Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93936 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
One of our roadie members signals it’s time for us to take our place on stage. I roll my shoulders back and grip the neck of my guitar.
Everything’s in place,
But I’m not, at least not mentally. She’s still in my head.
Not Justine. Nola.
The version of her I saw—or didn’t see—in the crowd earlier. That ghost has teeth. And it’s sinking them in deep, gnawing its way into my subconscious, reminding me she’s always there, lingering.
“You good?” Keane asks from the other side of the curtain.
“Fine.” The word isn’t necessarily a lie, but it’s damn close.
“Don’t forget, we changed the setlist again,” he says as a friendly and much-needed reminder. I wouldn’t be able to forget if I wanted.
The lights change.
The music changes.
The crowd roars.
I walk out onto the stage and into the noise, into the heat of a thousand eyes and the wash of artificial blue lighting that spills across the mic stand.
The opening chords of “Gravity” pulse beneath my fingers. It’s a song I’ve played so many times I could sleep through it. But tonight, every note feels like it’s dragging something out of me.
She used to sing along to this one.
I find her in the lyrics again, in the way the melody dips and stretches, in the sharp breath before the final line.
“You pulled away and I fell harder.
You left the earth and I stayed grounded.”
The crowd cheers like they felt that line. I almost laugh.
They don’t know it’s real.
They don’t know how much of her is stitched into these songs.
I glance stage left, and this time the row is empty—fully, finally.
No ghost.
Just space.
When the next song kicks in, “Echoes on the Stairs,” I let my eyes close and lean into the mic. I stop thinking and just sing. Not for her. Not for Justine. Not even for the fans.
For me.
Each lyric comes out jagged, a little louder than usual, like I’m dragging my grief into the open and daring it to flinch. The band keeps up. Dana locks eyes with me on the last bridge and mouths, “That was raw.”
I nod.
Let it be.
Let it all be.
By the time Justine walks onstage beside me for “Come Undone,” I’m running on instinct and adrenaline. She meets me with a soft smile, one that asks nothing of me but the music. I give her that. Nothing more.
We sing like we’ve been singing together for years.
And when it ends, the crowd doesn’t just cheer—they erupt.
We leave the stage. The lights fade. The applause lingers.
And for once, I feel empty in a way that doesn’t hurt.
Like maybe something left me tonight.
Something that needed to go.
That something is Nola. It’s not going to matter what happens when I get to South Carolina; we’re not in the same place we were months ago.
The greenroom is dim and quiet when I get back. There’s a bottle of water sweating on the table and a folded towel someone tossed on the arm of the couch. I sit down, head in my hands, elbows on my knees.
I’m not shaking. I’m not spinning.
I’m just . . . still.
The crowd’s roar is still fading from my ears, replaced by the sound of my own breath. Slow. Even.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m dragging my body behind me.
I finally feel present. On the tour. Within myself.
Whole? Not yet. But here.
I reach for my notebook without thinking and flip it open—not to the new lyrics, not yet. Just blank pages. A new place to start.
I jot a line that hits before I can question it:
You can’t haunt someone who’s already walked through fire.
I pause.
Then underline it.
There’s a knock at the door. I expect Justine. Maybe Elle.
But no one comes in.
Just a soft knock.
Then footsteps walking away.
I close the notebook and lean back.
Not everything needs to be answered right now.
Some things just need to be written down, left alone, and saved for later.
Like grief.
Like healing.
Like whatever the hell this new chapter is turning into.
FOURTEEN
Each day, we get closer to Charleston. Closer to where my heart—well, part of it—no, just a piece of it is. When I boarded this bus, I didn’t think I’d make it past a week, let alone a month or however long we’ve been on the open road. I was ready to give up on everything. Nothing seemed right without Nola by my side, but now I feel different. I’m angrier than heartbroken at this point. Who the fuck shares a life and then one day decides they need space and completely breaks off communication?
Eleanora, that’s who.
Granted, I haven’t called or texted her; she asked for space. I’m honoring her request. Deep down, I’m tempted to forget to call her when I get to South Carolina.
But she knows I wouldn’t do that.
It’s late, the bus humming beneath me as it coasts down the dark highway. As far as I know, everyone else is sleeping or pretending to be, or if I know Hendrix, scrolling on social media and commenting on posts. He likes the attention, and he enjoys watching people get riled up in the comments on whether the real Hendrix is replying or if it’s someone else. He’s a lot like JD. Honestly, they’re two peas in a pod when it comes to their stupid apps.