The night of the gig rolls around, and after two weeks of frantic all-nighters, we’re as ready as we’ll ever be. I’m also more on edge than I can ever remember being for any gig. Ever. Even our very first. More than for major events performing for presidents and some of the biggest stars in the world before we were major stars ourselves. Collecting our first Grammy was less of a big deal. Nothing beats this.

I’ve smoked so many cigarettes, I’m about 90 percent tobacco at this point. So much for my recent commitment to healthy living, but it was either smoking or something stronger. Nicotine coupled with copious amounts of caffeine is the lesser of the available evils, and doesn’t come with the ‘morning after’ feeling, so it won the stimulant roulette.

I feel like I’m about to play for my life—figuratively and literally. Getting the album finished and in a performance-ready state in such a short time was a big ask, and definitely took its toll physically and mentally on all of us. I’m not sure the boys will thank me for it when it’s all over, but as far as I’m concerned, it had to be done, and once again, thankful or not, it shows their commitment to me, and to the band. We do whatever we need to do.

My chops—both hands and voice—are shot to pieces from overuse. Add excess smoking into the mix, and my voice is almost fried. Coming off the world tour and straight into the studio meant that both were a little shaky to start with, and going from that to cramming rehearsals for an album was asking a lot. My throat and fingers are in screaming agony now; I only hope that I have enough juice in the tank to carry off this show tonight. I have to, if it’s the last performance I ever give.

On a normal gig day, the guys know to give me a wide berth backstage; today they’re avoiding me like the plague, and with good reason. I can’t trust myself around anyone, the way I’m worked up right now. Especially not Luke, who has the good sense to stay well away until a few moments before we go on stage. We’ve been avoiding each other as much as possible when you’re in a band with someone and are working almost around the clock to get a show together. Still, outside of rehearsals, I’ve scarcely seen him. It’s for the best for both of us.

Preshow, my nerves are raw, and none of the usual cures are even slightly taking the edge off. After downing enough black Sambuca shots—my usual preshow loosener—to fell a horse, I’m still totally on edge. My entire body is a ball of nervous energy—even my cock is rock-hard and ready for action. I try jerking off several times in my office, but that provides no relief either. If anything, I’m harder afterward, if that’s even possible. I know a long, slow screw is the only thing that will take the edge off, but the only person I want to do that with may as well be a million miles away. Even if she were here, I doubt she’d be interested in fucking me right now, anyway.

Moments before we go on stage, I check myself out in the green room mirror. I’ve shaved off the beard I’ve been sporting since Marniegate, so I look and feel more like my old self. My hair is the usual mass of artfully arranged waves. I’m head-to-toe in all black everything, as ever, but today I’ve upped the ante with a fitted shirt open to the waist and moleskin pants so tight, they look sprayed on. I guess the world is about to know about the adrenaline boner I can’t shake—there’s no hiding anything in these pants. It really will be the world too, as the gig will be live-streamed globally online, just like I wanted.

As I strut on stage to give the performance of a lifetime, I pull on my trademark shades—the perfect defense against the bright studio lights and the emotion in my eyes. Exactly as I had planned when the idea struck me, the room is full to the brim with anticipation-crazed fans, and only select few industry suits and hacks. From the moment the crowd sees me, I have them right where I want them. I’m holding them firmly by the heartstrings, and I have no intention of letting them go until I’ve sung my final note. It’s going to be a bumpy ride, and if I play it right, there won’t be a dry eye in the place when I’m done.

Tonight they’re treated to Alpha Arlo. The Arlo who is primed, physically and mentally, and taking no prisoners. The Arlo who is determined to tear six shades of shit out of their emotions, and those of one particular person who is hopefully viewing from ten thousand miles away. I want to sucker-punch them in the heart and take them on a journey of blood-pumpingly high highs and soul-destroyingly low lows. I want them to be where I’ve been for the past few months: torn, twisted, and left for dead.

Sometimes when I perform, I feel like I’m romancing the crowd, as though each and every woman in the room is my lover, and in giving myself through our music and my performance, I’m bringing her to delicious climax. This is not one of those times. Tonight is the musical equivalent of a mercy fuck. It serves a purpose, but it’s not pretty. Right now I have no love to give—not to the strangers assembled in the room anyway. Just rage, fear, desperation, and even a little contempt. I want to wrench their hearts from their chests, trample them, and leave them mangled on the floor, beating but only with the faintest pulse, an imitation of their former vitality. I want to leave them feeling deflated, defeated, and desperate. Crushed. Just like me.

As I stare out at their tearstained cheeks, observing the subdued stillness that descends as we reach the climax of the show, I know I’ve hit my mark. I didn’t choose to be here; I was compelled to be, and in doing so, I’ve stripped myself bare for the world to see. It’s real, and raw, and fucking painful as all hell, but it’s also exactly what it needs to be. It’s me in all my ugly, twisted glory, and it’s all I’ve got to give.

To the guys’ credit, they’re with me every step of the way, backing me note for note. No matter what we may feel about each other and what water may travel under the bridge of our brotherhood, I know they’ve got my back. Even Luke. Especially Luke. No matter how shitty a brother I am, I can’t deny he’s always there for me.

For a smart guy, I can be a slow fucking learner sometimes. I’ve been dark on Luke for the past few weeks since I found out about his part in Marniegate. Just as he said, all I could see was the parts of the situation I wanted to see, and how they affected me and mine. I viewed him concealing Marnie’s whereabouts as the ultimate in brotherly sabotage, him going out of his way to hurt me.

Now it occurs to me that he was doing what he thought was right in keeping Marnie and me apart so I could cool off, and therefore saving me from myself. Who knows what I would have said or done in the heat of the moment had I gotten to her when shit first went down. I was so full of rage and grief over London, I can’t be sure I wouldn’t have done something that we’d all live to regret.

More than that, in not mentioning his feelings for Marnie to either of us, he put my feelings ahead of his own every day for fifteen years. Even though he knew I wasn’t serious about her, and even though he implored me to end it with her time and time again, he never once actively did anything to end it himself. If that’s not loyalty, I don’t know what the fuck is. Could I honestly say that I would have done the same? No.

I address the crowd for the encore, removing my sunglasses for the first time throughout the entire gig. A collective gasp ripples through the space when the crowd takes in my appearance. I guess the dark circles and red-rimmed eyes aren’t my usual style or my finest hour. Heartache isn’t kind on the features, evidently. My appearance is forgotten momentarily as I throw my glasses into the audience and watch impassively as bodies heave toward them like birds flocking for scattered bread crumbs. When the tussle settles down and I have their undivided attention again, I address the room directly for the first time.

“You would need to have been residing on a faraway planet not to be aware that I’ve been going through some… issues in my life recently, and that’s putting it politely. In fact, I’ve ridden to Hell and back on the Devil’s wings, and it’s not over yet. But you know, when you go through trials, you learn a whole heap. About the world, about the people around you, and more importantly, about yourself.” I pause, looking into the crowd again, to gauge their reaction. They’re still with me. Good.

“What you learn when shit gets real is what determines whether you’ll sink or swim and the person you’ll be when you come out the other side. ’Cause that’s what we’re all here for, right? To learn. If you’re not learning, you may as well be dead. Well, I’m not dead. I’m here, I’m fucking alive, and I’m learning shit the hard way.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed this exclusive showcase as much as we’ve enjoyed bringing it to you. If you like what you heard, remember that the new album featuring all these songs, Fight[or]Flight, is out on the first. Preorder your copy today.” We’re here to sell records, after all.

“Okay, that’s the sales shit over with, so let’s get back to the real talk. This is the last song from us tonight. It’s called ‘Hummingbird.’ I wrote this one back in the summer at a time when I was doing a lot of… soul searching, I guess you could call it. I got this tattoo at the same time.” I rip open my shirt and point to the hummingbird and cage situated over my heart. Another gasp from the room.

“This is here to remind me every day of what I want, what I had, and what I’ve lost. Both the tattoo and the song are dedicated to my beautiful, fragile yet powerful, unpredictable hummingbird. I love you.”

As the chords of the song soar, so do my spirits, and I’m overtaken by an optimism I haven’t felt in months. For me, for London, for Squirt, for us.

We leave the stage and head back to the band room—we’ve taken over the club’s staff room—in subdued silence, which I’m the first to break.

“Well, that was epic.” I stare at a spot on the tiled floor, not wanting to meet anyone’s eyes. I need a break from hard truths for a moment.

“Ya think? They fucking loved it” is Ryan’s lighthearted input. I raise my gaze to stare at him, and he stares back unwaveringly. “We’ve got your back, you know that, yeah?” He’s suddenly serious.

“Yeah, brother. I know. Thank you. All of you.” I pull my eyes from Ryan’s and look pointedly at Luke. He stares me down, defiant and spoiling for a fight. Or at the very least anticipating one. For once, I don’t have any left in me.

“I owe you an apology.” It’s an understatement, but it’s a start, and right now it’s all I’ve got.

He nods, saying nothing but maintaining eye contact. Clearly he’s not going to make this easy for me. Not that I thought he would or should. I deserve to squirm over this, and more besides.

“I’m still hella pissed about what Marnie did, but I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. I understand you were in a difficult position, stuck between the two of us. If you feel even a tenth for Marnie of what I feel for London, I can see why you did what you did, and we all know that if things were the other way around, I would have done the same and not even thought twice. Beyond the video fuckup, I’m sorry I took you for granted. Marnie too, but mostly you. I can’t believe I was so wrapped up in my own shit for so many years that I didn’t see the writing that was so clearly on the wall. Then I had the cheek to question your brotherly loyalty. I’ve been the worst kind of hypocrite. Sorry, dude.” I truly mean it.

“Apology accepted, and credit where credit is due. You acted in anger. It was a shock, and you lashed out. It’s understandable. None of us is at our best in those circumstances. But I never thought I’d see the day that you’d offer me an unprompted and apparently sincere apology for anything. Especially not with witnesses. Wonders will never cease.” A smile pulls at the corner of his lips. The fact that he can see even a remotely funny side to all of this makes him a better human than me. If it’s one thing I know how to do, it’s hold a grudge.

“You know, even when shit’s all fucked up like it is right now, I think she’s a good influence. London, I mean. Even from afar, she’s changed you, man. For sure, a year ago you wouldn’t be saying the things you are now, and the only difference in your life is her and your baby. Who knew all that was needed to bring you back from the dark side was the love of a good woman, then to have her trample all over your heart and leave you for dead?”

“Fuck you, man.” I guess the status quo has been restored. Good, I was starting to feel uncomfortable with all the lovey-dovey bullshit between us. If one of us had cried, I think I would have offed myself just to make it stop.

By the time I get back to Rosemond House much, much later, fighting my way through the crowds of paparazzi and fans, the internet is already alight with talk of the show. It has literally taken the world by storm. There doesn’t seem to be a person between the ages of nine and ninety who hasn’t seen it and loved it. It even has its own hashtag, #hummingbirdIloveyou. Epic. It’s working out exactly as I had hoped. Better, even.

Reading reviews isn’t normally my thing. I give zero fucks what journalists think, and I always figure that people will vote with their feet, one way or the other. If what we do sucks, it will flop. If not, not. No point getting bogged down in the detail provided by so-called experts. This gig is the exception. I have an ulterior motive in wanting it to be as big as possible, and talked about on a global scale, and I get lost down the rabbit hole of the internet reading the reams of commentary, trying to gauge its impact. It’s overwhelmingly positive, with talk of Fight[or]Flight being our best album yet. Wow. There’s also a shit ton of speculation about the meaning of the songs, especially “Hummingbird,” most correctly guessing it’s about London. Perfect.

I write to Squirt again, hoping after that the adrenaline will subside enough for me to get some much-needed sleep.

As usual, there’s no response. I just have to trust in the plan.