The next day,we have our initial soundcheck at the venue — a massive amphitheater attached to our hotel. I stand at my mic, watching crew members test every bolt in the catwalk, making sure the platform rotates properly and lowers without a hitch. I’m frankly amazed they’ve assembled so much of our set in such a short period. At this rate, they’ll be finished with plenty of time to spare before showtime tomorrow night.
With a seating capacity of just under twenty-thousand, this arena is significantly smaller than the Rose Bowl… but I still feel a flurry of nerves in my stomach as I look out at all the empty seats. If I’m being honest with myself, the nerves might have more to do with seeing Ryder than anything. It’s been over twenty-four hours since the pool incident, and I’m half-mad with anxiety.
How did I ever last two years without knowing where he was, what he was doing?
I know the answer to that: I was sleep-walking with open eyes, functioning on auto-pilot. But now, I’m wide awake once more, my every nerve and synapse firing in response to him. He’s never far from my thoughts, lurking like a ghost in the back of my mind. No matter how I try, I can’t shake him out.
I shoot Aiden a glance, my raised brows asking the question I don’t want to voice aloud.
He shrugs. “I’m not his damn babysitter.”
A few minutes later, we hear the sound of the backstage door swinging open. When Ryder steps onstage, Lincoln grabs his sticks and starts a low, mocking drumroll against his snare. His voice drops to his best radio-announcer impression.
“Ladies and gentleman, presenting Mr. RyderRun-Late-Again-And-You’re-Dead-To-UsWoods!”
He slams his cymbals to drive the point home.
I stifle a laugh.
“Sorry,” Ryder mutters, taking his spot at the mic beside mine. I dart a glance at him and all sense of amusement flees. He looks terrible — dark bags under his eyes, as though he hasn’t been sleeping. Try as I might to shut it down, the first thought that springs into my head is that he’s using again.
“You good?” Aiden calls, a similarly anxious look on his face.
“I’m fine.” Ryder raises his mic stand a few inches. “Let’s just play.”
He doesn’t look at me as we run through all the basic light and mic checks, playing the intro toOrbita few times while the sound engineers tweak the speaker volume. They give the thumbs up for us to carry through to the chorus. We switch off verses, totally in sync.
“Now we’re dancing in circles,” Ryder rasps. “Trapped in this orbit…”
“No use fighting fate,” I echo. “Consider this my forfeit.”
Our voices meld together, alternating like a dance.
“You’re the break in my voice, the corner of my mind…”
“I’m the tear in your eye, the love you left behind…”
How fitting, to find tears of my own filling my eyes as the lyrics pour out, unstoppable as the driving bass line Aiden’s laying down with perfection behind us.
Ryder doesn’t notice my silent breakdown, staring straight ahead as he starts the next verse. “You’re the eye of my storm. A short burst of sun…”
The tears streak down my cheeks and pool at the corner of my mouth. I try to sing my part, but it catches in my throat, the lyrics coming out clogged with misery.
“If I thought you’d listen…” My voice splinters horribly. “I’d tell you to run.”
The sob bursts out, uncontrollable — a private sound made public when my microphone amplifies it through the arena.
Linc’s drums fade out.
Aiden’s fingers go still.
Ryder’s head swings toward me, but I turn away before our eyes can meet. Instead, my red-rimmed stare finds Aiden’s shocked one.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, dashing my tears away with the bell-sleeve of my sundress. “I just… Give me one minute. Okay?”
He nods gravely.
Without another word, I leave the stage. I’m almost to the backstage door when I hear footsteps, followed by what sounds undeniably like a scuffle.