Page 89 of Anything But Lonely

“Anyway,” I say, drawing out the word over their laughter, “and it’s been over a week since, and she still hasn’t said anything about it.”

“Well, what the fuck is she supposed to say?” Silas asks, wiping a tear from his eye before blowing out a breath. “Damn, I haven’t laughed that hard in years.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap.

“No, he’s right,” Eddie intervenes. “Is she acting weird?”

I exhale, thinking of how the last week has gone by in that comfortable familiarity the three of us have fallen into this last month since coming back on tour.

January has faded into February, and the days have settled into a predictable rhythm—loading onto the bus before sunrise, killing time at soundcheck, grabbing whatever food is available between cities, and piling into green rooms before spending the rest of the night on stage.

Emerson and Crew are a part of that rhythm, whether they’re waiting in the wings or settling into whatever hotel we’re calling home for the night.

During rehearsals and soundchecks, she’s close by, keeping Crew entertained by finding quiet corners for him to color or play and making sure he still has some sense of normal—usually with a coffee in one hand and Crew’s little backpack of toys and snacks in the other.

And sometimes, I catch her watching me. A smirk on her face like she knows something I don’t know.

Other times, she’s the one who catches me. But when I think she’ll strike with her sharp tongue and snark, she just lets her gaze linger for a moment before turning away.

And it’s driving me fucking crazy.

“No, it’s not that,” I answer Eddie, racking my brain for a way to explain that she’s not acting weird—but she’s definitely not acting like her usual self.

The two of us have been in this weird limbo since we met, even more so since the night we had sex.

And then there were those soft moments at the fire station or when she waited up for me to tell me Crew needed his mom.

And then the fucking night she accused me of having someone in my hotel bedroom.

I interlace my fingers behind my neck, shifting my weight from left to right.

“Well, then maybe she’s letting you pretend that nothing happened. Saving you from the embarrassment or an uncomfortable conversation,” Theo offers, and I immediately shake my head.

“You don’t know Emerson,” I answer, and it’s like the reminder I need.

She’s fucking up to something. Waiting for the right moment to strike.

It’s the only explanation.

Emerson has always been good at getting under my skin. She knows exactly which buttons to push, exactly how far she can go before I push back.

But this time, she’s not pushing.

She’s just watching. Waiting.

And somehow, that’s worse.

Because lately, I don’t know what game we’re playing anymore.

And somehow, she’s still winning.

Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I shake out my hands. We’re minutes away from stepping out on stage, and I can feel the crowd’s energy buzzing through my veins.

We switched up our setlist for these few shows to keep things fresh and keep the crowd guessing. Rather than the four of us coming out together in the dark, Theo, Silas, and Eddie hit the stage first and open with a new version of the intro to our first song, creating a little suspense and anticipation.

Then I come out; the lights rise as I reach center stage, and we dive right into our first song.

“Five minutes,” one of the stage managers announces, and I tilt my head to each side, cracking my neck and releasing the tension in my shoulders.