Page 194 of Mending Hearts
Luca jogs over, breathless. “You’re really doingjustthree songs?”
“That’s the deal,” I tell him.
“You’ll do ‘Mending Hearts,’ right?”
I smirk. “You negotiating the set list now?”
“It’s their favorite,” he insists, gesturing at the cluster of kids pretending not to eavesdrop.
“They have good taste.”
He hesitates, then grins. “It’s about him, isn’t it?” He nods toward Ollie.
“I don’t confirm or deny artistic inspiration,” I say solemnly.
“Sure,” he replies, unconvinced.
Ollie finishes his conversation and makes his way toward us. “You ready?” he asks.
“For three songs in a gym with questionable acoustics?” I glance around at the exposed beams and scuffed floor. “Absolutely.”
He shakes his head, amused. “You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly, just for me.
“I know.”
“And you’re sure?”
“I wrote half the album in hotel rooms while you were in Tucson,” I remind him. “I can handle a gym.”
He studies me, like he’s still calibrating even after all these years. “You’re not exhausted?” he asks.
“I’m always exhausted when on tour.” Plus, I’m seriously not getting any younger. We’ve been slowing down and may announce that next year’s tour might be the last for a while.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I soften slightly. “I’m good.”
It’s true.
Eleven years sober last month.
Eleven years of therapy, of meetings, of unlearning the reflex to numb instead of feel.
The chaos that used to live under my skin doesn’t dominate the way it did. It still flickers sometimes, especially mid-tour, when sleep is inconsistent and adrenaline spikes. But I know it now. I don’t run from it.
I don’t drink it quiet.
Ollie reaches up and adjusts the collar of my jacket without thinking, the same way he used to straighten his jersey before stepping onto the court. “You’re going to make them lose their minds,” he says.
“That’s the idea.”
He leans in and kisses me. It’s quick.
The kids still gasp like we’ve done something scandalous.
“Gross!” someone calls.
“Focus!” Marco shouts back.
