Page 49 of When the Sky Falls

She leans in, eyes twinkling. “Tell me everything. I want soundtrack, setting, choreography. Don’t spare the juicy bits.”

I groan. “You are the worst.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She beams. “I knew it.”

I roll my eyes and stab a piece of grilled zucchini. “Anyway. You’re deflecting.”

Her smile flickers. “What?”

I raise a brow. “How are things with the band?”

That earns me a sigh worthy of an Oscar as she leans back in her chair, draping herself across the booth like she’s auditioning for a melodrama.

“They’re fine. Finally. Album’s done—thank God. Fletch is still being a tortured genius, but at least now he’s a productive tortured genius. And the tour starts in two weeks, so we’re all gearing up to throw ourselves headfirst into chaos.”

“New York is your first stop, right?”

“Yup.” She straightens, the playful air dimming. “It’s going to be… intense.”

I nod. “You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” She shrugs, then grins. “At least Thorin and I get to crash at your place instead of some overpriced shoebox like the rest of the band. Kingston’s insistence is officially the only good thing about having a terrifying, possessive athlete as a best friend’s baby daddy.”

I smirk. “You’re not wrong.”

She stabs a fry and lifts it like a toast. “To living with pro athletes who cook pancakes and open their guest rooms to exhausted best friends.”

I clink my glass to her fry. “To Reese’s runway to stardom and pre-launch samples that didn’t fall apart on the mannequin.”

We both grin.

And just like that, everything feels light again.

The buzz of the restaurant melts into the background, replaced by the rhythm of conversation and clinking cutlery. It feels…normal. Safe. Like this—Reese and me, sharing a meal and soft moments—hasn’t been a craving tucked between texts and missed calls since the day I left Horseshoe Bay.

“So.” I adjust my glass, trying to be casual. “How’s everything really going with the band?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just lifts her drink and watches the ice swirl like she’s searching for clarity in the frost.

“They’re… good,” she says slowly. “The album’s finally done, which is a miracle considering the month we just had. We’re in that weird pre-tour phase where everything feels urgent and behind schedule and you’re not sure whether to panic or celebrate.”

I nod, sensing the shift. “The guys get into the city soon, right?”

“Two weeks.” Her fingers tighten slightly. “Kickoff’s at Madison Square Garden. Management’s losing their minds over the press schedule. It’s a lot.”

I know what she means. This isn’t just another album cycle. It’s the moment. The one where everything gets bigger—venues, headlines, stakes.

“Everyone ready?”

She hesitates. “Most of them are.”

And there it is. The crack.