Page 40 of Knot Just A Fan

“Ha ha. My back, you tosser.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

A knock on the door comes as the coffee machine whirs away. I open it and let Ronan and Ash in.

“About time you’re up, there, chap. We need to go over the encore choices. I’m feeling like we should switch the final song out. Make it more of a crowd-pleaser than the new song you lot have chosen. No one wants a new song as their final memory of a show.”

“What if I do?” I mumble before sipping the coffee and dumping more milk in. I miss American creamer. One of the fewdelicaciesfrom the US I prefer. If I’m having a latte, yes, give me milk all the way. But if it’s a regular old filter or pod coffee, I need creamer to hide the cheap, burnt flavor.

I pull a face and Enzo waves and grins. “Oh, hello, Gray! You’re alive! Glad to see caffeine has brought you back to us.”

I flip him two fingers and then take a seat opposite him. There’s a sofa between the two chairs that Ash and Ronan drop into. Ash sits, back straight, with a tablet on his lap and a notebook beneath it, but Ronan slumps down, man-spreading,thumbs literally twiddling on his lap. He doesn’t make eye contact.

“You guys, we can’t. We need to sort this out.” I stare at Ronan until he looks up.

Finally, he looks at me, blinks a few times, then looks away again. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“Ugh. I pinched a nerve in my shoulder.”

Ash groans and tsks. “I told you to get a rolling case for your carry-on.”

“I’ve used this rucksack since I was eighteen. We’ve shared a lot of memories.”

“You’re so ritualistic,” Enzo remarks. “Must be what makes you such a dreamy rock star.” He bats his disgustingly long, dark lashes at me. I stick my tongue out and he blows an air-kiss.

“Knock it off, ass-clowns,” says Ash. He looks up from his tablet. “Okay, I’ve got it. SwitchTomorrow NightandTele-healthso the new tune is at the end of the regular set andTomorrowcloses the encore.”

“Hmm. That works,” Enzo says.

Ronan nods.

Out-ruled. I am the band leader, but I don’t push it. All I can think about is the shooting pain that’s holding the right side of my neck and right shoulder blade hostage. Even a deep inhale is agony.

Ash watches me then reaches for his backpack, pulls out a bottle, and tosses it to me. I take out two Ibuprofens and hand it back.

“Take two more of those just before, and if that’s not helping it, take a damn muscle relaxant tonight. You can’t be starting out like this.”

I know it’s not just standing around with a heavy rucksack on my back, or the plane seats that are always too small for my shoulders, which are fairly wide for my frame.

It’s seeing Willow in two hours. And not being able to tell her we’ve met our match. Because I have committed us all to officially offering her a place in this pack. And knowing, with utmost regret and anxiety and something bordering on self-loathing, that I did so without discussing it with my pack mates at the time.

Sure, we were a new pack. We were a new band. But we’d been so full of zeal and that youthful illusion of invincibility that any decision we made would a) work out, or b) comewithan out.

There’s no out when you have a moral code that saysnever break a promise,and then you make a promise on someone else’s behalf.

“I’ve missed you,” Willow breathes into my ear. Her arms slide around my back as she leans in close for a kiss. This woman I grew up with, this woman I shared childhood dreams with, then awkward teenage fumblings with, then in my twenties, gave a lifelong promise to—she’s here. Standing in my space, here to claim what’s rightfully hers.

“You should’ve seen us in LA.” Why is this what comes out of my mouth? Beforeanythingelse?

Willow pulls away. Quickly, I lean in and plant a kiss on her made-up cheek. She smiles, pink lips wide, but not wide enough to reach her eyes. I take her hands in mine, forcing myself to retrieve memories and feelings I haven’t lived in for years.

“Look at you,” I say softly. We’re standing in the hotel lobby near the bar, the guys upstairs in their rooms getting ready. I told Ash to be in the lobby but allow us privacy, just in case I need a quick out. He understood, but I’m not sure he approved.

Actually, I’m sure hedidn’t.

But I take my advice. I look at Willow. She looks different.

For one, she’s wearing heels, which she never did when we were younger. The only time I remember her wearing them was a family wedding she begged me to attend. Her hair, a dark blonde usually, is threaded with warmer tones. Her haircut looks expensive, as do her nails, which aren’t her own.

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