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Tack and I engage in easy conversation as Easton pulls out, following Joel’s lead. Our conversation fizzes out the first hour of the short drive to Dallas as we wait for our caffeine buzzes to kick in. Most of the guys screw around on their cellphones as LL continues to stare out his window.

I lean over in a whisper to Easton. “Is everything okay with LL?”

“Have no idea,” he replies. “He’s not really an open book.”

I chew on my lip and avert my gaze just as Easton’s eyes drift over to me. Last night, he seemed in fantastic spirits and talkative. Today, he seems more the thoughtful introvert I met.

Before my obsessive thoughts can take over as to why he’s acting so out of sorts, Stella’s promised call comes through.

Anxiety already spiking as Easton answers, Tack demands Easton put the phone on speaker. My fears put to rest slightly as she spends the first five minutes of the call spouting off reviews for Easton and the band. Her personality on full display, I find myself stifling my laughs a few times, especially due to her and Easton’s easy banter, which reminds me a lot of my father and me.

As she shamelessly reads his praises, I carefully watch his expression for any sign of satisfaction but only find it when the feedback comes directly from her. This only confirms he was being one hundred with me when he said the only opinions that matter to him are those of the people closest to him. Something more to admire about him, as if I didn’t have enough already.

Tack joins in on the conversation talking to Stella like they are the best of friends, clearly already well acquainted. Even Syd speaks up with a greeting and makes a little conversation while LL remains mute, his gaze trained on the rapidly passing surroundings.

I focus on LL and his concave posture as Tack’s words register.

“. . . picked up our friend in Austin last night before the show.”

Easton rips the phone from Tack’s hands and takes him off speaker as I shake my head wildly at Tack, pressing a finger to my lips. Mortified, I glance over at Easton as he skillfully clears the speedbump with Stella before ending the call and turning to me, his expression apologetic. Not a second later, Tack’s inevitable question comes.

“What’s up with that, Nat? You don’t want Stella to know you’re with us?”

“Well, I guess you could say it’s out of respect for our mutual profession. We’re both journalists, and since we haven’t met, I don’t want her to think I’m trying to exploit my friendship with Easton for a story, you know? That’s what I would think.”

Lies, and I’m getting too good at telling them. Easton spares me further by speaking up. “Or how about this? My mother doesn’t need to know who the fuck climbs in and out of this van or my hotel room or anything else of a private fucking nature regarding me, period,” Easton bites out in nasty warning.

“Shit, I get that,” Tack cups his neck. “Sorry, man. Guess it’s already a bit of a family affair with Dad, right?”

Easton dips his chin in confirmation as the hotel room part of his blanket statement gnaws at me.

Not yours. He’s not yours.

“So, when’s Reid coming back, anyway?” Tack asks in a quick change of subject.

“Not until next week,” Easton clips out, ending the conversation.

For the rest of the short drive, I feel a low-lying tension brewing between Easton and me and know that—true to Easton’s nature—it’s only a matter of time before he confronts it, us, all of it.

Despite his confrontational nature, he’s been oddly evasive this morning, which has me pondering why. At first, I thought he was doing it just to rile me up. But after replaying his stunted actions this morning, I decide he’s definitely holding onto something. Knowing he’ll inevitably come clean when he’s ready, I make the most of the rest of my time with the band and use it to dig into their individual histories.

I discovered Syd’s father was a musician—as is most of his family—and Syd started to play at the very early age of five, tackling piano before finding his love of the baseline. He played in his last band for five years before two of his bandmates became romantically involved and, in his words, “fucked it all to shite.”

Tack was a member of a high school garage band for years and reported they came close to getting signed before they broke up. He then jumped to another band that broke up when the lead singer quit by not showing up for a stage call and took a full-time job at the urging of his wife. Tack packed his sticks away and went to work full time for UPS eighteen months before he got Easton and Reid’s call, further driving home Easton’s point that no success happens overnight.

Due to LL’s blatant tune-out, I don’t press him for his own details, but it seems they’ve all traveled very different roads to get to this point. Between Tack’s recollection and Syd’s contributions to the conversation, it seems their goal is the same—to play music for a living. The underlying desperation is indicative that they feel this may be their last chance to do it. I find myself hopeful for them all as I listen attentively.

The minute we pull up to the auditorium, the band immediately disperses. Upon exiting, I find myself stopping LL before he can reach the back of the second van where Easton converses with Joel as they open the back doors.

“Leif?” I call softly to his back.

He turns to face me, his expression indiscernible.

“I-I know it’s not my place, but I just wanted to ask you if you’re okay?”

Hovering a foot above me, his pale blue eyes lower before focusing on me. It’s then I notice the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his skin practically translucent in the early morning light. He remains mute as I stand in front of him, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry, it’s not my business.” I move to step around him, and he stops me with a gentle grasp on my arm.

“Sorry, love, you took me by surprise. Truth is . . . it’s been a very long time since anyone asked me that.”

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