It’s not.
It’s Lily.
“Hey,” she says softly, her expression full of empathy.“You okay?”
I force a tight smile, crossing my arms over my chest.“Just needed some air.”
She doesn’t buy it.Lily never buys it.But she doesn’t push.“Take your time,” she says, her voice calm and steady.“But… don’t let him get to you.”
Too late.
I nod, watching as she heads back inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
The door clicks shut, and the night settles around me, too quiet, too heavy.Joel’s voice lingers in my mind, raw and uninvited, like it’s found a crack in the walls I’ve built and refuses to leave.
I glance toward the glowing sign for Nocté, the bass from inside thumping faintly under my feet.Maybe I should’ve stayed.Maybe I shouldn’t have come at all.
My phone feels cool in my hand as I pull it out, the screen lighting up my face in the dark.
Screw this.
I tap the screen, ordering my Uber.
Joel Price might think he’s rewritten himself, but no song is going to rewrite me.Not again.
CHAPTER8
Joel
There’s a moment when you’re playing a song—when the world narrows, when it’s just you and the music, nothing else.The chords settle into muscle memory, the words roll off your tongue like they were always meant to be there, and for a little while, nothing else matters.
This was supposed to be one of those moments.
At least, that’s what I’d hoped for when I stepped onto the stage.
I’m testing something out tonight.A song I finished this afternoon, still a little rough around the edges, the kind that needs to be played out loud, felt out loud, before I can tell if it actually holds.It’s got that half-finished ache to it—one of those songs that feels like it means something, but I won’t know for sure until I hear it outside my own damn head.
That’s why I’m here.
Not for the crowd.Not for the rush of performing.Just to see if the words hold, if the melody lands the way I want it to.
And for the first half, it’s going…fine.
I’m a little tense, but that’s normal with a new song.My voice is steady.The guitar stays in sync.A few heads turn, some people nod along.At the bar, a girl sways a little to the rhythm, fingers tapping against the side of her drink, and I take it as a good sign.
It’s not perfect, but it’s getting there.
Then, halfway through—it happens.
A flicker of movement in my peripheral.
At first, it barely registers—just another shifting body, another face in a blur of dim lighting and half-drunk conversations.People are always coming and going, weaving in and out of focus.
But something about it pulls at me anyway.
Like a sharp tug on a loose thread.
I glance up.