Page 134 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
“Yes. More sure than I’ve been about anything except us,” I assure her. “Fireball’s survived four different singers, it’ll survive losing a drummer.”
The server appears with our plates, breaking the thread of the moment. We eat, talking about Isla’s science project, Jude’s latest Lego fortress, Lila’s ballet recital. The ordinary things I miss when I’m gone too long.
“You’re selling yourself short, you know. Fireball’s always been about the twins more than anything.” Stevie surprises me by bringing the band back up.
I lean back, brow lifting. “Here I thought people came for Avonna’s voice.”
“You’re stupid.” Stevie swats me. “No, seriously. Your music, your bond. It’s what people gravitate to when they hear you. Without you, it’s not the same.”
“So what do I do?” I sigh heavily.
She fixes her gaze on me. “Despite everything, stop pretending you owe the whole world more than you owe yourself.”
“I’ve got Grammy nominations, a sold-out tour and half the industry demanding we go back into the studio.”
She leans in. “They’re not the ones who have to live your life. You are. If you stay out there when your heart’s in Seattle, you’ll start resenting it and them. You already are and it’s been this way every single cycle. When does it end?”
I drag a hand through my hair, the weight of it all pressing in. “I wish it were simple.”
“Padraig. It can be.” She strokes my cheek. “If you make it. Speak up.”
I sit back, her words reverberate in my mind. Cycle after cycle.
She’s right—I keep letting it happen. Every time an album wraps, I swear I’ll slow down, and then the machine starts up again. I never hit the brakes, even when I could.
Connor didn’t let LTZ burn him out. He pulled them back, made the shows rarer, more wanted. They didn’t vanish, they became something you waited for. Maybe it’s the answer.
“If we stopped chasing and played fewer shows, we could work around me.” The words rush out as fast as I can think them. “Make it an event instead of a habit. Still write, release music, but on our terms.”
Stevie’s smile starts small, then warms all the way through. “You wouldn’t have to walk away entirely.”
“I wouldn’t have to choose,” I echo. “Could be here for the kids, for you, and keep the music alive.”
“Don’t forget you’ll have time for your art. Sounds an awful lot like a win to me.” She keeps her eyes steady on mine.
I grip her face between my palms and plant one on her for the books.
“You know what? I think we need to take our own advice for our family too. It’s time to claim our own joy.” Her eyes flash. “Let’s do it now. I’ll grab my kids from my mom’s, you swing by Mara’s for Rafferty.”
I slide out of the booth excitedly. “I’ll call Mara on the way, make sure he’s ready.”
We settle the bill and head for our respective cars, moving with urgency.
It feels like the first time in years I’m walking toward a real future.
Isla’s on the bench in the kitchen when Rafferty and I get to Stevie’s, legs folded under her, earbuds in, thumbs flying over her phone screen. Nearly thirteen and carrying herself like she’s already seventeen. Her hair’s darker now, waves pulled into a messy half knot, and she only looks up long enough to clock me before going back to whatever’s on TikTok.
Lila’s perched at the island, bare feet swinging against the stool. Nine, freckles scattered over her nose, flipping through one of Stevie’s cookbooks like she’s got something to prove.
Jude comes skidding in from the backyard, hair sticking up, cheeks flushed, always a ball of restless energy and big grins. Six years old and moving through life at full tilt.
Rafferty’s warm and solid in my arms, no sign of those first months when I stressed about every sneeze and cough. He’s a chunk in the best way, head against my shoulder, brown eyes scanning the room like he’s sizing everyone up.
“Hey, Padraig.” Jude’s already trying to peek around me. “What’s in the bag?”
“Fixings for ice cream sundaes.” I set Raff next to Isla, who promptly snuggles him to her. “Figured we’d make them together.”
Sweet treats get her attention. She takes one earbud out, slow like she’s not sure she wants to commit. “What kind?”
