before I can think better of it.
‘Miss you,’ I type. Then add: ‘ The real you. Not the perfect Hollywood version. Just... you.’
It’s more honest than I meant to be, but before I can regret it, she responds:
‘Ditto. Not the tabloid version. Just my private drummer boy who hates losing to me and makes the best damn waffles.’
Emily bursts in without knocking. “Rachel wants to know how to handle the Melissa and Leo situation.”
“There is no situation,” I growl, but there’s less heat in it now. Lacey’s messages have smoothed the sharp edges of my mood.
“Rachel thinks we need to get ahead of this,” Emily persists, dropping into the armchair. “She’s suggesting we do a big photo spread at Family First next week. You know, show the happy couple giving back to the community—“
“No.” The word comes out sharp enough to make Emily blink. “Family First isn’t a publicity stunt. Those kids aren’t props.”
“But Nate, the timing would be perfect. With all this Melissa and Leo nonsense—“
“Tell Rachel to back the hell off.” I’m on my feet now, anger burning hot and fast. “That place... those kids... It’s the one thing I’m a part of that isn’t about the spotlight. It’s private. Tell Rachel I said no—that place is off limits.”
Emily sighs but nods. “Okay. I’ll let her know.”
“Good.” I turn away, making it clear the conversation is over.
Three days later, I’m finally turning the key in my front door. The familiar salt breeze rushes in as I step inside, carrying the rhythmic sound of waves through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, everything’s exactly as I left it, but somehow different. Emptier.
Her presence lingers like a ghost—the pink coffee mug she always uses still in the dish rack, her favorite throw blanket draped over the couch where we used to watch the sunrise over the Atlantic if we didn’t feel like getting dressed and sitting on the deck.
My carefully curated minimalist space has been invaded by splashes of her—that ridiculous lava lamp she insisted we purchase for my stark living room and the bright splashes of color from the vintage band posters we framed. Even the chess set seems lonely, set up mid-game from the last time she tried (and failed) to beat me.
My phone buzzes. Lacey: ‘ Only three more days of filming, and then I’ll be coming home to Jacksonville.’
‘Can’t wait to see you.’ I type back, sinking onto the couch. The house feels too quiet, too still, despite the constant symphony of surf outside. The space that once felt perfectly ordered now just feels empty.
I glance at the lava lamp, remembering her delighted laugh when she first plugged it in and the way she’d dragged me off the couch to slow dance in its shifting purple glow.
Three days suddenly feel like forever.
Standing in my quiet house, I realize I’m in trouble. Because somewhere between the fake engagement and real laughter, between the headlines and quiet moments, she’s invaded every aspect of my life.
And I’m not sure I can survive without her.