Page 90 of Knot Just A Fan

Grayson clears his throat. I wish I could see him when he says, “Briella, I hope you’re listening. I want you to know—andeveryone who enjoys this song—that all proceeds of the single will be donated directly to the charity that Arcadia Echo has officially initiated today called Justice for Justines.”

My jaw drops open and Cami gasps over the phone.

The DJ jumps right in. “And what is that, Grayson?”

“It’s a charity that will provide healthcare to non-Guild, low-income Omegas—supporting physical and mental well-being, medications, and treatments.”

“That’s absolutely wonderful, and it’s about damn time,” says the DJ. A round of applause goes up from whoever else is in the sound booth.

“Indeed. And I’d like to say one more thing,” Gray adds. “The twists and turns in a relationship can make for a more solid path to press forward on. Sometimes, it’s what’s necessary to connect all the dots and clear out what you don’t need to make space for what you can’t live without. Goodnight, listeners. Come to our show!”

I sit in the window after a day on the blustery Devon moors, shooting the moodiest collection of landscape photos I’ve ever had the pleasure of getting lost in.

Afterwards, I came in for a much-needed shower. My hair was so tangled I thought I’d have to cut it all off. Note to self: never forget a hat again.

And then the knock on the door comes. I open it to Ronan, Enzo, and Gray who pile into the front room. We stand there staring at each other until all three grab me in a hug. Cheeks bump and arms grip me and I feel in the center of a cyclone of love and companionship and understanding and security that I never dreamed would be mine.

We’ve been messaging for the past day. They were in London for two days around their big show there, and I invited down here. Because we started something we need to pick back up.

And after all, they needed to see the closest thing to a proper nest I have ever attempted.

Without a word about what’s passed between us—the texts over the last twenty-four hours more than covered that—this feels more like the confirmation I need. Not words likeI’m sorry, I understand, I forgive you, I forgive myself, I am so grateful.That’s all pre-requisite to this: being in this cottage by the sea that I’ve made my own for as long as I’m here, and for once, they have come to me.

There’s no gig. No promotional stop. No autograph signing to attend, no DJ set to play.

Just me.

I herd them into the bedroom—the largest room in the cottage—and Enzo just about skips to the window that’s open to the stormy evening. Sun might’ve set but it’s hard to tell with the sky resembling a bruised plum.

“This salt air—God, it’s years since I’ve been down this way,” says Grayson, leaning against the wide window with both hands, looking out. I move to stand between him and Enzo, and feel Ronan behind me, his hands tentatively find a spot on my hips.

I cover one with my own hand and his chin rests on my shoulder. The slightly stinging spray of sea air hits our faces, and we all take one giant inhale at once.

“God above, that is good shit,” Ronan says. Enzo laughs and slaps him on the back.

“You are such a talented wordsmith, it’s a wonder we don’t hand lyrics duties to you more often.”

“You guys hungry? I’ve got pizza, and pizza.”

“As long as there’s wine, I’ll take it,” Ronan says as he takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

Grayson disappears for a moment then comes back, rolling in the small case he brought. He opens it with a flourish, displaying a small fortune in Spanish wine he brought back from Barcelona.

Barcelona. I will never forget you.

“And Enzo, I’ve got you covered.” Gray pulls out one wine bottle and hands it over.

“If that’s that non-alcoholic shit, forget it. I’ll take a glass of the real stuff to toast the woman we came to see. One glass a year for me.” He grins wide.

“Oh, Enzo, don’t drink on my account,” I say, shaking my head.

He grins at me, running a hand through that luscious dark hair that’s shaggier than I’ve ever seen. I step forward—why should I stop myself?—and run my own fingers through it. I bring his head to mine and he leans in toward my neck, taking in my scent. He steps back, one arm out in the air as though we’re ballroom dancing, and deftly spins me around then dips me. Then he places me on the edge of the bed beside Ronan, who applauds loudly and slowly.

“Nonsense, my little coconut,” Enzo says to me, making a show of inhaling my scent again, smiling wide and eyes closing in an expression of bliss. “I really do have one glass a year. And I’ve been saving my one glass for a moment such as this.”

“We should coordinate schedules some year,” Ronan says. “My one smoke, your one drink. Together could make one wild fucking bender.”

Grayson returns with four glasses from the kitchen. “Sounds lit, guys.”

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