When Trent leaves later that morning, he kisses me goodbye, and it’s electric and warm and familiar, all at once.

“See you in thirty,” he rumbles, kissing my forehead. I’m in the robe again, still sleepy. “Oh, and Darce?”

I raise my eyebrows.

“If we’re not going to tell Gavin and Joan about this, you might consider lying better,” he teases.

“He just thought I was tired,” I protest. “Also, shut up.”

Trent laughs, then he’s through the door. I turn, yawning, for the kitchen, and have to step over a pile of clothing.

And I stop. I look at the front door, then back at the clothes strewn everywhere.

And I realize that this morning, Trent’s jeans were exactly in the line of sight from the door, clothes practically pointing a giant arrow to my bedroom.

I rub my eyes and sigh.

I could have had anyone in here, I tell myself. Gavin has no reason to think it was Trent.

Besides us coming in at two in the morning yesterday.

I pour some amount of ground coffee into a filter, pour water into the reservoir, and just watch the coffee drip into the carafe for several moments.

Whatever, he’ll say something if he’s going to get upset about it, I tell myself. Nothing I can do now, so fuck it.

* * *

Rehearsal goes way, way better that day. Trent stops fucking up songs he knows by heart, Gavin’s in a better mood, and Joan seems like she’s taking to us like a fish to water. I think we’re all fucking relieved that yesterday’s disaster doesn’t get repeated.

Afterward, we all go out for dinner together at the sole Thai restaurant in Tallwood, where Gavin has zero beers, Trent has one, and Joan and I each have a couple. Thirty minutes later she’s telling me a story about the time one of her bandmates got silly string in another’s hair and they didn’t speak for six months.

Gavin and Trent are laughing politely, Joan’s laughing so hard she snorts, and I’ve got tears rolling down my face.

Fuck Eddie, I think. We’re still a band without him.

* * *

Trent sleeps over again. I’m pretty tipsy, and even though he’s not, we only make it as far as the dining table in my suite before I’ve gotten us both out of our clothes. Sober Darcy wants to fuck Trent, but drunk Darcy really really wants to fuck Trent.

It’s even louder than the night before.

* * *

The next week is all pretty much like that, though without the part where I get drunk. We rehearse with Joan, we hang out afterward, Trent sleeps in my bed, we wake up in the morning and do it again.

The last day before we leave again, we end rehearsal early so I can have a last checkup at the hospital. Trent insists on coming with me, even though I’m fine, and even though I protest I don’t mind.

Actually, when I’m sitting in the waiting room for forty-five minutes, I’m pretty glad he came.

They clear me to go back on tour, which is good, since I’m doing it no matter what my doctor says. My back still can’t take the friction of the bass strap rubbing across it, so I have to sit, but otherwise, I’m good to go.

Afterward, we get delivery pizza, a bottle of wine, and hang out in Gavin’s suite. When we show up, he’s on the phone, so we put the pizza down on the coffee table and flop on the couch.

“I’m just saying, I don’t know how many interpretations there are for that,” he says, but he’s grinning. “Seemed like quite a decided thing.”

Marisol? I mouth at him, and he nods.

“Listen, Trent and Darcy have just shown up with pizza so I’m off,” he says, then listens. “Sure, if they’re amenable.”

He turns to us.

“You willing to say hello to Marisol?”

I just hold my hand out for the phone.

“She says yes,” Gavin says. “Love you. Talk tomorrow.”

“How’s L.A.?” I ask.

“Same as always,” Marisol says, sounding chipper. “How’s your back doing? Don’t let Gavin talk you into doing shows if you can’t yet.”

I just laugh. Gavin’s got a piece of pizza in his mouth and raises one eyebrow at me.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I got the all-clear and everything. And we got a throne for me to use on stage.”

“Ooh, tell me about the throne,” she says.

Marisol and I chat for a few more minutes. Joan comes in, carrying a half-gallon of ice cream, and puts it in the freezer, then sits in an armchair and grabs a slice of pepperoni.

Trent talks to Marisol for a bit. I eat pizza, drink a glass of wine, and discuss Bigfoot theories with Gavin and Joan. Joan thinks it’s all bullshit, and I think she’s probably right, but Gavin won’t quit winding her up.

We open another bottle of wine. Nigel shows up and practically chugs two glasses, then sits on the couch and actually seems to relax for once.

We finish off the pizza, the wine, and the ice cream. We stay up later than we should, since everything is packed and we’re supposed to be on the road early tomorrow, but this is nice. It feels good, like we’re a real band again and everything.

Of course, I thought that about Eddie sometimes. Maybe I wasn’t wrong. Maybe the members can change sometimes and the band can stay. Things can take a lot of forms.

* * *

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of Trent’s phone buzzing like crazy on his bedside table. He’s already sitting up, blinking, staring at the screen like it’s written in hieroglyphics.

“The fuck?” I mutter.

He just shakes his head.

“It’s fucking four in the morning or something.”

“Sorry,” he says, unplugging his phone and swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his voice rough and grainy with sleep. “Trent Ryder,” he answers it.

There’s a long pause. He looks at me, then walks out of the bedroom, still stark naked, and pulls the door behind him, though he doesn’t quite close it all the way.

“How the fuck are you calling me?” I can hear him ask, and that wakes me up.

It’s a bad phone call. I can tell.