Page 42 of Knot Just A Fan

Ash shakes his head and sets his decoy paper down. “Mate, I’ve said this before and it bears repeating. Willow has a whole world up there in Scotland. You have a whole world with the band—across the whole world. You both could’ve made it work if you’d wanted to. You both have the means. It’s been eight years. Why do you think it is that she’s still there and you’ve not visited her, either?”

I want to scowl at Ash’s intensely raised brow and his stupid pointy beard that looks like a cross between a comedy Viking and an evil satyr. But he’s right.

So how do I let go of the moral code that’s been a driving force for most of my life? Why do I feel like Briella could answer that for me?

Having managed to put a pause on any bedroom antics with Willow by way of explaining my pinched nerve, I’ve managed to make myself even more anxious by wondering if she’s going to ignore my comments about my post-show need for bed.

But I also am aware how I’ve been wallowing in my worries and playing the role of the worst pack leader in history. And that, I think—as I look at Ronan on my left and Enzo on my right,waiting for the cue to head out to face the screaming crowd—stops now.

Willow stands with Ash behind us, a drink in her hand, bouncing on her toes and giving the occasional excited squeal. I wish I was delighted by her presence, but with my range of motion in my right arm fucked, the knowledge that every gig’s promoter has their eagle-eyes on our every move tonight, and the fear that Briella could be live-streaming this from home, still trying to understand why we let her go, all I can do is step away from my band mates, take Willow by the elbow, and pull her to the corner.

“Gray, whatever you’ve gotta say, say it fast. You’re out in fifteen,” shouts Ash.

I ignore this.

“Kiss for luck!” Willow says. She’s wearing the highest heels I’ve ever seen so doesn’t need to stand on tip-toe to plant a kiss on my lips. I don’t kiss back. I look in her eyes, the crowd chanting our band name in wild abandon now.

“Willow, I need more than luck. I need your answer. We need to know—if you’re with us, or not. We can’t wait another year. It will break up the pack—the band. All of us want a family, and if that’s not in your diary, I think we have a right to that information.”

I fucked things up with her. I can’t deny this one second longer. I say so.

“I should have asked for a date, a deadline, years ago. We never talk about it. It’s always the same: I invite you to come, you have a reason not to. We’re on different paths. And that’s fine. I just need to know.”

And please, please let the answer beno. Because I can’t tell her we have a scent-match. She’ll think that’s the only reason I’m asking for a decision.

The stage lights come up, and with them, an even more crazed roar. Ash shouts, “Go! Gray, get out there!”

Ronan and Enzo are already on their way, Enzo hopping behind the drums, sticks in hand, and Ronan slipping his Fender Jazz over his head with ease. He turns around to face Enzo, and this is the point I should already be cradling the mic like a glass of French wine between my hands.

I look back at Willow. Her eyes are wide, and then narrowed. The pretty pout is gone, and so is the bounce.

“You’re pulling back on your pack invitation, just like that? Before going out on stage? What the fuck, Gray?” she yells. Ash is staring at us but I block it out.

This is also new. Willow and I never fought. And maybe that should’ve been a sign.

“I’m not retracting it. I’m asking if youwantit. That’s a simple yes-no, and I desperately want that answer.”

Her eyes dart between mine and with shock, I sense complete disgust in them. Disgust for wanting to know whether she wants us or not.

“Look,” I say. “You’ve never shown any interest in making it happen. Not until now.” My voice is as level as I can make it. The pain in my shoulder seems to grow with each passing second.

Enzo has started a prescriptive drum roll, inviting the crowd’s screams of anticipation for my appearance.

“Willow, you will always have my love. But my promise—I made it when we werechildren. And childhood has an expiration date.”

Willow’s arms fall like weights to her side. Drink sloshes from her tilted glass. The look of stunned disbelief twists my stomach so I place a hand gently but firmly on her shoulder.

“We can talk after. I needed to ask for your answer. One last time.”

Maybe Willow was my own Plan B.

Maybe I’ve been too afraid to be rejected by someone who didn’t grow up sharing lunches or being placed together in study groups. Someone I have to discover all on my own.

The surprise of this sudden notion punches me in the gut. I open my mouth, but nothing else comes out. I spin around and head out on stage, and the crowd cheers like a Champagne bottle exploding. They’re at a fever pitch.

As I sling my guitar around my neck and put on my stage smile for the crowd, waving a hand, I catch Ash in the wings, wiping sweat from his brow and a relieved and grateful smile.

To the crowd it looks like this was premeditated, and not the relationship shit-show that it is.

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