Page 103 of Hope & Harmony

Bennett swept the room with his gaze. Long faces, some angry ones too, but the latter were outnumbered by understanding expressions and nods of commiseration.

“We need to slow down,” Gino said. “We need to go at a pace that makes sense for us.” Then lowered the hammer. “So we can go out on top.”

Eyes grew wide and hands shot up, the earlier reporter getting in the first, most obvious, question. “Are you saying this is a farewell tour?”

“I think if someone wants to see Middle Cut, they should do it this tour.”

Internally, Bennett cringed just thinking about the secondary market price for tickets.

“To that end,” Gino said, “Gavin has some new ticket opportunities to tell you about. Thanks for your time today.”With that, Gino tugged him up by the hand, and they exited the stage while Gavin explained they would be adding more fan club tickets, plus lottery seats and passes at each remaining show. Those were Gino’s stipulations, and Bennett didn’t disagree.

Same as he hadn’t disagreed with informing the rest of the band first, none of whom had stuck around for the press conference. Bennett wasn’t surprised. “Do you think they’ll stick with us through the tour?” he asked when he and Gino found a quiet hallway.

“I hope so,” he said. “It’s not what any of us expected, but it will do us all good to remember what we love about making music.”

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it, G. This is my fault.”

Gino drew him closer, pushing up his sunglasses so he could meet his eyes, surely seeing the misery Bennett couldn’t hide. He skated a thumb beneath his left one, catching the tear before it fell. “We’ve been going a hundred miles an hour since we broke through. Thank you for being the one who recognized we need to slow down. To remember what we love about it.”

He dropped his forehead onto Gino’s shoulder. “I hope you still feel that way when the shitposting starts on social media.”

Gino’s big hand on the back of his neck was as warm and comforting as his “Fuck ’em.” He squeezed and drew him closer. “We’ve earned the right to do things our way.”

CHAPTER 4

Gino couldn’t say how long he’d been sitting behind the hotel bar piano when Roscoe slid onto the bench beside him. He reeked of booze and sweat, his flannel and undershirt drenched, his mop of hair wet, but his eyes were sharp and assessing. “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” he asked, specks of glitter shining on the leftover knot of his nose, the bridge broken numerous times over. “Big day tomorrow.”

Gino tossed his pen atop the sheet music he’d been scribbling on and shifted sideways, giving his drummer a glaring once-over that was likely belied by the laughter in his voice. “And where areyoujust getting in from?”

“Maybe I was already here,” he drawled in his honeyed Southern accent. “Maybe I just came downstairs to check onyou.” He dragged a hand through his damp hair, depositing more glitter where it didn’t belong, and Gino lost the battle to his laughter.

“Ormaybeyou forgot your room key when you went to the rooftop club and came down to the lobby to get a replacement.” And maybe Gino had insisted on staying inthishotel because said club was on the premises, and Roscoe couldn’t end up somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be the night before their firstshow and cause Bennett to spend all day tomorrow searching for him.

Not the meditation Britt had recommended before each show.

“How’s Bennett?” Roscoe asked, uncannily reading the direction of his thoughts.

Gino shifted forward again, fingers resting atop the keys. While he preferred to perform with the bass, he had always composed best at the piano. “Asleep,” he said as he struck up the melody that had chased him out of bed.

“I’m sure he’d prefer you be there with him.”

Maybe? They’d had six weeks to negotiate a shortened, stripped-down tour, to get used to the new setup and set lists, to adjust Bennett’s meds, and to meet with Trish, the couple’s therapist Britt had referred them to. That last one had finally happened the day before yesterday, and it had wrung them both out, leaving them tender and tentative with each other.

“Should we be worried?” Roscoe asked. “We—you guys—are clearly making some big changes.”

“We’re working on it.”

“For what it’s worth, he’s looked better during rehearsals.”

Gino had noticed that too. Bennett’s easy manner with the acoustic guitar, the easier time he had moving around the less cluttered stage, the easier set of his shoulders and easier breaths that led to the deeper, richer tone of his voice. Clear signs Bennett felt better about the direction of things. But what about the rest of the band? Was it easier on them too, beyond telling Gino what he wanted to hear? “How’s the rest of the band doing? With the acoustics and the farewell of it all?” While Roscoe was their wildest, most unpredictable bandmate, he was their drummer, the keeper of the rhythm, the glue that held Middle Cut together.

“Surprised, bummed, but excited for this tour. It’s fun to change things up. For me, it’s the first time playing a full tour acoustic. I got off the ice, plugged in, and here I am.” He wiped his hands together in a that-was-that gesture, more glitter raining between them. Roscoe was a musical and athletic prodigy, the latter taking him to the NHL, the former offering a second career after the first was cut short by injury.

“Do you think you’ll do more acoustic stuff after this tour? It’s what caught mine and Bennett’s attention about you in the first place.”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “I’m gonna spend some time at the cabin in Asheville, then maybe see what gigs I can pick up between there and Nashville.”

“You know you can write your ticket anywhere.” Gino clasped his shoulder. “Any band would be lucky to have you.”

---