Page 8 of Forever Flames: Padraig & Stevie
“Aye.” Liam toes the ground. “I know. I guess I hoped Da would be back runnin’ it by now.”
He doesn’t look at us when he says it. Doesn’t have to.
We all know the truth.
Connor didn’t take over because he wanted to. He sacrificed his own dreams so all of us wouldn’t have to disrupt our own lives. Playing music is always a reminder for the twins of the unfairness of it all.
“I think you need to embrace the opportunity he’s giving you. Have a more positive outlook,” I say half under my breath. “Get a manager. Take it seriously.”
Padraig perks up immediately. “So you’re volunteering?”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head vigorously.
Liam looks up, interest piqued. “Except, you already do everything.”
“Yeah, because I’m a sucker who’s in love with the drummer. Not the same thing.” I pull Padraig’s flannel tighter around my body.
Padraig grins. “Ah, she says she loves me.”
I throw a pick at him. He dodges, cheesing.
“You two are so fucking annoying.” Liam rolls his eyes. “Look. Stevie. You’re organized. Bossy. Controlling. Good with people. It’s how every great manager starts out.”
“Don’t use up all your charm at once, dumb ass,” I snort.
Padraig sits next to me and wraps his arm around my shoulder. “He’s right, you know. You write all our set lists. Give good advice. All you need to do is book more shows like the garage party we played last month.”
“My cousin owed me a favor.” I throw my hands up in the air.
“It counts.” Liam raises an eyebrow. “C’mon. Do us a solid. We can’t trust anyone else.”
I stare at them both. Their messy black waves. The scratches on Padraig’s knuckles from hitting the rim too hard. The way Liam’s shoelace is half-untied and he hasn’t noticed. They’re both brilliant and reckless and a little bit hopeless.
I love them both. Obviously differently. I’m not planning on fucking Liam—ever.
“Fine. I’ll help,” I acquiesce. “Only until you figure out what the hell you’re doing. But, don’t call me your manager.”
Padraig kisses my cheek. “Sure. If you say so.”
“I’m serious, guys. I don’t want to spend my life on the road chasing gigs and counting Spotify streams. I have my own plans,” I answer honestly.
“You have a great voice, though.” Padraig nudges me with his shoulder. “You could sing.”
I shake my head. “Stop. I don’t want to be on stage. I have no desire to perform.”
“When you have a gift,” Liam stands in front of me, “you should share it.”
“Don’t pressure me.” I push him away. “Singing’s fun. I don’t want it to be my job.”
“Well, we need to do something. We’re flailing.” Liam slumps next to us.
I reach for Padraig’s sketchbook on the coffee table. Flip to a page covered in messy half lyrics and sketches of potential band logos. “Try focusing on something. Maybe start with where you come from.”
They blink in simultaneous confusion.
“You’re Irish,” I explain. “Not in a touristy ‘Kiss Me I’m Drunk’ kind of way. From your ma’s stories, your entire extended family has generations of grief and grit to draw from. Use it.”
Liam frowns like I’ve grown two heads. “Like what, trad music?”
