Chapter 71

AGE 22, APRIL

"One more song! One more song!"

A guitar screeches into the packed venue, and the chanting cuts off with a roar.

A moment later, the drums come in with a low, quick bass beat, and screams break out.

The lights remain off, the dark broken up only by the camera flashes popping off throughout the narrow high-vaulted space.

I step through the curtains, back on stage, breathless and grinning. Adrenaline courses through my veins. Heart thrashing, skin buzzing, it hits me all over again?—

This is my life now.

Crossing the stage, my gaze finds Waylon first, where he sits behind the drum set, nodding along to the beat he creates. There's just enough visibility coming from the lights backstage for our eyes to lock. He flashes me a grin, and I give him a nod as I pass.

Stage left, Shawn continues playing the intro chords to "Sever Me"—one of our most popular songs. It's fast-paced and gritty—the perfect song to end a near-perfect tour. Our first tour.

He glances my way, and while he doesn't smile, I don't miss the glint in his eye, telling me he feels it too. The energy tonight…

It's unbeatable. A high like none other.

I reach the standing mic in the center, and hold up my fingers, taking a deep breath as I count back in my head.

Three, two, one?—

The lights kick on and the guitar and drums cut off abruptly, sputtering on a wave of whistles and screams that deafen the room, drowning out my voice as I croon the opening lines into the mic.

Trying not to laugh as I continue singing through the chaos, I twist my head, meeting Shawn's gaze with a stunned shake of my head.

How is this real life?

Turning back toward the crowd, I pause just before the chorus to shout, "SING IT, SYRACUSE!" prompting another piercing wave of whistles and screams.

Pulling the mic from the stand, I strut to the edge of the stage and crouch down just as Shawn and Waylon come in with the chorus, filling the room with the thudding of drums and howl of electric guitar, holding the mic out as the crowd starts belting the words.

I raise my free hand above my head, spurring them on. And they don't disappoint. Not that the crowds we play for ever do. Still, for our last show, it's everything we could fucking ask for.

Throwing my head back, I seal my eyes shut, and just breathe it all fucking in. Suck the goddamn marrow out of this moment for all it's got, as dozens and dozens of people I've never met sing the words Shawn, Waylon, and I poured our blood, sweat, and tears into.

When the song draws to a ground-shaking end, Waylon hops out from behind the drums, and jogs to the front of the stage, joining Shawn and I in the center.

I take his hand first, then glance to Shawn on my other side. He reaches out, curling his fingers around mine. I flash him a wolfish grin before turning to face the cheering mass of people filling the open space, pumping devil horns and fists at us.

To my brothers, I yell out loud enough for them to hear me, "We fucking did it!"

"Hell yeah, we did," Waylon says breathlessly, his voice nearly getting lost in the noise.

"On three," I say, gazing out at the crowd. I inhale deeply, then?—

"One, two…"

And just like at the end of every show, we throw our linked hands up into the air just as the lights cut out, plummeting the stage to black.

It's justafter midnight when our tour bus crosses into Shiloh.

Despite the late hour, I'm far too ramped up to relax. The two-hour long drive has been nothing if not torturously slow.

Don't get me wrong—surfing from hotel bed to hotel bed in between crashing on the bus bunk beds was wicked fucking fun for the first half of the tour. It's the rockstar dream after all, minus all the other shit that one would expect to come with it, like drugs and sex. But I can't deny that I'm relieved to finally sleep in my bed again.

Not that none of us haven't been getting any, for the record…

Sex, that is, not drugs.

Across the aisle from me, Waylon's turned toward the tinted windows, face pressed to the glass like a little kid.

"Dude," I say on a laugh. "You just saw him last weekend."

Not turning away from the window, he flips me off.

Rolling my eyes, I glance over at Shawn who's reclined back with an airplane pillow around his head, eyes closed like he's sleeping.

We all have our post-show rituals. If I'm not burning my energy off with more music—piano, guitar, writing…whatever's calling to me—I'll go to the hotel gym, or take a walk through whatever city we're in.

Waylon, on the other hand, will typically find somewhere private to call or FaceTime Will.

Emphasis on the private part.

(Don't ask. We're both still trying to sear it from our memories.)

As for Shawn…

He meditates.

Finds peace through a more quiet route.

At least one of us can relax right now, I think turning my gaze back to Waylon, envying his ability to not give a shit how obvious he is about his excitement to get home.

When he asked me earlier why I was so antsy— "My boyfriend's waiting for me, what's your excuse?" —I just shrugged and said I missed my bed.

Which is true…

It was his idea to head home tonight, rather than staying the night in New York like our label had budgeted out for us. Will and Ivy were supposed to come to this show, but her car was acting up again, and they didn't want to risk breaking down on the highway. And with how close we were playing to home…like hell Waylon was going to wait until tomorrow to see his boyfriend. If we didn't agree, he probably would've Ubered his crazy ass back to Shiloh.

Not that there was any chance in hell we weren't going to agree. Shawn might not be dying of impatience, but out of the three of us, he's definitely the most relieved to go home, for no other reason than tour has tapped him the fuck out. Big time.

"What the hell?" Waylon breathes, snapping me back to the present.

Pushing off the bench, I kneel on the cushion next to him and squint through the dark glass to see what snagged his attention.

"Oh, shit," I say on a laugh when I see the bodies crowding the sidewalks leading up to O'Leary's, the bar I half-own, and live above with these two guys and, since last summer, Will.

There's a shuffle of movement behind me, telling me Shawn's getting up too, his curiosity piqued.

The three of us stare out the tinted windows as the bus crawls down the middle of Main Street.

"It's, like, the middle of the night," Waylon says.

"It's only midnight, Grandma," I reply dryly, earning myself another flash of his middle finger.

Pretty sure that's a new record.

"Can I skip the party and go to bed?" Shawn says dully from my other side.

I cut him a sideways look. "Dude. Be grateful."

His face bunches like the mere idea offends him, and Waylon makes the sound effect of a whip snapping.

Shaking my head, I chew on my lip ring as I take in all the familiar faces waving at the bus. Some hold signs high up in the air. Hell, some have pom-poms like we're a sports team returning from the playoffs.

It's ridiculous, but fuck if it doesn't bring a smile to my face and make my insides all mushy.

This. This is the Shiloh I love.

Because as awe-striking and humbling as it is to sing to crowds of people who know and love our songs…

There's just something special about coming back to the people who know us—really fucking know us—who've seen us at our worst, and vice versa.

Small towns are not without their flaws—far from it. It's full of nosy busy bodies, and bent laws, and assholes who carry around their so-called traditional values like a loaded gun.

But it's home.

These people are home.

Not including the assholes, obviously.

And seeing their support for us—their pride…it just feels fucking good after everything we've been through.

The brakes squeal as the bus comes to a familiar jerking halt, right in front of the bar. Over the engine and through the thick glass windows, I can hear the muffled whoops and cheers rise up into the night.

They can't see us, so I take one last opportunity to absorb it all, just like I did during the encore tonight.

Waylon's already gone, making a mad dash for the doors before we've even fully stopped.

Meanwhile Shawn takes his time, throwing on his leather jacket and grabbing the black guitar case holding his precious acoustic inside, the one he refuses to store even when we're not practicing or writing.

Scouring the bodies gathered along the sidewalk in front of the bar, I spot Will first. He's weaving through the crowd, making his way toward the bus doors. Ivy's fast on his heels, and just before I look away, I catch Waylon and Will colliding on the edge of the crowd in a fierce hug.

It's Gavin, Linda, Mom, and Reggie I see next, all gathered by the entrance to O'Leary's. Reggie's got his arm thrown around Mom while she and Linda laugh and talk amongst themselves.

A pang of longing shoots across my chest at the sight. I haven't seen Mom or the others since we left on tour. Not in person, that is.

Behind me, Shawn says, "You comin'?"

I spare one last sweeping glance over the crowd and nod. "Yeah."

Finally dragging myself away from the window, I grab the duffle I kept up here with me, swing it over my shoulder, and follow Shawn toward the front of the bus.

Ken, our driver, unbuckles and gives us a nod before opening the driver's side door. "I'll start unloading your stuff."

He leaves the engine on. We told him we'd pay for a room at the motel, but he insisted on heading home. He's used to driving through the night anyway.

A cold gust of air blows from the street, up the steps, and into the bus. It's early April—two days before my twenty-third birthday—but winter's yet to fully release us from its grasp.

Piles of snow from a late March storm that blew up the East coast cling to the corners of the street, and slush and salt squish and crunch under my boots when I hit the pavement.

Another wave of cheers rise up, and now that I'm closer, I can make out what some of the signs say.

WELCOME HOME

WE 3 U LOST BOYS

WE MISSED YOU!

A smile creeps up my cheek as I take it all in.

Fuck, it's good to be home.

Shawn huffs, and I slide him a knowing look. If he was Waylon, I'd muss his hair, or bump his shoulder. Instead I just say, "Admit it. You love this."

He shoots me a flat look before turning away, ever the prickly bastard.

And yet, still, girls scream his name, demanding his attention, acting like maybe, just maybe, they'll be the one to pierce their way through his steely bubble.

Good luck with that.

Chuckling, I shake my head, and say hi to a couple familiar faces, accepting a couple hugs and fist bumps.

The crowd seems to mostly be made up of the usual bar crowd—younger twenty-something year-olds from surrounding towns. College kids. Those who used to come weekend after weekend to see us play.

There's a couple of the older regulars here too—like John and Sid, Sid's construction crew, and Big Ray—not Izzy and Jeremy's dad, but the Ray who owns our local grocery store.

We shake hands and slap backs as I pass.

I'm only half-paying attention to what people are saying as they call out to me and squeeze my shoulder in passing. It all sort of runs together as the din of the crowd increases, not unlike how it is before and after shows when we take time to meet with fans and sign merch and take photos.

It's surreal though, experiencing it like this in our hometown, with people we've known for years. Surreal and weird, and a little uncomfortable, if I'm being honest. Not in a bad way, just awkward.

I twist my head, craning my neck, trying to see through the throng of bodies, wondering why it feels like everyone's paying attention to me and me only.

Where the hell are Way and Shawn?

Sure, to some degree, I'm the front man, being lead on vocals and all—at least in the eyes of the label and marketing….something we've been having some issues with the label about—but Waylon and Shawn are just as fucking crucial to the band as I am, and normally the crowd typically treats them as such. They know as well as we do that without either of them, we would not be the Lost Boys—it's just fucking fact.

And hell, if you look at our band stats online, Waylon's considered a lead on vocals too. It just so happens he primarily plays drums, unless we have someone fill in for the songs we wrote for two leads, and not just back-up harmonizing.

Finally, I spot Shawn over by Gavin and my mom. Phoebe's there too now, I see, and she's rolling her eyes, gesturing at Shawn as Mom nods along, brows arched.

How he managed to sneak his way over there, while avoiding the masses, I have no fucking idea.

But then again, these people know us—they know how he is. They're not some random fans at a show, who think that just because they paid for a ticket, they're entitled to shake hands, or god forbid, hug him. They're not strangers who take his aloofness as a personal offense.

This is just who he is, and for the most part, it's common knowledge around here at this point to give him a wide berth. Even the girls who try so desperately to get his attention know better than to actually violate his space.

Twisting to my left, I find Waylon exactly where he was last I saw him—wrapped in Will's arms. Now, though, he's got his face buried in Will's neck, and it looks like Will's saying something in his ear.

You couldn't even squeeze a piece of paper between their chests, they're that fucking close.

Again, I find myself searching the crowd, looking for a familiar shock of white.

He's here.

I know he's here.

Or at least…he was.

His last Snapchat to me from two hours ago showed a picture of the O'Leary's sign out front, lit up green against the night, lending no doubt as to where he was tonight.

And in return, I'd responded just over a half hour ago with a picture of the Welcome to Pennsylvania sign, telling him without words we were on our way home.

Fuck, did I scare him off?

I shake my head.No, no, that can't be.

He knew our tour ended tonight…that we'd be coming home…

Maybe he didn't know I'd be back tonight…

But then why send me a pic of the bar of all things, and of all times, given what's going on now?

The bar I not only half-own, but live above…

Growing more impatient by the second, I force a smile, and nod my thanks to the people still chattering away and calling for my attention.

As grateful as I am for it, now that I'm here…so fucking close to him…

Come on, come on.

It's been almost ten fucking months. The longest I've ever gone without seeing him. Hell, the longest we've ever gone without speaking.

After we spent a weekend in Philly last June for Pride, he never came back to Shiloh before going off to Europe. And, despite how painful it was….I sucked it up. Even when Waylon, Will, Ivy, and Jeremy's parents went to say their goodbyes before he left….

I stayed back, because I know that's what he wanted.

And I've respected that wish for space since.

No calls.

No texts.

No video-calls.

There's only been one exception: Snapchat.

What I figured would be a one-off following that weekend, turned into a sort of tit-for-tat way of keeping in touch by way of the bare minimum.

For months, I let him initiate it, only responding with a picture if he sent me one first. Playing it cool. Acting like I wasn't checking my phone constantly, hoping for a new notification from him.

But eventually, I got a little braver and started sending snaps without waiting for him. Be it photos of random sights along the road, objects with meaning only he'd understand, or, once, in a moment of weakness back in November, a selfie.

Not because I'm so full of myself to think he just so desperately needed to see me, but because it was me whowas so desperately in need of seeing him…

And my foolish, impulsive ass actually thought that by extending the olive branch that is my face, he'd extend his face back.

No such fucking luck.

He ghosted me for over two weeks after that.

Lesson learned—the hard way, as always. I made sure to never show my face again.

Simple. Safe. Boring.

The unholy trinity of all things I'm allergic to.

But it's the way he wanted things, so again, I bit back my stage-five clinger tendencies, and respected it. Even when I found out back in October he'd met someone, and it took everything in me not to say to hell with the rules.

Not that it amounted to anything…

At least, according to what I gathered from Phoebe and Ivy back around Thanksgiving.

To say I was relieved would be an understatement.

Relieved and…overcome with a renewed sense of purpose. Determination.

So while it's been rough, having nothing but random photos to rely on—ones that would disappear within seconds—I can't complain too much, seeing as it was the only way I got anything of him at all. Rather than nothing, like I expected. Deserved.

Like me, he'd send me cool sights he visited, like museums and landmarks and hundred-plus year-old pubs.

He'd also send me random objects that either I understood, or had not a single clue about, but found myself staring at for far longer than was probably warranted, trying to decipher some hidden truth behind them. As if through the chip in the corner of an old window pane, I could find the key to fixing this mess between us.

"Mason!"

Yanked out of my thoughts, my head snaps up, a grin overtaking my face when I see my little sister beaming back at me from where she stands near the door.

Shouldering my way past the remaining bodies, I let my bag fall to the ground, and spread my arms, catching her just as she launches herself at me.

"Hey Squirt," I say, lifting her off her feet like she's still a little kid, and not nearly sixteen.

She squeezes her arms around my neck so tight, it hurts to breathe, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Fuck, I've missed you," I say roughly.

Being that she's still so young and the only somewhat nearby shows we played were on weeknights in 18+ older clubs, she was only able to make one show. Last I saw her was show number three—the one in Philly; Will and Ivy brought her along—and that was over two months ago.

"Well, maybe next time…" she says, dragging out her words pointedly, "Mom will let me tag along."

I arch a brow down at her. "What about school?"

"There's this little thing called cyber-schooling, and?—"

"Not happening," Mom singsongs, nudging her to the side so she can pull me into a hug.

My arms wrap around her, and my face instantly falls to her shoulder.

"Hey, kid," she says, rubbing my back. "Welcome home."

I breathe her in, relaxing in a way I haven't in months.

She pulls back, and reaches up to cup my cheeks. "You look exhausted."

I shrug, quirking a small smile. "I am."

And it's true. Now that we're here—home—and for the first time in weeks get to just chill and not have to worry about things like breaking down on the road, or traffic… Living from one show to the next in a blur of highway and shifting skylines…

It's hitting me.

It's over

And I'm sad. No doubt about that. It's bittersweet, that's for sure. But fuck, if I'm not relieved to just do…nothing for a while. Nothing but start working on our new album.

And while, yes, it's work now, technically…so not actually a break…

It's not much different to what we've been doing for years.

Writing, creating, playing just amongst ourselves, holed up in the basement of a dive bar in the middle of nowhere…

It's where we thrive.

Gavin and Linda take their turns hugging me next. Gavin ruffles my hair, just like when I was a kid, despite me now being several inches taller than him.

We briefly catch up as the crowd starts to thin and disperse after Gavin whistles, and shouts, "Last call."

Some people exchange confused looks, but most just laugh, shrug, and wave us off with goodbyes and welcome backs and more congratulations.

"What?" Gavin says to his wife. "It worked."

Linda shakes her head and leans into him when he lifts his arm.

Will and Waylon find their way over to us, and I find out this whole thing was Phoebe's idea, not Will's like I thought.

Why I assumed it was him instead of her, I have no idea. This has Phoebe written all over it—pom poms and banners and all. I'm just surprised she didn't take it a step further and TP the bar with streamers.

"It's your first tour," she says. "We knew you'd probably be too wiped out for a party tonight—that's happening Friday—but we wanted to show you how missed you were."

"Thought that party was gonna be a surprise," Will says dryly.

Phoebe tilts her head with a frown. "Was it?"

Waylon chuckles and reaches over, tugging her into a one-armed hug.

"So," I say, "uh, where's?—"

"Over there," Waylon says, kicking his chin at some spot behind me.

Straightening, I turn, following his gaze.

Oh. He thought I was asking about Ivy.

I start to say, "No, I meant…" only for my voice to trail off when I spot a second figure.

She's not alone.

Pulse pounding, all I can do is stare at the guy currently tugging on the black beanie hiding what I assume is still silvery-white hair.

Unless he dyed it back…or some other color.

In a black peacoat that goes down to his knees, and light-washed jeans tucked into black boots, if it weren't for the vividly familiar smile spreading across an even more vividly familiar face…

I probably would've looked right over him.

Sure about that?

My heart thumps, mouth drying. Now that I'm looking right at him…no, there's no fucking way I missed him when I arrived. Either he left, and just showed up again, or he was making sure I didn't see him.

Someone close to me is saying something, followed by more voices. An arm brushes mine, and then a hand squeezes my bicep.

"We'll be inside."

"Um, yeah, I'll…I'll be right back," I hear myself say, and then my feet are carrying me forward.

Way to be obvious.

Eyes bore into me from behind, but I don't look back to see who they belong to. I only have eyes for what's in front of me. The chatter fades, and then a door clicks shut, and it's finally silent, save for the thrashing in my ears and the whooshing of cars passing along nearby streets.

Ivy turns her head at my approach and tilts her head, a knowing sort of smirk twisting her lips. She says something, her mouth moving too quickly for me to try and read.

Whatever it is though has Jeremy stilling.

You're full of so much shit, I think, fighting a smile.

He knew I was here—knew I spotted him—knew I was coming over. We haven't known each other for seventeen years for me to miss his little tells when he's trying to be inconspicuous.

You'll never be invisible to me.

My boots thud and crunch over the chipped, grimy asphalt of the alley separating our building from the bank.

"Well, look what the smelly bus dragged in," Ivy says with her usual caustic flare. Her green eyes glint off the streetlamp overhead.

At the reminder of the bus, I spare a quick glance at the road, my steps faltering when I see it's not there.

Shit. Ken.

He already left. How did I miss that?

Ivy goes to move past me, pausing to brush our arms together. "Welcome back. Be nice, okay?"

I frown, wondering what that's about. But she's gone before I can ask her, slipping past me, and into the bar.

A low familiar chuckle has my attention snapping forward.

There, in the flesh, Jeremy Montgomery stands with his hands stuffed in his pockets, and a small smile on his lips, amber eyes twinkling like gemstones in the shadows.

"Reggie and the others got your luggage," he tells me.

Heart racing, I cock a small grin, "Yeah?"

His throat bobs, and he nods. "Yeah, you looked a little busy."

My eyes move all over his face, devouring every inch of him, cataloging each feature. His warm eyes, and tawny lashes. His flushed, windswept cheeks. His full pink lips. His smooth jaw, and almost delicate neck. Through the gap in his coat, I can make out what looks to be a gray cashmere sweater.

"You're here," I say, my voice cracking.

So much for playing it cool.

His eyes flare, glassing over with some undefinable emotion that has the pulse in my neck flying so fast I don't know how I haven't fainted yet.

"And you're back."

My lips rise further, and it doesn't escape me how blurry my vision has gotten. I take a step forward, then another, seconds from pulling him into a hug. And if the agonized, yet hopeful and expectant look on his face is anything to go by…

He's not going to push me away.

Finally. Finally, finally, finally?—

And just as he's in reaching distance, and I'm mustering all the courage in the world, reinforcing the resolve I've built up over these last ten months since waking up alone in a lounge chair, as I missed and missed and craved and craved…

It goes to shit.

Three things happen in quick succession.

The first, a yelp and a string of curses, followed by hasty footsteps thudding down the alley, and the distinct sound of a fly being zipped.

Jeremy's eyes widen on mine, and he takes a step back, ducking his head, blinking down at the ground just as a guy dressed in a similar peacoat to Jeremy's joins us, panting, his dark, glistening eyes bulging.

"There's a cat!" He makes circular motions with his hand. "A very, very scary cat."

The second thing that happens…

Looking to me, the guy grins, and extends his hand. "You're Mason."

I look down at it.

"Oh, sorry," he says, with a cringy smile as he drops it back at his side.

Jeremy mutters something under his breath, and I don't miss how tense his jaw is, even from this angle.

And the third thing…

"I know, babe, but I really had to go." And then the guy with his fancy peacoat and soft, flowy brown hair, leans over, and presses a kiss to the side of Jeremy's covered head.

An icy cold breath punches through me, seizing my lungs.

No…

No.

Like dominos, all my plans and hopes—all the layers of resolve and determination I've stacked up over these last few months—topple over, falling somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

"Mason…" Jeremy says in an unreadable voice. He peeks up at me through his lashes. "This is Nick."

I give a little, barely-there shake of my head, silently begging him not to say it.

I thought…I thought…

As if he could sense me spiraling through denials, his face hardens, and he stands a little taller, taking whatever resolve I might've had moments before, and claiming it for himself. Taking two words I never knew I needed to dread, and dropping them on me like a hand grenade.

"My boyfriend."