Page 22 of Don't Think

He quirks a brow, studying my face harder. “We met like a hundred people. You’re telling me you remembered all their names?” His tone is a perfect mix of half accusing and calling me out.

I pretend I didn’t hear his jab and reach for my laptop, desperate for a distraction from the guilt still gnawing at me. The screen lights up instantly, and in the corner, the little bell icon glows bright red—ninety-two notifications.

Ninety. Two.

My chest tightens and I just stare at it, frozen. That old, familiar dread creeps up from the pit of my stomach. The kind that keeps whisperingwhat if they hate usuntil I’m nauseous.

Suddenly, I regret opening the bloody thing in the first place.

What if someone’s telling us to pack it up, to go home, or to quit while we’re ahead?

Music’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. And the thought that people might hate what we’re putting outthere? It messes with my head more than I’ll ever admit out loud.

I’ve said more than once that we should ditch social media entirely. But James always says it’s the best way to stay close to the fans.

And yeah, he’s probably right.

Still doesn’t make it easier though.

I suck in a breath and swipe the trackpad before I can talk myself out of it. The screen floods with comments, tags, likes—everything hits all at once. My heart stutters, and the anxiety coils tighter around my throat, like it’s trying to choke me out.

My eyes scan along them one by one like I’msearchingfor something. A single complaint. Any proof that we’re not good enough. That they didn’t really like us. That this whole thing is a mistake and we’re wasting our time.

But there’s not a single one.

Every comment says the same thing. How much fun they had, how genuine and caring we came off, and how badly they want us to come back.

By the time I scroll through them all, my cheeks ache from smiling so much. Something I didn’t even realize I was doing.

I rub my eyes, wondering if I’m just seeing what I want to see. But when I open them again? The comments are still there, a little blurrier now, but they’re definitely real.

“They liked us?” I say out loud, the words slipping from my mouth before I realize it.

“That’s what I’m saying!” James shouts, lifting his beer so fast it sloshes over the brim—again.

I glance up to see Gareth smirking over his bottle. “Yeah, man,” he says with a shrug. “They loved us.”

A short, disbelieving laugh slips past my lips while I turn back to the screen. I scroll through the last of the comments until there’s nothing left, then tap into the tags.

It’s the same exact story. Countless pictures and videos appear in a long stream. Shots of us on stage with the yellow stage lights illuminating every one of our faces, and then some of how big the crowd was.

The next video starts from somewhere near the back. It’s grainier than the first few, making it harder to see, but I recognize Gareth’s shout through the speakers, clear as day.

And just like that, the euphoric high I was riding?

Crashes and burns.

A few seconds in, someone nearby yells, and the camera jerks downward. It faces the floor briefly before the fan steadies it and redirects it to a larger portion of the crowd.

My stomach plummets down somewhere near my toes.

When people begin to clear a space, all I can make out is red hair sprawled on the dirty floor, and Allie cradling her head in her hands before a man kneels beside her, and then the video ends.

The regret hits me like a punch to the gut, and I pinch my eyes shut. Seeing it up closer than where I stood at the time? I should have jumped down there and said fuck the show. But what good would that have done?

If I had seen a mark on her, I know I would have lost my cool and tossed the bastard out by his neck.

And that’sexactlywhy we have Don.