Chapter 6
"Rise and shine, gorgeous!"
Katie yanked open my blackout curtains like she was unveiling a crime scene.
I groaned and pulled a pillow over my head.
Monday morning.
End of my Tom bubble. A week that had somehow made my own bed feel like sleeping on concrete, compared to his fluff of white cotton and memory foam.
"What time is it?"
"Ten. Rehearsals in two hours."
"Let me sleep for another hour and forty-five minutes."
I groaned into my pillow, not quite awake yet.
"Absolutely not. We have business to go over, and I refuse to let the crew's first impression be of a disheveled hot mess who smells like weed."
I sniffed myself experimentally.
"Fair point."
The iced coffee on my nightstand was perfect, barely sweet, strong enough to resurrect the dead. After a shower that restored some semblance of humanity, I found Katie in full manager mode, laptop open, bluetooth earbud surgically attached to her ear. Three crises before noon was standard Monday for her.
"Show me this schedule,"
I said begrudgingly, settling beside her with coffee and what might have been yesterday's croissant.
Katie spread the rehearsal calendar across my kitchen table like a battle plan. First two weeks: dance studio with Gina and my dancers. Sarah, Jake, Lacy, Maya and I working together again after four years. The thought made my chest tight with something between excitement and nerves. I hoped I hadn't lost my skills since college.
Best part of the schedule was no Band until the final two weeks for run-throughs. Only two weeks of dealing with Mickey Montgomery and his stupid perfect face.
"This actually looks manageable."
A few hours later, the dance studio smelled like sweat, ambition, and that specific dance studio floor cleaner smell. Gina Martinez was exactly what I'd expected—tiny, fierce, radiating the kind of controlled intensity that made grown men cry during warm-ups.
"Aria Weber."
Her handshake could crush bones.
"Katie showed me your footage. You move like you actually understand music. I am excited to work with you."
Warmth spread through my chest.
"My dancers,"
I gestured toward the corner where my friends stretched with varying degrees of grace.
"We've been together since college."
"Perfect. Chemistry makes my job easier. I don't have to teach you how to not hate each other."
Two hours blurred past in a haze of movement and muscle memory. My body remembered how to make difficult choreography look effortless, even when my lungs screamed for mercy. Sarah and Jake fell back into old rhythms like we'd never stopped, bickering back and forth. Maya brought new sophistication from four years of actual professional training. Lacy made me laugh so hard my abs hurt worse than from the dancing.
"Beautiful work,"
Gina called as we collapsed in sweaty heaps.
"Wednesday we'll work on transitions. Bring the same energy and maybe some deodorant."
I was toweling off, still buzzing with endorphins and the high of dancing with my favorite people, when I heard it.
"Aria,"
I heard called across the room. I whirled around to see Tom at the entrance, walking toward me swiftly.
"Tom,"
I replied joyously as he pulled me into his arms, lifted me off the ground and spun me in a circle, planting a kiss on my cheek before setting me down.
"What are you doing here?"
We both asked in disbelief simultaneously.
"I was just finishing up rehearsals for my tour this summer,"
I replied, realizing I wasn't even sure I had told him about the tour yet.
His face started to fall as I realized everyone's eyes were on us, my dancers, and, I realized suddenly, The Band including Mickey. My first time seeing him in five years. Our eyes locked while I remained halfway hugging Tom.
My eyes flew back to Tom as he stared at me, who seemed as shocked as I was.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Holy Fuck.
Fuck.
I froze, my mind trying to take in the scene in front of me. My eyes locked with Tom's before I dropped him like a hot potato, taking two big steps back.
I'd never told him about The Band. About Mickey. About any of it. I guess it didn't seem relevant when we were naked most of the time.
Tom's expression shifted from confusion to dawning recognition, like watching someone solve a puzzle in real time.
That's when I noticed we had an audience. My dancers had stopped pretending to stretch and were watching us with barely concealed gossipy delight. Other figures, I assumed with The Band, lingered in the door.
"Aria,"
he said in an attempt to be calming, reaching for my hand.
"Let's go catch up before I have to rehearse,"
he said casually, trying to hide the very obvious situation to our audience.
But my eyes locked with Mickey's again. A deep frown creased his brow which made his normally hopelessly charming features seem morose and oppressive.
I couldn't think.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't do anything.
I just straight up ran away.
My classiest move? No.
Most professional? Definitely not.
Cool and sexy? Never.
But I didn't even think as my feet carried me to my car, unlocking it, and getting in.
"Aria, wait,"
Tom called, chasing me to the lot.
I was already in my car, reversing out like my life depended on it. Through the rearview mirror, Tom stood in the parking lot, concern etched across his usually warm features.
I hit the highway with no destination, just desperate for distance from the disaster I'd apparently created by existing. My hands shook on the steering wheel as reality crashed over me in waves.
Tom. My Tom. The guy who made me pancakes and laughed at my terrible jokes was Thomas "Axe"
Severson. World-famous drummer. Mickey's bandmate. My boss for the next three months.
I made it home on autopilot and immediately threw myself on the couch for some quality ugly crying—the kind of snotty, mascara-destroying breakdown that would have made excellent social media content if I were into emotional exhibitionism.
Once the hysteria passed, I did what any self-respecting 20-something would do: retrieved my pink bong from its hiding spot and packed a bowl with hands that were only slightly shaking.
The ritual was soothing. The weed quieted my spiral enough to actually process what had happened instead of just panicking about it in increasingly dramatic ways.
Tom was Axe. The man who made me laugh until my sides hurt, who fucked me until I forgot my own name, was part of Mickey Montgomery's inner circle. My carefully compartmentalized summer was completely and thoroughly fucked.
How had I not known? Stage Axe and real-life Tom were basically different species. Axe: black leather and enough eyeliner to supply a small theater production, hair soaked with sweat, making entire stadiums lose their collective minds. Tom: soft henleys and kind eyes, hair combed like a responsible adult who pays his taxes on time.
Still. The signs had been there. The ridiculously nice house. The vague "work travel"
comments that I'd been too dick-drunk to question properly.
My phone buzzed insistently with a progression of messages from Tom who was understandably confused, and concerned, finally just asking if I was okay. The genuine concern in his texts made my chest tight.
I called Katie.
"Oh honey, what happened? You sound like someone died."
"Tom. My Tom."
I took a shaky breath.
"He's Thomas 'Axe' Severson."
Silence stretched long enough for me to wonder if the call had dropped.
"Like... the drummer? From The Band?"
"Yes."
"Jesus, Aria. You didn't know?"
"Of course I didn't fucking know! You think I'd be gallivanting around LA with him if I knew he was Mickey's bandmate?"
I launched into the whole story; the studio, the recognition, Mickey's face, my graceful deer-in-headlights exit. By the end, I was crying again, the messy kind that comes with equal parts embarrassment and heartbreak.
"Come over,"
I sobbed.
"I need wine and someone to tell me this isn't complete career suicide."
"Give me an hour. I'm bringing reinforcements."
"Bring weed. This situation requires pharmaceutical assistance."
"Put on Britney videos. She always helps."
She was right. "Toxic"
had legitimate healing properties, especially when combined with THC and a healthy dose of self-pity about accidentally dating someone famous.
Katie let herself in an hour later with wine, weed, and sympathy.
"You aware there's a massive flower arrangement blocking your entire door?"
"What?"
Three dozen roses in pink and red, arranged with the kind of professional artistry that cost more than my rent. The note was in Tom's handwriting: "Call me when you feel ready. I like you, Aria. -Tom"
My heart flip flopped into my throat. Even in the middle of this disaster, he was being thoughtful. Romantic.
"From Tom,"
I said, waving the card.
Katie snatched it and read, her grin spreading like wildfire.
"He likes you."
"This is not funny!"
"It's hilarious. You've been accidentally dating a rock star for a week. That's sitcom-level chaos."
I threw a pillow at her head. She dodged with the reflexes of someone who managed difficult artists for a living.
We settled on the couch with wine glasses that were definitely too large for a Monday afternoon, the roses making my apartment smell lightly perfumed.
"Tell me everything about Tom,"
Katie said, settling in like this was going to take a while.
"Everything."
I recounted the whole story: the nightclub, our instant bond, and our obvious mutual fascination with each other. Katie made appropriately impressed noises and nearly choked on her wine when I got to the more intimate details.
"Horses,"
she gasped.
"First date horses. That's some Nicholas Sparks level emotional manipulation."
"Right? And he actually wanted to know what I thought about things. Like my opinions mattered."
"Wow, for a rich boy, that's rare."
I nodded in agreement, trying not to think about his laugh or the way he said my name.
"Apart from the minor complication of your nemesis being his bandmate."
"Minor?"
I repeated.
"Katie, I have to spend three months pretending I don't want to murder Mickey while also pretending I don't want to fuck Tom senseless. That's not minor. That's untenable."
"Sounds like a romance novel. Or a really fucked up reality show."
I couldn't help but flip her off.
I reached for the joint we'd been passing back and forth.
"What do I do? I can't quit. This is literally my shot. But I can't spend the summer suffering in one bus with Mickey and Tom."
"You have options. End things with Tom. Keep it strictly professional."
The thought made me want to cry again. Giving up the way Tom looked at me, how he made me laugh, the way he touched me like he was memorizing every inch, I just couldn't stomach the thought.
"Or,"
Katie continued, "you talk to him. Figure out what this actually means."
"How do you even date someone on tour? It's like living in a fishbowl, but with paparazzi."
"People do it."
"They were already established. I'm barely famous enough to get my name spelled right in blogs."
"Or,"
Katie's eyes sparked with mischief, "you could just fuck each other's brains out for three months and worry about everything else later."
I considered this seriously. The sex was transcendent and had been particularly good for my songwriting. Three months of that without any pressure to define anything...
"Doesn't solve the Mickey problem."
"What exactly is the Mickey problem? Beyond general douchebaggery."
I took a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs while I figured out how to explain four years of complicated history.
"We were best friends in college. Like, my person. First guy who made me feel like I could relax a little, you know?"
"That's sweet."
"Too sweet. I dated my high school boyfriend all through college, but Mickey and I had this... thing building. This connection that felt inevitable."
"And then?"
"Graduation. I finally broke up with my boyfriend. Mick's single. I thought we'd figure it out."
The memory stung even through the weed haze.
"But when I went to meet up with him after a graduation pregame, I saw him with another girl draped all over him."
I dumped, the pain still sharp all these years later.
"I couldn't face him after that. Four years of silence. Now I get to spend three months pretending it doesn't matter while he controls every aspect of my daily life."
Katie whistled low.
"I get why you're freaking out."
"Exactly. And Tom's stuck in the middle. I don't even know what Mickey's told him about our history."
"I get why you're freaking out *but* I truly think this is manageable. You are all much older and more mature than you were at 22. Besides plenty of time has passed. You guys will figure it out."
Katie was nothing if not reassuring.
We sat in contemplative silence, passing the joint back and forth.
"You know what you have to do,"
Katie said finally.
"Move to Canada and start a mini horse farm?"
"Talk to Tom. You can't make any decisions based on incomplete information. And you definitely can't keep running away from things. That's not very rock star of you."
She was right. Katie was always right, which was both reassuring and deeply annoying.
"But first, we need to talk about the press situation."
"What press situation?"
My brain was already short-circuiting again.
"Aria. You're about to tour with some of the biggest rock stars in the country. People notice who you're sleeping with. Especially when it's a Band member."
Ice water reality hit me square in the face. This wasn't just about personal complications anymore. This was about photographers and gossip columns and strangers on the internet dissecting my every move.
"I'm not ready for that kind of scrutiny."
"Most people never are. But if you want to keep seeing Tom, we need a strategy. How much to hide, what can be public, how to handle photos."
"Can we cross that bridge when we get to it? I can't think about paparazzi when I can't even have a conversation without hyperventilating."
"Fair enough. But Aria? Make sure whatever you decide is what you actually want. Not what feels safe. Playing it safe is what got you stuck in dive bars for four years."
"Playing it safe also got me this opening slot."
"After years of taking risks that terrified you. Sometimes the scary choice is the right choice."
After Katie left, I stared at my phone like it might explode. Tom's distress was obvious over text, kind of sweet in a way that made my chest hurt.
With wine and weed courage, I finally responded:
Me: Sorry I ran. Was shocked to see you there. Thank you for the roses, they're beautiful.
The response was immediate:
Tom: So glad you're okay.
Me: I just need to wrap my head around this situation. Talk tomorrow?
Tom: Of course. My place after your rehearsal? Around 5?
Me: Perfect. See you then, Axe.
Tom: Don't call me that sweets. That's stage stuff, not who I am with you. Just Tom.
Despite everything, I smiled. The distinction mattered to him, keeping the public persona separate from whatever this was between us. The warmth in my chest kept rising.
Then my phone exploded in a completely different way.
Lacy: GIRL
Lacy: What the FUCK
Lacy: Where did you GO???
Lacy: Was that your boy?
Lacy: YOUR BOY IS AXE SEVERSON?????
Lacy: CALL ME IMMEDIATELY
Lacy: THIS IS WILD
Lacy: DID YOU KNOW???
Lacy: I NEED ALL THE DETAILS
I laughed despite myself. Lacy at maximum volume was a force of nature.
Me: Hiiiiii
Lacy: THANK GOD YOU'RE ALIVE! I was worried you died from shock
Me: Very alive, very confused, slightly stoned
Lacy: I need to know EVERYTHING. Every detail.
Me: Coffee tomorrow? My brain is too scrambled for coherent storytelling
Lacy: Obviously yes. You actually okay though?
Me: Ask me tomorrow when I'm less high. 11 at our usual place?
Lacy: Perfect. Love you, you beautiful disaster.
Me: Love you too.
I looked around at the evidence of my emotional breakdown. The smell of the roses thick in the air, empty wine bottle, tissues scattered about. Tomorrow I'd have to face Tom and figure out what this meant and convince myself I could handle three months of not one, but two complicated relationships.
Tonight I was going to finish this joint, order Thai food instead of it being lovingly prepared by a Grammy nominee (!!!), and try not to think about Mickey's face when he saw Tom's arms around me.
One crisis at a time.
At least the roses were beautiful. And Tom was still Tom, famous or not.
That had to count for something.