72-Kit
The girls are stuck in traffic, and the show starts in an hour.
“They’re still about thirty minutes out,” Trayvon says, phone pressed to his ear, expression tight.
“Fuck,” I mutter, spinning on my heel, only to come nose to lens with a bloody camera.
Cooper.
The wanker’s been stalking me like a persistent housefly for the last few weeks, and I swear on every god I’ve ever dreamt of; I’m two seconds away from swatting him.
“Any sign of them?” Seth asks, jogging up beside me, guitar pick still tucked behind his ear.
I shake my head. “Thirty minutes out.”
“Worst case scenario,” Greg says, already turned toward the production corridor, “I’m sure we can find a couple backing tracks if we need to—”
“No,” I snap.
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Greg fires back, disappearing with Trayvon in tow.
I drag a painted hand down my face. My pulse thuds loud enough to drown out the hum of the arena generators.
“It’ll all work out,” Cooper says behind the camera, voice irritatingly chipper.
“You’re here to film, not give me positive affirmations,” I say, stepping forward until the lens nearly bumps my shoulder. “And honestly, you’re not going to be doing either in about 2.2 seconds if you don’t get that fucking camera out of my face.”
He lowers it immediately. The moment he backs off, the panic rushes back twice as fast.
“Oi,” Seth says, clapping my shoulder, “it’s gonna be fine, mate. If we have ta backtrack, we backtrack. Make up some excuse, they lost their voice, got sick, whatever. It’ll be square.”
“This is the last night of the tour!” I stalk off, boots thudding against the concrete floor. “Nothing about this is fine.”
Sweat, hairspray, and fog linger in the backstage hallway. Cables snake across the ground like black vines, but I step over them automatically, muscle memory guiding me even as my mind spins.
Behind me, Cooper starts to follow.
“Why don’t ya jus’ come with me, mate,” Seth says, steering him away like one might redirect a toddler from a dangerous object.
I suck in a strained breath, bracing my palms against the nearest wall.
The cinderblock is cool, grounding me for a moment.
Pressing my forehead against it, I let the chill trickle across my skin.
Dust and metal settles in my lungs, anchoring me.
What I’m about to do on stage will change everything.
Tonight’s stressful enough. I don’t need this.
The idea came a couple weeks ago, when the mates and I were trying to bring some sort of celebratory semblance to Silver and Lou’s birthday.
Seth and Silver think I’m mad, but Lou, my little Lou, simply cried.
She fell apart as I held her, everything shoved down and kept quiet for my sake pouring out.
Lou knows why I need to do this, and I have her blessing. That’s enough.
In a strange, metaphysical way, I feel Zach en route; a shift in the air pressure and a tug in my chest. It’s instinctive, the kind of knowing you can’t reason your way out of.
Then there’s the trailer for her documentary. Premiering tonight.
And I might’ve asked Cooper if she’d be in town for it.
I push off the wall and pace the hallway, cloak swishing behind me. It brushes my calves with every step, reminding me of the persona I’m about to step into.
Beneath the horns and theatrics, I’m still Kit, a man who’s spent the last month blocking and unblocking a phone number. Typing out messages only to delete them as I stare at the single photo I have of her like a proper twat.
I wonder if she’s done the same. If staying away hurts her as much as it hurts me. I pray every night that she’s healing. That she’s finding herself again; breathing easier.
If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that I need to be alone. Truly. Not as punishment, but as a chance to rebuild without the noise.
This life comes with sacrifices. Relationships. Friendships. The possibility of something more weaves in and out of the maze of fame constantly.
After tonight, I’ll be gone.
I spent the morning in LA wrapping up loose ends, and after the show, I’ll be on a plane home. Across the ocean. Back to the quiet. It isn’t fair to make Zach a target because of me, and I can’t hold animosity toward the very people who brought me here.
This tour cracked me open, and the music’s pouring out faster than I can catch it. I’ve got so many songs in my head; lyrics scribbled on napkins, melodies hummed into my phone, and half-formed ideas clawing at the back of my mind.
A dry and humourless laugh escapes me, as that only proves my point. This is always going to come first.
It has to.
I reach the end of the hall and push through the door leading to the loading bay. Trucks rumble in the distance while roadies shout instructions, and the floodlights cast tendrils of shadow across the pavement.
I stand there for a moment, taking it all in.
The chaos and anticipation of the final night. Somewhere out there, she’s making her way through traffic, preparing to watch the trailer of the story she bled for. Somewhere out there, she’s living her life without me.
And I have to let her.
I close my eyes as the cool air washes over me, noise fading into a distant hum. Tonight, I’ll give them everything I have left. And then I’ll walk away. For now. I don’t want to.
But letting go isn’t weakness; it’s the first honest choice I’ve made in years.
It’s the only path forward.