28. Garrett
GARRETT
Colt and Roan must have been watching the house because I’m not alone for five minutes before there’s a knock at the door. They don’t wait for me to answer before barging in, drinks in hand, and arguing about whether or not we’ll have enough ice for this impromptu gathering.
“Come on in,” I deadpan, leaning a hip against the edge of the counter with a smile tipping up my lips.
“Yeah, well, blame your wife if you don’t want us here. She insisted,” Roan says.
“I will absolutely not do that,” I reply because I don’t have a death wish.
And honestly, my wife is awesome.
Even if she’s temporary.
“That’s a good plan because she was spicy,” Colt adds with a mischievous grin. “But she cares about you.” Pointing a six-pack of beer in my direction, he continues, “We wouldn’t be here if she didn’t.”
“Of course we would,” Roan scoffs. “We’re fucking awesome and great company.”
“That too.” Colt sets everything down and turns to me. “Are you okay though? Really?”
That’s the question, isn’t it?
I could lie and say yes, but saying no would also be a lie.
“I think I’m somewhere in between.”
“Grieving,” Roan says absentmindedly without looking up from organizing the drinks in a system that only makes sense to him.
“I guess it is grieving. But the biggest thing is just being fucking terrified of the backlash. From Darren. The fans. Connections we made together as Descending North.”
“But think of all the shit that’s been holding you back for those same reasons,” Colt says, his glass perpetually half full. “You’ll inspire other artists and bands to do the same—cut out the toxicity and make something bigger and better.”
“I guess.”
The first time the doorbell rings, Colt gets it, returning a minute later with a scowling Tom Oakden. The man is probably fifteen years older than we are, but because he’s married to Colt’s sister, he’s obligated to participate in this.
Secretly I think he likes it.
We’ll just never know for sure.
His game face is unbreakable, and while he’s a lot more relaxed than when I met him, he’s still mildly terrifying.
“…could be worse,” I hear Colt say as Tom accepts a beer from Roan and gives us both a nod.
“I could be working,” Tom counters, his tone indicating that he’d rather be working than here. And that’s okay—honestly, me too.
Kind of.
“But then you wouldn’t get to hang out with your favorite brother-in-law.” Colt’s smile is a mile wide, his enthusiasm daring Tom to deny it.
He doesn’t and Colt bumps him in the shoulder, the victory silent but loud all the same. The guy is impossible not to like, which is why he’s one of the favorites for the Illinois Blues and the league for that matter.
The second time the doorbell rings, Roan excuses himself, returning with Des and Theo, and I wonder if they arrived together or not. Emerson would love that little bit of gossip. Other than “it went well,” Theo has also been tight-lipped on how their date went.
Although he did blush when he said it.
Whatever that means.
This time when the doorbell rings, I take the interruption for all it’s worth, slowing my steps and quieting my mind because I won’t make it through tonight if I don’t. No matter how well-meaning this is, my reality will still be waiting after I’ve said the last good night.
And besides, all these people don’t need to listen to me bitch and whine about everything with the band.
So that means I need to compartmentalize.
Taking a breath, I turn the door handle.
When it opens, there’s a very confused looking Samson waiting on the other side. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck as he blinks at me.
“Emerson said this was okay, but—”
“It’s good, man, come on in,” I reassure him as he steps over the threshold and stuffs one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bag with a bakery logo on it as we move into the kitchen. “I think you know everyone—Tom, Roan, Colt, Des, and Theo.”
There’s a range of hellos from gruff to friendly but most of them fall somewhere in the middle. Looking around, I want to laugh because honestly, this is a hell of a group.
Ex-military, head of security, security who is a former cop, ruler of my professional life, personal assistant and former bodybuilder, professional baseball player, expensive as fuck lawyer, and me.
But they all showed up to be here—no matter how begrudgingly.
Samson gives them all a nod. Theo gives him a little wave and then I swear he bats his lashes at Des who either doesn’t notice or is purposely ignoring him.
“I can’t remember the last time someone other than my mother has wanted to entertain my kids,” Samson says, pulling his phone out to check the screen. When he sees there are no messages, he frowns and shoves the device back in his pocket.
“Emerson and Kat will help take good care of them, and hopefully your mom will get to relax a bit too,” I tell him, pausing as my phone vibrates with an incoming text.
EMERSON: (selfie with Kat, Georgia, Poppy, Mrs. Samson, and Jace)
EMERSON: Tell Nico to stop worrying
Showing him the messages, he sighs, his shoulders slumping. “But why does Jace get to be there?” he laments. I don’t know Jace all that well, only that he’s part of their security team and at one point was Emerson’s fake date for a gala.
Plus Vegas.
But we’re not close.
“Because he wanted to go to girls’ night,” Tom grouses, “and I’m trying to be thankful at least someone is with them.” Pausing, he adds, “Well, inside at least. Ozzy is parked outside the place.”
I chuckle and shake my head, both amused and relieved it’s not just me on edge. Maybe we all needed this.
“Well, all right,” I say, holding up my beer. “To old friends, new friends, and the ones that still need a little more convincing.”
Chuckles go around and even a few smirks, but it feels a lot like the start of something to be thankful for.