Chapter Twelve

SYDNEY SPENDS THE first week of the headlining tour writing some of the best lyrics of her life and having a small crisis. She keeps replaying in her head the last few times she saw Matts. The way he looked at her. The way he touched her.

She calls Eli from her bunk in the tour bus one night.

“Is there a straight version of gay chicken?” Sydney asks in lieu of saying something normal like “hello.”

“I think that’s just called denial,” Eli says.

Sydney makes a distressed noise.

“Might you be having feelings?” Eli suggests. “Perchance giving a fuck?”

“Perchance,” she admits.

“How embarrassing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Does it make things better or worse if I tell you Matts has been moping ever since you left?”

“Better. Does that make me a bad person?”

“Nah. Are you admitting you want to kiss him now?”

“I want to do considerably more than that,” Sydney says, shoving her free palm into one eye.

“I’m not seeing the problem.”

“You mean besides the fact that I have minimal sexual experience, no dating experience, and he’s a professional hockey player ? Normal people have awkward teenage fumblings and even more awkward college hookups by the time they’re my age. I have a half-dozen kisses and two sort-of hookups. And when Matts and I first met, I may have implied that I was a much more sexual being than I am. He thinks I have experiences, Eli. I do not have experiences .”

“You realize who you’re talking to, right? Alex was nearly all of my firsts. Also, from what Alex has told me, Matts doesn’t have any dating experience either. Just hookups.”

Sydney exhales, eyes closed, gently thumping her fist against her forehead. “That’s not a consolation.”

“Syd.”

“I don’t think I’d survive something casual with him.”

“So don’t do something casual with him.”

“Our very first conversation included Matts telling me he wasn’t interested in anything other than one-night stands.”

“Your very first conversation included you telling Matts you weren’t interested in him . Clearly things change.”

“Eli.”

“ Sydney .”

“Fine,” Sydney says. “The next time I see him in person, I’ll…do something.”

“Something romantic?”

“Something embarrassing, probably, but it’ll get the point across.”

She exhales, swallowing around the scratch in her throat that says she needs to be more careful with her voice. “Tell me about your kids, please?”

“Ah,” Eli says knowingly. “One of those nights?”

“Yeah. You mind?”

“Obviously not. I am happy to charm you with tales of my tiny humans until the melodious sound of my voice puts you to sleep. Who do you want to hear about? The gremlins or the angels?”

“Diversity is the spice of life. But first, I want an update on the kid who thinks he can throw any trick he sees on TV. What’s his name—Julius?”

“Julian, oh my God. Natural selection should have taken that child out years ago.” The overwhelming fondness in Eli’s voice softens the words. “If he survives to adulthood, he will do great things. Okay, so last week he comes in for his lesson wearing a Spider-Man costume, mask included, which should have clued me in we were going to have an extra special day, and before we’ve even finished warmups—”

Sydney closes her eyes and imagines she’s lying on a beach at the waterline with sand and sky and the hush of twilight. She lets Eli’s voice wash over her, the ebb and flow of his inflection like waves.

He’s a good storyteller, and his job as a children’s ice-skating instructor provides plenty of content. Half an hour later, when Sydney hangs up, she’s feeling a little more settled but almost too tired to sleep.

Being on tour is exhausting in itself, but being on tour also means more press, particularly now that they have two songs playing regularly on Top 40 stations. More media attention has come with its own challenges. Sydney’s turned off comments on her personal Instagram posts, and the band’s socials are getting more death threats than usual. They don’t go out to bars or clubs after concerts anymore unless they have security. They’re quickly becoming recognizable, not just by niche underground kids and the sort of people who frequent rock venues, but by people on sidewalks and in grocery stores. When the band is together, they’re most noteworthy. When they’re apart, Sky and Rex can fly under the radar as long as Rex has his tattoos covered. But Sydney—Sydney has been putting her face on the internet for close to a decade, and between her hair and her jaw and the sharp cut of her cheekbones, she has a memorable face. Not to mention her aesthetic choices.

She knows she stands out.

Initially, when she was twelve and terrified, it was by design. She’s never been good at being subtle. She’s always been loud and opinionated and too full of movement to contain. When Sydney went shopping for new clothes, preparing for her first year as a girl—a girl —at public school, she figured people would stare anyway. So, she decided she’d give them something to look at.

It was a little like designing a character, except the character was herself. She picked out thick-soled lace-up boots, ripped jeans, and black band shirts; she thought it would be easier to BS her way through acting brave if she looked the part, and it worked.

Maybe a little too well.

Because now she’s not entirely sure she wants to be that character anymore. Not all the time, anyway. The character she created is brash and cool and sexy and isn’t afraid of anything. She prowls across the stage and kisses fans and answers interview questions with wit and sarcasm and aplomb; she responds to criticism and cruelty with unflappable, dismissive confidence.

The problem is that the persona Sydney built for herself leaves no room for public vulnerability. And as her life becomes more and more public, it’s becoming harder and harder to find spaces where she’s allowed to be soft and scared and capable of being wounded.

She knows it’s a good problem to have and one not to complain about. Oh, poor thing. So famous from her songs and her sold-out concert tour that she has to deal with the inevitable negative attention that goes hand in hand with visibility. So sad. So hard. Poor little rock star.

But maybe worse than the negative attention are the people lauding her as a queer martyr, paving the way for future generations or what the hell ever.

You’re so strong. They say.

You’re so brave. They say.

Some days, Sydney is so tired of being brave.

She wants to just be. Without witnesses or expectations or the burden of representing an entire fucking group of people in the public eye.

She wants to write her songs and play her music, and when someone comments that her parents should have killed her, that she should do the job herself, she wants to rage back at them, to destroy something, to cry.

Sydney remembers two years before, watching Alex’s press conference shortly after he came out. He said, over and over again, with a painful husk to his voice, that he just wanted to focus on hockey. He didn’t want to be some public queer figure. He just wanted to play hockey . Except the press won’t let him forget what he is and who they’ve built him to be. If he wants hockey, he must put up with the rest. He’s handled it well, or at least, he seems to. And at least now, there are other out players. Now, Alex is one of a small subset, some with behavior far more tabloid-worthy than his.

But Sydney doesn’t have that luxury.

There aren’t many queer rock bands fronted by trans women with songs on syndicated radio. Certainly, none whose trans frontwoman has a decade of YouTube videos chronicling their transition available for easy public access. Often for easy public ridicule.

Sometimes, Sydney wonders what it would be like if she never posted that first video. If they formed the band and played behind closed doors for a few years as she transitioned or took a more traditional path toward finding venues and securing a record deal. Something that didn’t depend on her forfeiting the right to ever be stealth.

She could just…be a girl in a band.

Wouldn’t that be something?

Sydney tries not to think about it too often, mostly because she doesn’t know if she’d do it again if she had the choice to go back and never post a single video but still achieve the success they have today.

She’s a little ashamed to say she probably wouldn’t because it’d be so much easier if she wasn’t out. And that recognition comes with its own guilt. It feels like a betrayal to her community and to herself.

She’s just so tired .

Her phone lights up, illuminating the ceiling in her bunk. She’s stuck a couple glow-in-the-dark stars up there, but they never get enough light during the day to glow for more than a few minutes.

Sydney rolls to her side and squints at the screen.

It’s Matts.

They’ve gotten into the habit, most nights, of talking on the phone before going to sleep or texting if Sydney’s voice needs a rest.

But with the time difference, with her on the East Coast and him at an away game in Seattle, she assumed he wouldn’t want to talk tonight.

Apparently, she was wrong.

Syd calls him instead of responding to the text message.

“Hey.” Matts sounds just as exhausted as she feels.

“Rough game,” she says.

She’s been keeping track on the NHL app. It’s on the home screen of her phone now, the Hell Hounds logo black and red and damning.

“Not the best, no,” he agrees. “Hopefully, your night was better?”

“Mm…” She tries for levity. “Just another day in paradise.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

“You up for questions, or no?”

They’ve started doing this thing where they take turns asking each other questions until one or both are too tired to continue.

Most of Sydney’s questions are like: “If a vampire was a detective and she had a warrant to search someone’s house, would she still need to be invited in?” or “Do you think pop tarts technically qualify as ravioli?”

Most of Matts’s questions are harder. Like: “If you had the ability to know the exact date of your death, would you want to know?” and “If you could spend ten minutes with your ten-year-old self, what would you say to her?”

“Jesus,” she said one night after he laid How could your parents have loved you better? on her. “Where are you getting these from? A therapist?”

He muttered something incomprehensible.

“Come again?”

“I got a deck of cards.”

“Okay.”

“They have questions on them.”

“Questions.”

“I want to know things about you,” he said with the honest vulnerability she adores. “I just don’t know what to ask. The cards help.”

So, Sydney has started keeping a list of questions in her notes app, collected from the band and their bus driver and the techs at their venues. She answers the questions he asks her from his deck of cards in the dark, warm, quiet of her bunk where she can speak softly into the still pocket of space that feels safe.

Sydney doesn’t know if she can handle much of that now though.

“Maybe one or two,” she says. “And then you could give me some cursed knowledge?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Matts says seriously. “What’s something mundane that makes you happy?”

She doesn’t even have to think about that one. “Oh, easy. The lighting aisle at hardware stores.”

“What?”

“Yeah, like…when you go to Home Depot or wherever. There’s always a section that’s all lamps and chandeliers and string lights. And when you walk down the aisle it’s like stepping into a different world. All bright and magic and—” She cuts herself off with a yawn. “—happy.”

“Huh. Fair enough.”

“What’s yours?”

“Uh. Hm.” Matts considers for several comfortable seconds of silence. “You know how some things have those looped silk or satin care instruction tags?”

“Like blankets and pajamas?”

“Yeah, exactly. I love those stupid things. My pillowcase has one, and I’ll drag it between my fingers over and over again. It’s nice. Calming.”

“Are you doing it now?”

“Maybe.”

“All right, keep your secrets.” Sydney finds the tag on her own pillowcase. She runs it through her fingers. He’s right; it is nice.

“Okay, flip side of that,” she says. “What’s something mundane that makes you angry?”

“Referees.”

“Maybe think of a more…universally relatable experience.”

“Touching wet food.”

“I’m going to need more than that.”

“You know. Like when you’re washing dishes and you accidentally touch some wet food in the bottom of the sink. It’s a texture thing.”

“You realize that every piece of food you eat is wet by the time you swallow it. So your tongue touches wet food all the time.”

There is a brief, horrified silence.

“Why would you say that to me? That was unnecessary.”

Sydney laughs softly. “Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Matts asks. “You sound off. Did something else happen?”

“No, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Maybe instead of cursed knowledge, I could play for you until you fall asleep? I don’t have a roommate this trip, so we won’t disturb anyone.”

“Please,” she says.

After a minute of muffled fumbling, Matts plays a quick scale, and Sydney can almost see him propped in bed, phone on the nightstand, lamp casting long shadows. She knows what he looks like in bed now. Knows what he looks like rumpled and bleary and soft. The visual makes something in her chest go tight.

“Anyway,” Matts says, “here’s ‘Wonderwall.’”

It surprises a laugh out of her. “Don’t start that shit again.”

He doesn’t play “Wonderwall.”

He plays “The Sea” by Haeven. He sings along, soft and slow and aching.

And despite having no resolution to all of the everything that prevented her from falling asleep previously, this time, when Sydney closes her eyes, she sleeps.

*

THEY’D WORKED WITH a choreographer before they left for the tour—well, not a choreographer exactly. A…performance coach? Sydney can’t remember what the man’s official title was, but the point is that there was a routine they had to follow. They didn’t have dance routines or anything. But there was a basic script, certain beats, movements, and marks they were supposed to hit during each song as they worked their way through the set list.

Sydney can’t decide if she misses the freedom of being an unknown band on a tiny stage at the back of a bar. When she could do whatever the hell she wanted, depending on the music or the night or the well of energy under her skin demanding an escape. Probably not, since it means she gets this in exchange: thousands of fans and venue-shaking sound systems and lighting techs who paint an ever-shifting fantasy world of color across the stage and the audience and Sydney’s skin.

So, she hits her marks and accepts that they’ve reached an echelon where the music is only part of the performance and pageantry is the other. It’s not a trial. Sydney gets to throw herself around the stage, prance, pose, and let straining hands touch the blocky platform heels of her boots as she stands at the edge of the stage and opens her chest and gives all of herself for as long as they’ll take her.

She’d like to do more—climb light scaffolding and show off the backflip she spent a month perfecting the year before. But playing guitar in addition to singing limits her, which is part of the reason they’ve started actively looking for another guitarist.

It’d also be nice to get the occasional break, which is why they’ve been pulling a fan onto the stage to play “Victor’s Loss” each night.

It’s not their best song, by any means. Mostly because Sydney wrote it when she was sixteen, and it’s just as dramatic and overwrought as a song written by a sixteen-year-old should be; it only barely made it onto their album. But she’s still proud of the play on words in the title. Sydney wrote “Victor’s Loss” after reading Frankenstein for school when she was full of outrage on behalf of a creature created without consent, cast as a monster, and given no opportunity to escape the inevitability of fulfilling the role. She got detention when she tried to argue with her teacher about how unfair the ending was—that the other students thought the creature’s plans for suicide were earned and somehow commendable. Sydney probably empathized more with the creature than anyone else in the room, considering she regularly attended detention for retaliation against the bullies who found her mere existence a problem.

It’s funny, she thinks, to play the song now, grinning on a stage under bright lights, surrounded by thrumming speakers and bolstered by the fervor of a screaming audience when she tearfully wrote it alone on the floor of her bedroom, back against the closet door, guitar tucked between chest and skinned knees. Sydney survived high school though. She lived. And she didn’t let them turn her into the monster they wanted her to be. So now, she sings the lyrics composed between breathless, angry sobs to shouted accompaniment by adoring masses. It feels like restitution, maybe.

Besides having a special place in her squishy emotional parts, “Victor’s Loss” is also the easiest song on their album to play on guitar. They’ve advertised it all over their social media, and at every venue, hopeful attendees hold dozens of signs telling the band to pick them.

The song is halfway through their set. Provided the person they pull knows how to play it, which they more or less have so far, it gives Sydney’s fingers a break. And the audience eats that shit up.

When they take the stage in Denver, she looks longingly at the scaffolding and gives it a brief salute. One day.

The energy in the stadium is perfect from the moment Sky counts them in for the first song. They start with a bang, the first three songs in the set winding up to the frantic crescendo of “A Prayer for Arson” before segueing into the slower “Godless Martyr” and even slower “Black Star Night.” She gets to sink to the stage and play on her knees, head bowed, guitar plaintive and wailing.

And then it’s time for “Victor’s Loss.”

When the lights turn to illuminate the crowd, Sydney and Rex move to the front, searching for volunteers.

She spots a kid—man?—almost immediately, right in the center. He’s on his buddy’s shoulders and holding a sign with an artistically rendered guitar pick and the words “PICK” ME FOR VICTOR’S LOSS underneath it in all caps. In smaller words, it says: I promise I don’t suck.

She does love a good pun.

Sydney points him out to Rex, who gives her a thumbs-up. Security helps the guy get to the front of the crowd while the lights pan back to them, hot and blinding.

They sling their guitars to their backs; each takes one of his hands and pulls him onto the stage.

“Hey, man,” Sydney says. “What’s your name?” She extends the microphone to him.

“Paul,” he says, blinking. She gives him a minute to orient himself.

“Okay, Paul. You know ‘Victor’s Loss’?”

He grins, looking more confident. “Sure do.”

“You ever played it for this many people before?”

He shades his eyes with one hand and pretends to count with the other for a moment to rolling laughter from the audience.

“Hard to say,” he responds, leaning back into the microphone, “but probably not.”

Sydney walks him back a few paces to collect the second guitar from its stand and proffers it to him. “Will this do?”

He accepts it, adjusts the strap, and fishes a pick out of his pocket to play a quick complicated riff from the song they just finished.

“All right, all right, show off,” Sydney says as the cheers build.

She ducks to leave her own guitar on its stand, taking a moment to pull her sweaty hair off her neck. She snags her water bottle and takes several long pulls from it as Rex starts the bassline. Sydney licks her lips, maybe a little more dramatic than is actually necessary, as she sashays back to her spot on the stage, foregoing the mic stand that usually tethers her in place.

“Are we ready, kids?” she asks. The cheers becoming deafening. Sydney shoves hair out of her face and checks in with Rex and Paul. Yeah, they’re good.

“Sky,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “if you would?”

Sky counts them in, and they’re off.

It’s clear by the end of the first verse that Paul is talented. He moves seamlessly between them, making eye contact with Rex as he fits the notes he’s playing, a higher mimic to Rex’s deeper chords, between the bassline and Sydney’s voice. He headbangs along to Sky’s little drum solo just after the first verse, and by the chorus, Sydney’s eyeing the scaffolding to her left with actual consideration.

For once, she’s not worried that she’ll need to grab her guitar and assist.

Paul clearly has it covered.

As Sydney finishes the second verse, knowing she has about fifteen seconds worth of drum solo before she has to sing again, she moves.

She climbs .

The third verse isn’t her best vocal performance because she’s out of breath by the time she gets to the cross bar and can hook her knee into the truss ladder, anchoring herself into place. But judging by the tumult of riotous energy from the audience, they don’t care that much.

She gets her wind back for the final chorus and pushes it hard, probably harder than she should considering they’ve still got five songs to go in the set. But there’s something about being able to look down on the stage—at Sky, half standing over her drum kit, her corded arms slick with sweat, teeth bared and white under the red lights, hair a mess of tangled blue; at Rex and Paul, standing hip to hip, legs braced, forearms, heads, and mouths moving in sync as they lean forward to share Rex’s mic. There’s something about looking out at the arena spread before her, at the sea of moving bodies and lit-up phones, at the mass of fans shouting her lyrics back at her.

It feels like maybe, somehow, the people the lyrics were meant for might hear the words if she sings them loud enough now. So, she does.

Because, see, I’ve got in me

love unimaginable, rage unbelievable

And if I can’t have one, I will indulge the other

It’s your choice, villain or lover

But when I become the monster

Don’t forget who made me

Don’t forget you made me.

Sydney pulls out one of her ear pieces before the final lines repeat again, points to the audience around her mic, and they shout like a wall back to her:

Don’t forget who made me

Paul plays his riff with perfect timing, and she points out again to the sea of moving, jumping people, their phones and voices raised.

Don’t forget you made me

Don’t forget you made me.

Don’t forget you made me.

And Sydney can hear it. Every word. Clear as a fucking bell.

She feels dizzy with it. It’s amazing. It’s exhilarating. It’s—time for a guitar solo.

The solo isn’t particularly complicated, or at least, it’s not supposed to be, except Paul changes it.

Not a lot. Not so it’s unrecognizable. But it’s a hell of a lot more intricate than the original. And Sydney has to admit, it’s better. The way he pauses just when the bassline hits, goes thin and high and whiny at the clash of Sky’s cymbals. It’s good. He’s good.

Sydney finishes out the rest of the song with a birds-eye view of the stage, the fans, the expanse of it all stretched out before her like something out of a dream.

And then she climbs down.

“Holy shit, you guys,” Sydney shouts once her boots are back on the stage. “Paul can shred! Give it up for Paul!”

He meets her halfway, grinning with euphoria that only comes from moments like this, a musical battle won and a clamoring mass of fans who bore witness to it. Who participated in it.

Paul leans into her. “I took a little creative license there,” he says as if they wouldn’t have noticed. “Hope that was okay.”

“More than.”

Sydney slings an arm around his shoulders so they can share the mic more easily. “Paulie, my man, what do you do for work?”

“I’m about to graduate college, and I currently have no prospects.”

“Are you a burden to your parents? Are you frightened?”

“Alas, I am.”

“How would you feel about auditioning for a more permanent position?” Rex asks, which is exactly what Sydney was thinking.

“I mean, I’d feel pretty okay about that, yeah.” Paul pauses, looking between the two of them. “Hold on, are you serious?”

“We’d probably need to do a background check,” Sky says.

“And there are some important office culture questions we’d need you to answer,” Sydney adds.

“Like are you gay?” Sky asks. “Because being queer isn’t an official prerequisite, but—”

“Oh my God, Sky,” Sydney interrupts. “You can’t just ask people if they’re gay.”

Paul leans into the mic as the audience laughs. “Unfortunately, I’m straight. However—”

He reaches for the hem of his shirt, and at first, Sydney doesn’t understand what he’s doing. Does he think having nice abs is somehow a substitution for queerness? They’re nice, but not that nice. Until she realizes—surgical scars are tucked in the bottom curve of his pecs.

Top surgery scars.

It takes a minute for the camera feeding the massive screen behind them to zoom in enough that the audience understands what’s happening, but when they do, they lose their goddamn minds.

Which is fair because Sydney is losing her mind a little bit too. What are the chances?

“Well shit, dude,” Sky says. “Now we practically have to keep you.”

“Gender-affirming chest bump on three?” Sydney asks.

“Oh, definitely,” Paul agrees.

They miss the first time because he has significantly more ups than she does, but he moderates his enthusiasm, and they get it the second try.

“Okay, okay, wait,” Sydney says. “Dude. I don’t want to make assumptions here, but you picked your name, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And you picked Paul ?”

“Middle name Atreides.”

“Acceptable.”

“I appreciate your approval.”

She bows accommodatingly. “All right, we should probably go ahead and, like, finish the show. We’ll let you go back now, but we’ll talk later. Everyone, give it up for Paul again!”

They do.

*

SYDNEY IS STILL buzzing with energy in her bunk when Matts calls her that night. She talks for probably ten minutes straight about how they may have found a second guitarist, and he was originally trained in traditional flamenco guitar-playing as well as piano and is super fucking talented, and he’s trans, and also, did she mention she got to climb the scaffolding?

He listens with encouraging noises and leading questions. When she finally starts to run out of words, throat raw and chest full of warmth, Sydney remembers he had a game that day. For once, she hasn’t had a chance to check the highlights.

“So anyway,” she says. “I’m killing it. Band is killing it. Tour is fab. How was your night?”

Matts clears his throat. “Fine.”

She squints at the ceiling. “Matts.”

“Tensions are always high at this point in the season.” He sounds like a press conference.

“Oh my God. Another fight?”

“No. I mean, yes, but listen. They targeted Kuzy. I couldn’t just let that go.”

“How is he?”

“He’ll be okay. He’ll probably be out for the start of the playoffs though.”

“Hold on, I’m finding a video.” Sydney puts Matts on speaker and thumbs to the browser.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says.

Oh, but she does.

The first video she clicks on is a post-game locker room interview with Matts in his customary black Hell Hounds–branded T-shirt and stupid short shorts that show off way too much of his stupid hairy thighs.

She’ll come back to that one later.

The second video is the play. The hit. The fight. Kuzy very distinctly yelling, “Revenge me!” as he’s carted off down the tunnel. And Matts…following his instructions moments later. Sydney tries not to enjoy watching the fight, she really does. Because fighting is dangerous, and she knows from Eli that concussions are no joke. But there’s a part of her, watching him pick up another man by the front of his jersey, that’s thinking, He could probably hold me against a wall for a while with very little effort. But she’s not going to dwell on that right now. That’s also maybe something to consider later.

“I won,” Matts says hopefully.

“And you’re okay?”

“Completely.”

“Well, nice job, I guess. But you should be more careful.”

“I wasn’t the one climbing scaffolding tonight.”

“Okay, no, that’s not even—”

They devolve into a companionable argument backgrounded by the occasional now-familiar whir of the GAN ROBOT shuffling Matts’s Rubik’s Cube. Only a few minutes later, the exhaustion from the day starts to hit her though.

“I need to tap out in a minute,” Sydney says around a yawn. “You got any good cursed knowledge for me tonight?”

As usual, Matts doesn’t need time to think. “The, uh, the breakup of Yugoslavia could possibly have been delayed if a guy had a dildo.”

“Holy shit. Please explain.”

“So, obviously tensions were already high between the Serbian and Albanian populations of Yugoslavia in the early ’80s—”

“Oh, yeah, obviously.”

Matts sighs at her. “But in 1985, there was this Serbian guy who ended up at the hospital with injuries.”

“Butt injuries?”

Matts sighs louder at her. “Yes. Due to a broken bottle. And at first, he said Albanian men attacked him who, you know, inserted the bottle and gave him the injuries.”

“Oh, damn.”

“It turned into a whole thing, especially once the Serbian media outlets got a hold of the story, and the supposed attack became this driving force for worsening tensions between Serbs and Albanians. The guy did admit afterward that he was just masturbating and slipped and broke the bottle himself and was too embarrassed to say so when he went to the hospital. But by then, there was this whole inquiry happening, and some people, like politicians, were claiming the attack did happen, but the guy was scared and covering for the attackers. Things snowballed from there. It’s called the Martinovi? affair if you want to read up on it.”

“Wow. Excellent cursed knowledge, thank you.”

“I live to serve. Hey, so… You’ve got a ten-day break coming up the week after next, right?”

“We do.”

There’s a funny little hitch in his voice. “I know it’s sooner than expected, but do you want to spend four of those days in Gunnison for a cattle drive?”

She pauses. Rex is planning to spend a week of their break with his family in Austin before the band leaves for the West Coast portion of the tour, and Sky is going with him. Sydney was planning to spend the time sleeping and helping at the farm with Devo, but they don’t need her.

And it would be a little magical getting to fulfill a childhood dream.

But she’d also be in constant contact with Matts for the duration of the trip and probably sharing a room, if not a bed, with him. And yes, Sydney told Eli she would make a move at the next opportunity, but doing so during a trip like this feels dangerous. Not because Sydney’s afraid of Matts, but because she learned early and well to temper hope with caution and always have an escape route. Sydney thought she’d have the opportunity to tell Matts how she feels on her own turf, with a plan for all potential reactions, not when sharing a room with him a thousand miles from home. But Sydney also doesn’t think she can share a bed with him again without kissing him.

So. Going with Matts is probably a terrible idea.

“Yeah,” she says. “Absolutely. Just text me the details, and I’ll be there.”