“GOOD EVENING, SAN FRANCISCO!” Kyle shouted, his voice echoing through the cheap seats like he was some throaty wrestling announcer keen on propping up the drama in the fight.

The crowd cheered, a rippling wave of sound that would likely always feel thrilling. All those voices joined together to triumphantly cry out in anticipation of the show.

Our show.

I’d been in The Avowed for the bulk of my adult life, and on some level I still wasn’t used to being famous.

That didn’t mean I didn’t like it, though. I twirled a drumstick in my hand, showing off for the crowd while we amped up their energy pre-show. It felt good to see their eyes on me, some of them rapt, others still screaming and shouting.

Kyle walked closer to Jack, checking in with him about the set list. They tuned a little, mostly for show since we had roadies who’d take care of that these days. The ritual of the act was important to them, though.

“Any requests?” joked Jack, as if the crowd were much smaller than the packed stadium we were standing in front of.

“THUNDER CLAP” screamed a feisty blonde woman in the front of the mosh pit.

Jack pretended to consider her suggestion as the din of yelling continued. So many people. So many fans. Yet I could have been playing for an empty hall, for all it mattered.

We’d taken a good amount of time to write this album because our reunion had been so well-received. It was hard to avoid the dread of sophomore slump, because even though it was our eighth studio album, it was the second one after getting back together.

And I’d written a special song on it. My first sincere attempt at singing a solo vocal part. The prospect of performing it every night of the next few months was rolling in my stomach unpleasantly, though. Because it was about Kaycee, and I’d been stupid enough to write it before I told her how I felt. Or maybe more accurately, before I had to feel her push me away.

Now I had to drag that monument to her around, singing like I could bear to think about her without flinching from pain.

Even so, I wished she were here. Everyone else could evaporate, for all I cared. If I caught a glimpse of red hair in the crowd, my mind tricked me into thinking it was her, stomach full of the kind of butterflies you really think only happen to fourteen-year-old girls.

Wrong.

I was a six-foot-two man, tattooed enough to make any self-respecting parent keep fourteen year olds far, far away from him. I drummed like I’d been possessed by a demon that liked to hit stuff. Toured the world with a massively famous band, and all the while, I guess I had a serious case of butterflies.

They were special butterflies, though, and they were reserved for the one person on earth I longed to see.

Kaycee.

So when we galloped into our first song, even though it was the same thrill I’d never gotten used to all these years, there was an ache in my stomach. A gap. Something missing.

My mind returned to the gut-wrenching sensation of Kaycee, in front of me, listening to my declaration of love. Taking it in, but responding in a way that crushed me. After we’d talked, I was certain that any remnants of optimism I’d had were compressed into a dark, sparkling diamond inside. The shards cut into me, stabbing at me in random intervals so all I could do was stumble through the days trying not to collapse.

I still texted her, though. Even though it hurt more than I thought possible, even though I agonized over each word, each piece of punctuation as if it were the lyrics to a new song that would debut to millions of listeners. She needed my support. It was the least I could fucking do, give her that.

Somehow, the song ended and I’d played it through without making mistakes, despite my mind being elsewhere completely. It was time for my new number. But I couldn’t do it.

I shook my head at Kyle, wanting to stay safe behind my drum kit. The audience wasn’t the problem, it was the lyrics. Oh, and the fact I’d be singing and playing lead guitar for it. Exposing myself, my heart, through a song that had been meant for Kaycee, when I still thought we had a chance.

When I still thought that there was any kind of future where we’d be together.

God, I’d been an idiot.

Though Kyle saw me balking at the prospect of playing the next song, he didn’t know about what happened between me and Kaycee yet. I hadn’t had the strength to relive the pain by telling him. So he grinned in response to my panic, likely assuming it was just garden-variety stage fright, and bellowed out the introduction to the piece.

“This next one’s a new ditty by my favorite drummer, Winston! Everyone give it up for my older brother, who’s learned some chords and will be playing for you to show off his new skills. It’s a doozy, so have your tissues ready.”

The hammering of my heart was ludicrously loud now, enough so that I wondered if I was having a heart attack. Hell of a way to go, onstage in front of thousands.

But I walked to the front of the stage, steps never slowing, death not arriving for me despite the feeling of doom that had surrounded my body, pervaded each and every vein with a buzzing, relentless drone. I took the guitar from Kyle, my hands so sweaty that I nearly dropped it, the neck sliding dramatically while I swung the strap around my shoulders.

Kyle clapped me on the back, still grinning, and went to the drum kit to add a bit of rhythm to my number.

Which I definitely had to play now. It’d be hard as anything to back out now.

So I faced the audience, fiddling with the tuning of the guitar even though I knew it was fine. I had to buy a few seconds to calm myself, a moment before I had to sing all the words that expressed feelings I wanted to bury twenty feet deep now.

Feelings I’d been wrestling with at night, smoky and tempestuous in my dreams. I woke up each morning with memories of Kaycee that had never existed, that only lived in those night-time fantasies: us buying a house together, kissing, laughing.

It nearly wrecked me to play the song. For the first few chords, my throat was so tight I could barely whisper the lyrics into the mic. Then I recovered, staring into the bright stage lights, pretending no one was here to listen. Desperately telling myself that nothing was real, let alone this moment.

I hadn’t been turned down by the only woman I’d ever loved.

I hadn’t been adrift for countless days, thinking about how I could have said things differently.

I hadn’t lost her.

If I played the song just right, I could pretend. I could imagine.

I could almost see her there, standing in the crowd with her hair brightly shining, eyes locked on mine.

My fingers were sore already, more accustomed to the smooth wood of my drumsticks than the way guitar strings dug into your skin. But that pain vanished instantaneously while my heart seized.

Was that Kaycee?

Again, I could have sworn I saw her. Upon closer inspection, the hair was too harshly red, a bottled color that couldn’t capture the true glow of Kaycee’s natural locks. The girl’s face was all wrong, too.

Throughout the song, though, I kept scanning the audience. If only.

I didn’t know what I’d do if I found her, anyway. Only knew that I had to keep looking. Hoping. Imagining.

And then I was done. My legs began to shake, completely unlike anything I’d experienced at a show before. Kyle came up to grab his guitar back from me and I saw a silent concern furrow his brow when he met my eyes.

I nodded, shaking off his worry as if I were fine. But I knew I wasn’t. I knew that I could never sing that damn song again, not while Kaycee and I were like this.

I barely stumbled back to the stool behind my drums and played through the rest of the set like a zombie. The guys were lucky I had so much muscle memory from previous shows.

“Dude, you ok?” said Jack, watching me slump down the stairs to the dressing room later that night.

I blinked. “Not sure I can keep doing this,” I said. He took in the pallor of my face, the sheen of sweat on my neck, and nodded thoughtfully. I mentally thanked him for his understanding. Of course, Jack had been through worse. He knew how to handle things.

Kyle had bounded ahead, his energy a frantic motion buzzing after the show. When I pushed through the door and reached our backstage living room area, where the warm, dim lighting that normally soothed me felt stifling and claustrophobic, Kyle came up to me.

“Win,” he said. “Someone wants to see you.” He nodded towards the door that led to my dressing room. Jack had tossed himself onto the sofa and was cracking open a beer while he chatted with Stevie. I was sure Kyle would call Adelaide as soon as he finished with me.

But what was he doing?

If this was another attempt to jokingly wean me off Kaycee by finding groupies who looked like her, I wasn’t sure if I could take it. Though I searched Kyle’s eyes for a hint of humor, I found none.

“It’s important,” he added. And I could sense, through the oppressive fog of my emotions, that he meant it. This wasn’t some stupid joke or light-hearted groupie setup. Suddenly, my heartbeat was hammering at the double-tempo it had been racing through the entire show.

I couldn’t take more bad news.

“No one died,” Kyle said. It was as if he’d read my mind, followed the catastrophic trajectory I was sure showed on my face. “Just go in.”

The nervous sweat prickling my skin was cold, even though my face felt flushed and overheated. Each step towards the door seemed to reverberate through my skeleton as if I’d suddenly gained twice the gravity normally found on our planet.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to be her or not. Kaycee wouldn’t come all the way up here to say hi.

Anyone else would be a profound disappointment.

Even now, though I knew what I wanted, I couldn’t fully bring myself to face it. All I could do was put one foot in front of the other, reach out to the doorknob, and turn. Inside, the lighting was brighter, illuminating the mirror and desk so that I could see my reflection. It was ghastly.

I stepped inside before I could see her, sitting in the corner armchair with her arms crossed tightly against her chest.

Kaycee.

She was here. I was here. And I had no fucking clue what that meant.