Your Biggest Fan

EPILOGUE

TWO WEEKS LATER

“GUESS WHAT. I FINALLY graduated. No more boring classes or overbearing teachers for me.” I let out a huge sigh of relief as a gentle breeze rustles the leaves of the tree above me as I sit in the dirt, tearing up grass while venting out my news. It might be the last time I get to.

Out here, the smell of daisies is everywhere, signaling that summer’s creeping up quick. I adjust my headphones and crank up my Walkman, letting Heart’s I Love You block out the world around me beyond this peaceful hillside.

“Oh, and get this—I actually signed up for the Battle of the Bands. By myself. Me. On a stage. Singing. Wild, right?” I laugh, because I really did surprise myself with that.

“I didn’t win,” I admit, giving that little half-smile he knew so well. “I didn’t completely bomb either, or get assaulted by produce, so I’m counting it as a victory. You would have gotten a real kick out of seeing me up there.” I brush away some leaves on the ground, trying not to let the tears blur my vision. “I wish you could have.”

I don’t think I ever would have found that daring nerve if Noah hadn’t once barged in on me during a karaoke sing-along in the garage. He had pushed me out of my comfort zone, made me keep singing out loud until I realized my skin wouldn’t actually light on fire if someone heard my voice. Well, at least not from stage fright. The only thing that could do that to me is the fire we create together when we let our passion run unchecked.

“And Mom… I guess things finally came to a head with her too,” I confess. “I know underneath it all, she still loves me whatever broken way she can.” I pick at a scabbing cuticle, taking a shuddery breath against the pull of old wounds.

There is a lot of baggage there, something that I know will empty out with time. The space that I used to fill up in that house is too messed up now, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back and try to make myself fit into it. I’m not the same person I was when I was 13. This past year, with all the drama and the revenge, it’s shaped me into a totally different piece that has to go find its new edges to slide into.

“I can’t keep setting myself on fire trying to keep her warm.” I sniff hard, imagining his kind green eyes and that little nod he always made to show he was really listening. “I told her I’m moving out. That it’s time for me to spread my wings and try to fly, even if it means leaving the nest for good. Maybe some distance will give her a chance to heal and get her shit together.”

My eyes start to sting with too much heat, and I know those tears are a physical manifestation coming from a place of guilt. I also know what’s buried beneath all that guilt.

Relief .

I might be saddled with a mountain of emotions from leaving everything, especially my mom behind to her own devices, but I know how great I will finally fucking feel to watch Bellpond disappear behind me. To leave all the stares from others and the constant sadness. To just... leave it all.

Though there’s one feeling I’ll be packing up and taking with me.

I pluck a slightly squashed daisy from the grass and twirl it between my fingers. “What else... Oh! Tyler’s going to college in Chicago this fall. Can you believe it? Tyler is officially all grown up and ready to take on the world. FYI, he still says you’re hot when he looks at photos of you.”

I click my tongue and shake my head, remembering summer nights the three of us used to spend tucked away discussing our big dreams. Tyler always said he wanted to stay close to his mom, which made sense, but one hour away is still way too close to this town for me. I’m aiming to put a triple digit mileage between me and good old Bellpond.

My shoulders slump when I inhale a warm breath, my voice turning wistful while the breeze pushes back my hair. “Stephanie leaves at the end of the summer too. She got accepted to some fancy program in Boston. She’s actually going to be teaching the future minds of our world someday.”

Man, I’m so proud of Stephanie for making her dreams happen. Every time I tell her that, she gripes at me, saying, “You should be proud of yourself too!” And I am, in a way.

Sure, I knew I needed to break free from the invisible chains that had been weighing me down for as long as I could remember, and I’m fucking doing it.

Beyond getting the hell out? I have no clue.

It’s not like I had a lot of shining examples to look to for guidance.

So yeah, compared to Stephanie’s bright, shining future, my own path looked more like a winding, overgrown trail leading off into the unknown. That used to scare me, but I like the unknown. It’s where I thrive best, and if there is one thing I know about weeds, it’s that they’re survivors. They’re scrappy and stubborn and they find a way to thrive, no matter what life throws at them.

I know that I’m a fighter. I’ve been through hell and back, and I’m still swinging. Still ready to take on the world, even if I don’t know which way I’m headed.

That’s the thing about weeds, isn’t it? They don’t need a map or a compass to find their way. They keep pushing forward, keep reaching for the sun, keep finding the cracks in the pavement and bursting through, wild and untamed and gloriously alive.

That’s exactly what I intend to do. I might not have a perfect plan, but I have my own kind of strength, my own special brand of badass. I know that wherever I end up, I’ll find a way to bloom.

Who cares if I don’t have all the answers? My future is one giant, terrifying blank page waiting to be filled in and you know what I say to that? Bring it . This weed is ready for anything.

I flick the flower and hug my knees to my chest, resting my chin on top as I look out at the field on my right, watching the tall grass sway in the wind and the dragonflies chasing each other before flying low and vanishing.

“I managed to save up enough money to get by for a couple of months while I figure things out.” My lips are lifting into a smile, and I know I’m blushing even though he’s not here. “Someone really special made a very generous donation to the cause that gave me the needed boost.”

My cheeks are on fire thinking about it again—Noah putting that white envelope into my palm, closing my fingers tight around it. His eyes said that he’d never stopped believing in my big, bright dreams, even from a distance.

I can’t help the tiny spark of hope that kindles to life in my chest. It's a feeling I've spent years running from, yet now it's the light that's making the shadows of my past seem a little less dark.

Life is funny, because yeah, okay, this was never part of the plan. It’s not what I expected, not what I ever could have seen coming. But I’m starting to learn that the best things in life are the ones that sneak up on us when we’re not looking—when we’re too busy chasing after the things we think we want.

Noah is one of those things. We are one of those things, mysterious and maddening and utterly, beautifully real.

I’m so glad I finally decided to stop running, to stop making excuses and start facing the truth that’s been staring me in the face all along. I’m totally in love with Noah Jackson. A whole fucking lot.

It’s real . It’s powerful. It’s the kind of love that moves mountains and splits oceans and rewrites the whole damn universe.

And it’s mine. Ours .

I take a deep, shuddering breath, my eyes falling shut as I let the feeling of love wash over me. As I let myself imagine what a future with Noah will look like.

Late night jam sessions and lazy Sunday mornings. Inside jokes and holding each other on our bad days and asking him to open my can of Pepsi whenever I can’t get the tab. Letting the sun shine on each other, especially in those moments when he looks at me weird and asks me how I can even like him.

It’s a partnership. A home, built on a foundation of friendship and trust and understanding. Fuck. I want that. I want it so bad it makes my teeth ache.

I want him. All of him.

My fingers pick at the red sleeves of Noah’s jacket wrapped around me, feeling the slick nylon material that’s become my second skin. “I guess it’s time I should tell you… I met this guy. I think if you had the chance to know him, you’d like him,” I muse with a soft smile. “I think you’d really like him, actually. I can imagine you two jamming together in the garage. You on the drums, him singing into the mic. Annoying the hell out of me with your terrible drunk cover songs until 2 in the morning.”

I shake my head at the thought. Noah’s dark head would be bent to share the mic with my dad’s long ponytail, the two of them bashing out and making up dumb lyrics deep into the night. Their loud laughter would reach throughout the house while I yelled at them to keep it down from my bedroom, even though they can’t hear me.

They really would have gotten along so well. Two creative souls recognizing each other.

I rub my thumb over the worn sleeve cuff, picturing my dad’s easy smile as he made Noah feel welcome, seeing past any tough exterior to the heart underneath. If only they’d had the chance to meet, though some deeper intuition assures me their spirits connect through me.

“His name is Noah.” I pick a few more blades of grass, feeling shy saying his name aloud in this sacred place. It’s strange, like I’m introducing him to my dad for the first time. “He’s kind, thoughtful, crazy talented, and he makes me laugh. Like, really fucking laugh, from my belly. And he makes me feel really special. Like I can be myself and that’s enough.”

With Noah, everything feels so easy in a way I’ve never known.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the wind picking up and whipping it across my face. The tall grass sways and dances around me, alive with the hum of insects and the occasional chirp of a bird.

“The best part is that he managed to fix up Kevin for me so we can get to Seattle without a Greyhound ticket!” I grin, remembering the look of pride on Noah’s face when he unveiled the newly restored Chevy.

Technically, Principal Phillips helped too, which was still really weird, being inside his bachelor pad apartment talking about how he’s the reason Noah gave me that flower that’s still sitting on my dash, especially right after he handed me my diploma.

“Get that kid out of my house,” he’d said.

With pleasure, sir.

“Now I get to take a big piece of you with me,” I continue, “with your drums fitting perfectly in the backseat.”

While discussing where we were going to go, we stayed up until 4am staring at a map of places, trying to come up with a pros and cons lists, and we felt so stupid it took both of us so long to come up with the answer.

Seattle .

I wanted to try out Seattle because of the way Noah’s face lit up when he told stories of the few childhood memories he had there. Something about humid fish markets, buskers with guitar cases open on sidewalks, the sound of ferry horns cutting through the salty sea air. And, in his words, “the dopest fucking record stores you’ll ever see.”

Also because Mom had always spun those epic tales for me of when Dad left home at 18, roaming the Pacific Northwest for months, picking up odd jobs here and there. I wanted to see what he saw.

The crunch of tires on gravel has me glancing up from the top of the hill. That same blue Chevy Blazer of mine rolls slowly into view, Noah’s motorbike hitched to the back. Noah lifts a hand with a thumbs up from the driver’s window, signaling that the gas station run was a success, and I already know there’s a Cherry Pepsi and a donut waiting for me in the passenger seat. There always is with him.

My heart does a little spin like one of those rainbow colored pinwheels you see in people’s lawns. It’s a feeling I’m starting to get used to, this giddy swoop in my stomach every time he comes into view. I think it’s when my soul recognizes his and reaches out to say “hey you.”

“Well, that’s my ride, Daddio.” I give the sun warmed granite a gentle pat. Coming here to talk to my dad always brings me a sense of peace, a feeling of connection to something bigger than myself. I’m realizing that I have a new source of comfort and strength in this world. Someone who sees and understands me like no other.

I set the ceremonial can of Miller Lite against the etched letters of his name. The drink he always had in his hand when we’d hang out in the backyard together, talking about everything and nothing while roasting marshmallows.

“Don’t worry, though. I’ll be safe out there.” I glance back over my shoulder to see Noah making his way up the grassy hill, his hair a mess by the breeze. His light jeans are tight around his hips, hands tucked into the pockets as he climbs clumsily.

He might look like the dangerous, heartbreaker type, but he’s not smooth all the time. It’s one of the many things I love about him.

“Because I’m finally not alone anymore,” I murmur, more to myself than anything.

I’m not facing the lonely path that made me feel so separate from everyone around me anymore. I’m not bracing myself against the winds with my chin lifted in stubborn defiance even though I really wanted to seek refuge. I’ve got a hand to hold now. A hand where I discovered the light that could burn out any darkness that tries to grab at my ankles. A hand that woke up this fierce need to keep going that was about more than merely trying to get by.

I’m not alone anymore. No longer having to face each morning with my head held high, all by myself. Together, we’d built a cozy haven to call our own, and it was there where I found my other half in Noah Jackson.

Noah reaches the top of the hill, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed from the climb. He extends a hand to me, calloused fingers holding mine as he helps pull me to my feet. “You ready?”

Hell, yes . I can’t wait to open up the map tucked into the Chevy’s glovebox, the route highlighted in yellow, the margins scribbled with notes and doodles. I think of the mixtapes I’ve perfectly made for the journey, each song chosen for its relatable lyrics or its fun beat. I think of the Polaroid camera sitting on the dashboard, waiting to capture each new state line we cross.

I think of Noah. Of his smile, his laugh, the way he looks at me like I’m the only person in the world. The way he’s slowly, patiently, day by day, teaching me how to trust. How to open my heart. How to love with every fiber of my being.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of the grass that mixes with his cologne, the sweetness of the wildflowers growing around the hillside, the salty promise of distant ocean air.

And I exhale the past. I let it all go, releasing it to the wind.

I turn to Noah and squeeze his hand. “Born ready, babe.”

Kissing my free fingers, I press them up against my dad’s carved name, maintaining our tradition adapted from my Lee Aaron poster. I don’t have to tell him that I hope I’ve made him proud. As much as it hurts to know he’ll never get to see who I’ve become, he knows.

Closing my eyes, I send up a little thank you. To the universe, to whatever the hell is up there—but mostly to Brian fucking Wishmore. The best damn father a girl could ask for.

Thanks for everything, Dad. I’ll take it from here.

With a contented sigh, I snuggle deeper into Noah’s side and let myself be.

Here. Now. Happy .

It’s what my father would have wanted, and for once in my life, I’m more than okay with following someone else’s orders.

Noah slings his arm around my neck, pulling me deeper into his side, pressing a quick kiss to my hairline. “He loves you too, little Wishbone.”

I roll slightly damp eyes up toward his face. “I hate you.”

Noah’s laugh sparks those ocean blue eyes. He tips my chin up with his finger. “I love you.”

I stare into the face of the man who’s shown me time and time again how much he cares about me, in all the ways that matter. He’s seen me at my worst, and somehow, he still loves every messy part of me. Turns out, he really was the boy with the heart of gold all along.

“Yeah.” My voice cracks. “Yeah, I really love you too, Noah.”

And god, I fucking do.

He presses his forehead to mine as we walk awkwardly down the hill, our hips bumping into each other and breaths mingling. When he draws back, there’s a pink coloring his angular cheek that tells me he is up to no good.

“Actually, I have a surprise for you,” he admits with that adorably lopsided smile.

“Should I be scared?”

“I need you to trust me.” Clasping my hand firmly, he leads me to where our car waits at the base of the hill.

As we approach the Chevy, the front passenger door is wide open, the seat pulled down, and there are way more boxes than we’d originally packed. Like, an alarming amount of boxes. Enough to make me wonder if Noah has secretly been a hoarder all this time and is only now revealing his true colors.

I stop dead in my tracks, my mouth falling open as he proudly sweeps his arm towards the open door.

“Noah,” I breathe, my eyes welling up again. “You fucking didn’t.”

He grins, that panty dropping grin that makes my heart beat all over my skin. “I did.”

Nestled behind the folded down seat, sits several open boxes filled to bursting with cassettes and vinyl records. Shock roots me to the spot as I realize these are my dad’s. His entire precious music collection that my mom had pawned off months ago is now making its way back to me.

I do not fucking deserve this man.

“I—you—but... how?” I stammer out, reaching in with shaking hands and picking up a Marty Robbins cassette. My thumb swipes across the worn label staring back at me, the one with his signature wishbone drawn on the corner of it.

“Stephanie and I called every pawn shop in a hundred mile radius,” he explains. “We figured you deserved to have a piece of where you came from always with you. Something to keep playing and passing down. To kids or cats.”

I bite my lip to keep from jumping his bones right here in the middle of the cemetery. And because hearing Noah casually mention our hypothetical future offspring or owning a cat is making my mind go blank.

“You know—” I launch myself into his arms anyway, knocking him off balance as I pepper his face with kisses. He laughs, steadying us, his arms coming around me in a hug. “I think I might be your biggest fan too.”

Noah smiles at that, the black flecks in his eyes glowing warmer. “Well then...” His finger draws a tiny circle on my forehead, and a few smaller ones over my heart. “I think I’ve got you beat, fan.”

“Is that another bet, Noah Jackson?” My chin rises as I tilt my head back to meet his gaze head-on. “Because if you think you can get under my skin, you haven’t seen nothing yet.”

“Is that a challenge? Because if it is...” He trails off, smirk growing wider by the second. “I don’t lose a challenge.”

“Rule number five.”

Noah groans and flings his head back. “More rules? I think I broke rule one already.”

I fight to keep a straight face. “There will be no funny business, no talking, and hands off until you admit defeat.”

He leans in closer, that maddening smile never dimming. “Rule number six. Any talking, any funny business, any touching, and I WILL admit defeat. Gladly.”

“Is that because you know you won’t last ten minutes?”

“Maybe. Maybe.” He sighs heavily, a man facing sweet torture. “But with number six, if you touch me anywhere in this damn car, you know I’m going to go full throttle.”

My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my lips because now I want to lose. I want to feel his tongue against mine, hot and hungry and demanding. I want to taste every inch of his pale skin until I forget we have a place to be. I want whatever mystical, magical power he has over me to never stop consuming me whole.

I bite my lip harder, my eyes darting between his lips and his eyes. I always lose battles with Noah Jackson. I was destined for that the moment he came into Bellpond, but it wasn’t a bad thing. Sometimes losing has never felt so much like winning.

As we stand here, the heat of the sun on our skin, I make a decision.

Rule number seven... Sometimes, rules are made to be broken.

I grab Noah by the front of his faded tee and pull him flush against me, our lips smashing together like two asteroids in space. He’s all in, his fingers tangling in my hair as he backs me up against the side of the Chevy, the cold metal intense against the warmth of his body.

“Yeah, I’m going to break your rule as many times as I have to,” Noah says. He rests his hand above the car door, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he brings his head down, and pushes his lips against mine, his tongue slowly entering my mouth.

I taste the cinnamon gum he was chewing earlier, the faint hint of Coke from his last drink, and the underlying flavor that is pure Noah. They meet once, twice, and then I break contact.

Slowly, I raise myself up on my tip-toes, the gravel crunching beneath my boots, and bring my lips close to his ear. “Defeat.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get in the damn car before we never leave this town.”

We kiss once more as he reaches behind me to fold the seat upright. I perch on the edge, my legs dangling, and reluctantly tear my mouth away from his. He rests his forehead against mine one last time before he steps back to shut my door, the click of the latch deploying my anti-lady boner mantra, and I settle into the seat, kicking my boots off and propping my feet up on the dash.

I wiggle my toes inside my mismatched socks—one neon green, one purple with little UFOs—as I crack open the Pepsi that was indeed waiting for me in the cupholder. I pop my cassette into the tape deck, and press play to finish the song where I’d left off.

Beside me, Noah slides behind the wheel and clips his seatbelt, the torn denim of his jeans stretching across his thighs already making me want to break rule five.

I resist, happy with the way our hands find each other, our fingers twining together like ivy vines. This doesn’t count as breaking the rules, right? It’s more of a loophole, really.

“You sure you won’t miss this town even a tiny bit?” Noah teases as I rewind the last song. “Not even gonna miss trouncing me at bowling?”

I roll my eyes and pull my hair out of my face. “The only part of you I wanna see trounced right now is your ass out the car door if you don’t step on it, Jackson.” I squeeze his hand. “Now let’s motor already!”

Noah’s jaw drops in mock affront. “Yes, admiral bossypants.” That glittering sideways smile of his gives him away as he throws Kevin into gear.

God, I’m so ready for this. I can’t wait to keep traveling the world with him, because no matter how many miles we cover or how many state lines we cross, there’s one thing that will always stay constant—and that’s me loving him.

No matter what rules we make or break along the way, that’s the one thing I’ll always know. That’s the only rule that matters.

Gravel spits out from beneath our tires as we lurch out of the cemetery, my startled laughter mixing with Ann Wilson’s powerhouse vocals blaring through the busted speakers. I stick my hand out the open window, spreading my fingers wide like I can actually touch our future.

I sing along at the top of my lungs, not caring how bad I am or how many curious stares we attract from the old Bellpondians out watering their begonias. Noah keeps one hand on the wheel at twelve-o-clock as he steers us north down rural routes lined with tall oaks. More fields of trees and cow pastures blur past in the side mirrors as we tear down the main road, peeling the speed limit sticker off in tiny pieces, and the wind blows in the scent of honeysuckle and cut grass through the windows as we say goodbye to Bellpond.

There’s no rearview mirror required. Everything I need sits beside me, pelting me with Red Vines from the bag between us as we laugh away eighteen years of small town life. Just a couple of crazy, dream chasing kids—the biggest fans of all.

I might have lost every battle, but I totally won the fucking war.

1993

THE NEEDLE BUZZES AGAINST my skin, leaving behind a trail of black ink that forms the shape of a wishbone on my forearm. I grind my molars against the burn, focusing on the latest Smashing Pumpkins pumping through my headphones as I lean back in my chair.

Something I’ve learned while apprenticing is that tattooing yourself is a whole lot fucking easier than other skin. You never know how deep you’re going since you can’t feel that burn.

The wishbone looks perfect among the other hodgepodge of memories now covering my arm—reminders of where we are, where we’ve been, drunk dares, and every step of the journey that’s taking me to where I’m going. Mostly they’re all for her.

This one’s different though. It’s not the stick-and-poke lightning strike behind my elbow someone gave me at a party, the heads-up penny, or the half-finished skull that forms the body of a moth on my shoulder blade. No, this one’s all about Roxy and me.

It’s the luck that brought us together, the break we caught, all the times we crashed on someone’s floor when we were too broke for a motel. It’s the taste of her lipstick and the sting of my strings after an all-night jam session. Most of all, it’s that night in Bellpond when I chose her over everything else.

I peel off my headphones and let them hang around my neck as I grab for the antiseptic. The apartment’s quiet, save for some asshole leaning on his horn outside our wrought iron windows and the constant drip-drip-drip of our busted kitchen faucet we keep swearing we’ll fix.

A short quiet when the ring of the phone blasts off beside me in a way that reminds me of a brick being thrown through a damn record store.

“Yo, this is Noah,” I answer, wedging the receiver between my ear and shoulder.

“Did you know that the first radio broadcast of a musical composition was in 1906?” Stephanie’s voice crackles through the line, that excited tone telling me I’m in for one of her tangents.

I laugh, shaking my head as I dab at the raw skin. “Well, good fucking morning to you too. Did you snort a line of Folgers or what?”

“I’m serious! I’m doing this paper on radio history, and it’s wild. Like, did you know—”

“Steph,” I cut in, tearing off a strip of paper towel with my teeth. “As much as I’d love a lecture on old DJs at—” I squint at our busted Ninja Turtles wall clock “—holy shit, 10 AM on a Tuesday?”

There’s a pause. “Uh, yeah. Shouldn’t you be at the station right now? For that interview?”

My stomach drops, and I knock over the ink cap, black splattering across the bar counter. “Fuck. That’s today?”

“Ooh,” she coos. “Roxy’s gonna kill you.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, using my free hand to mop up the spill.

“Actually, before you go,” Steph interrupts my panic, “I’ve got one hell of a bone to pick with you.”

“What do you mean?” I grip the edge of the Saran Wrap with my teeth, stretching it over the tender skin.

“When were you going to tell me Principal Phillips and my mom are dating ?”

“Ah... So they finally told you,” I say, wincing as she starts to screech into the phone.

“Finally? FINALLY? You knew about this cosmic anomaly for how long and didn’t tell me? I’m wounded, Noah. Wounded!”

He’d told me on our weekly check-in, as punctual as always. This time, instead of the usual small talk, the old man had dropped a fucking bomb. He sounded nervous and it reminded me of the way he used to clear his throat before addressing the school assembly. Now, thinking back on all his flimsy excuses—the mysterious “errands,” the vague “dinner with a friend”—I want to laugh. The old man had been sneaking around like a teenager with his first crush.

“I knew he was seeing someone for a while. Never knew who until recently,” I admit, tossing the used needles into the trash. If banging my girlfriend’s best friend’s mom gave him a new lease on life, more power to him. I’m just glad to finally know who the side-babe was.

“And you didn’t think to investigate? Some friend you are.”

“Phillips told me, but he said your mom wanted to break the news herself. I was sworn to secrecy.”

“Now you’re taking orders? What happened to sticking it to the man?”

I snort, unplugging the power supply. “Pretty sure ‘the man’ doesn’t make homemade lasagna and let you crash on his couch when you have nowhere else to go.”

“The point is,” Stephanie dismisses, “my mom is dating our high school principal. Our principal . The guy who confiscated my ‘Question Authority’ buttons. Twice!”

“To be fair, you were handing them out during his Earth Day speech.”

“It was relevant commentary!”

I laugh, tossing the rest of my mess into the trash. “Look, I know it’s weird—”

“Weird? This is beyond weird. This is like... finding out Darth Vader does hot yoga.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. It’s comforting to know that even with all the changes—us 1000 miles away, her at Boston University—some things stay the same.

“—and now I have to go home for the weekend and pretend it’s totally normal that Principal Phillips is buttering my mom’s muffin!”

I nearly choke. “Fucking hell, Steph.”

“Too much?”

“A tad,” I mutter, coiling up the cord of my tattoo machine. “I get it’s a shock, but Philly is a good guy. And if he makes your mom happy...”

There’s a pause, then a heavy sigh. “I know, I know.”

“You should look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?”

“You can finally ask him what they put in the schools meatloaf.”

Stephanie gasps dramatically. “Noah Jackson, you beautiful genius.”

I laugh, looking up at the clock again. “Fuck. The interview. Steph, I really gotta jet.”

“Go, go!” she urges. “Don’t forget to bring Roxy a Cherry Pepsi. It might save your life.”

I grin, picturing her face when I roll in late but bearing her favorite peace offering. “You’re the beautiful genius. I owe you one.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t mess this up, alright? This could be your big break.”

“When have I ever fucked up?” I ask, then wince as I hear her inhale, ready to list off every screw-up since '90. “On second thought, don’t answer that. Later, nerd.”

The line goes dead, and my eyes drift to the clock on the wall and—

“Shit!”

I bolt upright, sending my chair backward and almost knocking over our jury-rigged lamp—the one we rescued from a yard sale and swore we’d fix. Add it to the list, right under that goddamn faucet.

Fuck . It’s almost noon. How the hell did I lose track of time?

Roxy isn’t just gonna murder me. She’s gonna resurrect me and kill me again.

I spring into action, yanking my shirt over my head as I stumble toward the bathroom. The floorboards squeal like dying pigs under my bare feet, and I narrowly avoid tripping over Roxy’s bass drum in the hallway.

“Sorry, sorry,” I whisper, giving the drum a gentle pat as I pass. Christ, she’s rubbing off on me. Next thing you know, I’ll be naming my guitar and writing it love poems.

The bathroom mirror greets me with my own frantic reflection, and let me tell you, it ain’t pretty. My hair is a disaster, curls sticking up in every direction like I’ve been fucking electrocuted. Dark circles ring my eyes from staying up till ass o’clock working on a commission piece for an underground art show next week.

This one’s a giant wood piece splashed with blues, reds, and greens from aerosol cans—Seattle’s skyline reimagined as if the city decided to melt into the sound. Roxy says it looks like a bad acid trip, which I’m taking as a compliment.

I splash some cold water on my face, trying to shock my brain into gear. As I reach for a towel, my gaze catches on the Polaroid tucked into the corner of the mirror frame.

It’s me and Roxy on our fourth night after we left Bellpond, grinning as if we’d pulled off the heist of the century in front of that “Welcome to Seattle” sign. We look so damn tiny, both of us full of hope and a whole lot of fear. My heart raced that night as I took her to the pier, watching her face fall at her first glimpse of the ocean. We had no clue what we were doing, but man, I was right fucking where I was supposed to be.

Two years later, and that feeling has only gotten stronger.

I dry my face and run a hand through my hair. There’s no hope of taming it now, but Roxy says it makes me look like a rock star anyway so I’ll take it.

Speaking of rock stars...

“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck.” I sprint to the bedroom. I’m so damn late. How could I let myself space on this interview?

I yank open the closet door, rifling through hangers until I find a clean flannel shirt. It’ll have to do. I pull it on, leaving it unbuttoned over a white tee as I hop around trying to pull on my jeans.

My eyes land on the leather jacket hanging on the back of the door. Roxy’s dad’s jacket. The one she gave me last Christmas, the sun in her eyes as she told me I was her family now and he’d want me to have it. And because she said it would make me look like a “sexy, brooding vampire.”

Whatever baby wants, baby gets.

I grab it, shrugging it on as I stare at the beautiful disaster of our bedroom. Piles of vinyl threaten to topple over because my girlfriend has a serious problem with impulse-buying records every time we pass a garage sale or thrift store.

Girlfriend . Goddamn that word doesn’t get old.

Her mess is mingling with my sketchbooks and half-finished canvases leaning up against the brick wall, and a pair of Roxy’s drumsticks peek out from under the bed because we’d used them as chopsticks last night when we couldn’t find any clean utensils. Maybe if I do the dishes tonight and swear to tuck her in to The Lost Boys , she’ll be less pissed with me.

My gaze lifts to the calendar tacked to the wall while I adjust my collar, and I’m hit with another jolt of panic. Shit. Daniel’s coming up from LA next week. I’d totally spaced on that too.

I rush forward, snagging my wallet and keys from the nightstand, and trip over a blur of gray fur that darts between my legs.

“Whoa there, Dio.” I laugh, scooping up our mangy tom cat. His one blue eye and one green eye glare at me, as if to say, “you’re late, and you haven’t fed me yet, useless human.”

We’d found him scrounging in the dumpster behind our apartment a few months back, looking like he’d been through nine lives and was working on his tenth. Roxy insisted on bringing him inside, naming him after her musical idol. Now he rules our apartment like the glam rock king he is.

I give Dio a quick scratch behind the ears before setting him down on the bed. “In your dreams. I fed you twice today already.”

He meows indignantly as I lock the front door, rattling the “Beware of Dog” sign we put up as a joke, and take the metal stairs two at a time, almost wiping out at the bottom as I burst out into the alley. That cat is probably plotting to knock over every glass in the apartment as revenge.

My bike waits for me, loyal as ever. It’s the same one I’ve had for four years now, only now I’ve slapped some band stickers on it. One day I'll be getting that damn upgrade I deserve.

I swing my leg over, kick it to life, and peel out onto the wet road from leftover rain, zipping through traffic while the Seattle air cools my lungs with damp concrete and seaweed.

The radio station is two streets down, sandwiched between a record store and a coffee shop, and once it comes into view I already see a figure pacing in front of the doors waiting to bring me to my doom.

I skid to a stop, killing the engine as Roxy stalks toward me, fire in her eyes and that little furrow between her brows that I find so adorably terrifying.

“Noah fucking Jackson,” she seethes, jabbing a finger into my chest. Her red-streaked hair whips around her face like angry snakes. “You are so late that I was about to send out a search party. Or file a missing persons report. Or both.”

I can’t help it. I grin, grabbing her hand and pulling her close, all that Seattle air replaced with the vanilla cream candle she lit last night that’s still on her skin. “Missed you too, sunshine.”

She drops her hands to her thighs and tries to breathe without laughing. A little huff of one escapes her anyway. “Don’t you ‘sunshine’ me. And don’t smile at me like that either, because all that’ll happen is I’ll smile right back at you, god damn it, and I’m still mad—”

Smiling like an idiot, I cut her off with a trail of kisses—forehead, nose, lips, chin—pouring all my love and apology into it. My hand finds its way to the small of her back, fingers tracing the outline of the aggrogoth heart with stylized flames spreading from her spine that I tattooed there three months ago

I break away and run my nose along the crook of her neck. “I’m sorry I’m late,” I whisper into her ear.

Her cheeks are my favorite shade of red when I pull back, and that furrow has smoothed out like magic.

“Stop apologizing like this. It’s not good for my blood pressure.”

“Don’t I just love your blood pressure?” I brush back her hair, the pad of my thumb grazing up and down her neck. Damn, I can’t wait to get my hands on her later, right under our sheets where we sleep together every night.“You’re too cute when you get angry. My heart can’t take it.”

“You’re still in trouble.” She sighs, letting her shoulders slump down when she does. “And you’re going to have to make this right with ice cream or beer.”

“The two cornerstones of our diet.” I bring her in by her neck to press another quick kiss to her lips. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Did you at least feed his majesty before you left?” she asks, brushing cat hair off my shoulder.

I nod. “Twice. But I think he’s developing a taste for designer clothes. Might want to hide those Doc Martens when we get home.”

“Great. We’ll be going broke supporting his Gucci habit.” She rolls her eyes, grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the station doors. “Come on, rock star. We’ve got a show to do.”

It had started as a pipe dream, really. Late one night, sprawled on our mattress on the floor of our apartment, surrounded by open boxes and empty pizza cartons while listening to the music on the local stations.

“We should start our own radio station,” Roxy had said, her eyes gleaming with that want I can never resist. She was wearing my old Misfits t-shirt that was two sizes too big on her and had a smudge of pizza sauce on her chin.

I’d laughed, thinking she was joking. Then I saw the determination in her face when she realized how many stations play the same Top 40 shit over and over again, and I knew.

This was happening.

We’d scraped together every penny and begged favors from everyone we knew. Somehow, we’d done it. Our little pirate radio station, “Wishbone Radio,” has grown from a converted storage closet into something real. Something ours.

We’ve got actual equipment now, and we’re making waves in the local scene.

Most say living and working 24/7 with the person you love is bound to drive you mad, and there are certainly days when one of us is cranky enough to set the other off, but after years of feeling alone in a crowd, we don’t want to spend another second without one another.

Watching Roxy in her element, headphones on, fingers dancing over the soundboard as she introduces the next up-and-coming grunge band she’s discovered... those moments especially make it all worth it. She’s got this way of talking about music that makes you feel like you’re hearing it for the first time, even if it’s a song you’ve known all your life.

We’ve become the go-to station for local bands looking for their big break. Sometimes musicians even crash on our couch, and we host impromptu jam sessions that turn into all-night parties, with the neighbors banging on the walls and threatening to call the cops.

It’s not all rock 'n' roll glory. There are late nights when we’re both exhausted, running on nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Days when we wonder if we’re crazy for thinking we could pull this off. Moments when the bills pile up and we’re eating ramen for the fifth night in a row.

Then we’ll get a call from a listener telling us how much our station means to them, or a local band will stop by with beers to thank us for playing their music, and it all feels worth it again.

A scrappy radio station, a temperamental cat, and the girl of my dreams. It’s the life I didn’t know I needed.

The “On Air” sign is off as we burst into the station, and I skid into the studio, spotting Ian lounging in one of the guest chairs, twirling a drumstick between his fingers like no time has passed at all.

“That’s cool and all, but can you do that with a hot dog?” I ask, and he looks up, grinning that same shit-eating grin I remember from a lifetime ago in Bellpond.

“Holy shit. Look what the cat dragged in.”

Yeah, if only Dio had a say about that.

I laugh, clasping his hand in a quick shake that turns into a one-armed hug. “Good to see you, man.”

As we settle into our seats, Roxy leans into her mic, that spark in her eye that I fell in love with all those years ago. “Alright, listeners, we’ve got a real treat for you today. The one, the only, Iron Fillings!”

Ian leans forward, grinning. “Aw, come on Roxy. Is that any way to introduce old friends?”

“Old pains in my ass, more like,” she quips, but she’s smiling.

I swivel in my chair, pushing the hair out of my eyes. “Now, now, play nice you two. We’re professionals here.”

“Speak for yourself, Jackson,” Ian retorts. “Some of us are still rock stars.”

Roxy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Mr. Big Shot. Why don’t you tell our listeners how this whole crazy story started?”

Ian’s eyes light up. “You mean how lover boy here used to be one of us?”

“That’s ancient history,” I protest, but I’m grinning.

“Hold up, hold up. You can’t start this interview without the whole story.” He turns to the mic with a mischievous glint. “The fans want to know how our story got started? Well... this one here,” he jerks a thumb at me, “he used to be our singer. Part of the winning lineup, even.”

I clear my throat, heat building under my shirt. “You see—”

Ian jumps in again, clearly enjoying this. “Our boy Noah here had to make a choice. Come with us and chase the rock star dream, or…”

Roxy snaps her fingers, but there’s affection there. “Yeah, yeah, we all know the tale.”

I grin, remembering that night. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good love story.”

Ian points down at the mic. “But do your listeners know the whole story? Like how Noah here negotiated to take all the prize money instead of the record deal?”

Roxy’s smile turns softer, mossy eyes meeting mine. “Yeah, that part I definitely remember.”

I clear my throat, starting to feel sheepish under this spotlight. “Well, when you know what you want...”

“Or who you want,” Roxy adds, her hand finding mine under the table.

Ian laughs, shaking his head. “And that, folks, is how Wishbone Radio got its start. One lovesick fool and a girl with big dreams.”

I squeeze Roxy’s hand, marveling once again at how far we’ve come. “You know,” I start, leaning into my own mic, “I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.”

Roxy’s eyes meet mine, soft and full of love. “Even the part where I dumped a Coke on your head?”

“Especially that part,” I reply. “It was the sweetest shower I’ve ever had.”

Ian groans, running a hand through his even longer blonde hair. “God, you two are sickeningly sweet.”

Roxy laughs, that bright, infectious sound that still to this day makes my heart skip a beat. “Alright, Iron Fillings. Hit us with your best shot. Let’s see if you still have that Bellpond magic.”

Their newest single starts to play, and suddenly the studio’s alive with a sound that’s pure Seattle—gritty and raw, like Soundgarden and Alice in Chains had a love child. My eyes find Roxy’s, and when the music swells, filling our studio, I’m hit with that feeling again.

You know the one—when a perfect riff hooks you by the gut, when a melody wraps around your soul like a long-lost friend. It’s all about the way a song can pause a moment in time and make it last forever, or bring you right back to it.

We’re never just playing songs here—we’re curating experiences and crafting the soundtrack to people’s lives.

Roxy’s got that look in her eyes, the one that says she’s riding the same wavelength as me. Her fingers twitch over the controls, fine-tuning, perfecting, and then her face brightens in the way it does when she hears something special. And when she turns to me with that “Are you hearing this?” look, it strikes me how some people spend their whole lives searching for the perfect harmony. I found mine in the girl from across the pond, who went from spite and revenge to blooming into a melody that makes my heart scream.

Our eyes lock, and I know she’s feeling it too. This thing between us, it’s more than love—it’s a shared obsession, a mutual madness for the music that brought us together and keeps us going strong. We both feel it every day, whether we’re discovering a new band at some club, when a bassline hits just right and demands we dance like idiots in our underwear at 3 AM, or pulling an all-nighter to perfect our playlist for the morning show.

I used to think life starts with a kiss, but I think it starts with music.

Her laugh is that catchy verse you get stuck in your head and sing along to, her smile’s the chorus that hits you right in the feels every damn time. The way she bites her lip when she’s fiddling with the soundboard is the bridge that ties it all together, making you realize you’re listening to something special.

I thought I knew music before—I could recite lyrics, debate obscure B-sides, and air-guitar with the best of them. But loving Roxy has taught me to see the music in everything. In the way she moves, in the cadence of her laugh, in the silent moments between breaths—it's all part of this incredible song.

Her moods are as varied as flipping through radio stations. Sometimes she’s soft acoustic, other times she’s thrashing punk. Our quiet moments when we’re both too wired to sleep but too tired to talk, are those perfect pauses in a song, the ones that make your hands clench because you know something awesome is coming.

When we’re in sync, working the booth or hanging out on our couch, that’s when we hit that sweet spot—the other half of my soul's duet.

Yeah, Roxy’s my favorite fucking song. I plan on playing her on repeat for the rest of my life.

Both her fingers move for the controls and my hand falls to her knee, watching her adjust levels and thumbs up Ian. She’s in her element here, shaping the music that flows through our little station and out into the world.

Ian and the gang are killing it, too. Their second album drops soon and they’re touring with Pulvertongue this spring. Letting us take their first interview and play their newest song first could be life-changing for Wishbone Radio.

My attention hasn’t left Roxy and she catches me staring. Quickly, she grabs her headphones and tosses them to me.

I slip them on, and bam! I’m drop-kicked into an ocean of sound she created. Every note vibrates through me, from my toes to the tips of my ears. This is our lifeblood. It’s what brought us together, what keeps us going when the bills pile up and the equipment breaks down for the millionth time.

As the song hits its peak, Roxy leans in close. She lifts one side of the headphones, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, “Still think you made the right choice, rock star?” Her words dance between the notes, a melody all their own.

I squeeze at her knee and my smile unfurls like a flower reaching for her sun. “Every damn day, sunshine. You’re the best song I’ve ever heard.”

With the guitars wailing between us, I know— I fucking know —every chord, every lyric, every beat of my heart, it’s all part of our song. And our set is far from over.

That’s the great thing about music, it lives on, evolving, growing, and touching lives in ways you never expected.We’ll play together with the volume cranked up to eleven and our hearts beating in perfect time, ready to keep going till the house lights come up. Even then, we’ll find a way to keep the music going. Always.

After all, the best songs never truly end—they just find new ways to begin again.