Hexed into the Spotlight

 I have a new illustrated story to share. This one was helped along by ChatGPT. All the characters, dialog, plot and settings are mine. ChatGPT took my long, very detailed, rambling, stream of conscousness prompts and formatted them into something coherent and added bits of sensory detail. I used AI to create the illustrations too.  Here is the result.

The RV sat parked at the edge of a gravel lot behind a faded dive bar off Interstate 8. The paint was chipped and sun-bleached. A plastic devil skull dangled from the rearview mirror, gently swaying as wind beat against the sides. From the outside, it looked like something left behind by a touring act that never made it past the second encore.

Inside, the air was thick—an acrid blend of cigarette smoke, old beer, leather, and the sharp tang of burnt incense. The tiny space was dim, lit mostly by the flickering flame of a black candle atop the kitchenette. On the counter next to it lay a stack of tarot cards, a rusted dagger used as a paperweight, and a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.

Celeste sat sprawled on a tattered bench seat near the window, legs crossed, a long, white cigarette held delicately between her fingers. The nail polish on her long nails gleamed cherry red, matching her full lips. Her outfit was unapologetically provocative—tight black mini dress with lace trim clinging to her athletic form, a weathered leather jacket with spikes on the shoulders, and laddered fishnet stockings stretched over toned thighs. Her black platform heels tapped idly on the floor in a syncopated rhythm. Her long, wavy hair flowed over her shoulders like smoke itself—dark black at the roots that slowly ignited into fire-engine red at the ends.

Across from her sat her daughter, Evie, on a stained cushion, perched like she didn’t want to make contact with any surface longer than necessary. Her white-blonde hair framed a porcelain face, her expression somewhere between strained civility and deep disgust. She wore a conservative navy-blue dress that ended well past the knees, flat black shoes, and only the faintest touch of makeup. Everything about her screamed order. Control. A life carefully curated to avoid becoming anything like the woman in front of her.

The silence was a coiled spring between them.

“I had to call three old bandmates, your ex-bassist’s, and finally track down your bassist’s burner phone just to find you,” Evie said, her voice low and steady. “I shouldn't have to go through all that just to see you on Christmas”

Celeste exhaled a long stream of smoke and tilted her head. “I’m on the road a lot. It’s hard, Evie.”

“No, what’s hard is being your daughter, Celeste.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she smoothed it over with practiced grace. “You’ve made it impossible to have a normal relationship with you. You move more often than I do laundry — and I like clean clothes. You smell like an ashtray and a brewery. And this—” she gestured around the cramped RV “—this isn’t a life. It’s a graveyard.”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, sweetheart.”

“I came here to tell you I’m done. I’m not chasing you anymore. Not emotionally. Not physically. I’m done pretending that you care anything about me.”

Celeste flinched, but only slightly. She brought the cigarette to her lips again. “That’s a hell of a thing to say to your mom.”

“Mom?” Evie let out a bitter laugh. “You're my mother, technically, but you've never been my Mom. You missed almost every one of my birthdays, my junior high graduation, every single recital, even when I got accepted into the National Honor Society—you sent a text two days late. And when I show up, you’re here… in this filthy thing, reeking of beer and smoke like some aging groupie from a band that peaked before I could walk.”

Celeste’s expression hardened. “It’s not a ‘filthy thing.’ It’s my home. And I’m not a groupie. I'm in the band. Hell, I am the band.”

Evie snorted softly. “Yeah. A band that hasn’t made money in years. A band you chose over me.”

“I didn’t choose it over you. I chose it because I had a dream. I couldn’t just give that up.”

“Did you dream of being a stripper too?”

Celeste’s face turned to stone. “Exotic dancer and I did what I had to do to pay your child support. That's what Moms do. They make sacrifices for their kids.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault you’re a stripper?” Evie snapped, eyes wide. “You’re blaming me?”

“That's not what I meant,” Celeste growled. “It's a hard world out there and sometimes you have to choose between bad and even worse.”

Evie stood, the air around her crackling with restrained fury. "It’s not the world, Celeste—it’s you. You made choices. You’re 36, but you dress like a goth teen clinging to a dream that died a decade ago. Still chasing a spotlight that’s never coming back. And what’s with all this occult stuff everywhere? Are you some kind of witch now? Burning sage for good luck?"

Celeste’s voice dropped to a low growl. “It’s part of the band's new image. It's branding. Mystique."

Evie continued, "You could have said yes when Dad proposed. You could have quit the band when he did. We could’ve been a family.”

Celeste stood, cigarette forgotten in the ashtray. “And live in the suburbs? Host book clubs? Wear cardigans and attend PTA meetings? Your father gave up like a coward. He ran to a 9-to-5, a house with a white fence and no soul. You want that life? Fine. But don’t you dare come here judging me for not wanting to fade into nothing like he did.”

Evie rose too, her face flushed with hurt and fury. “He raised me. He was there. You weren’t. You were off in some dive bar God knows where or dancing naked around a pole for drunk horny men. And all this—” she motioned again to the pentagrams and spell jars lining the RV walls, “—isn’t mystique. It’s delusion.” 

“You entitled little brat,” Celeste hissed. “You think you’re better than me because Daddy paid for your fancy prep school and SAT tutors? You’ve never worked a day in your life. You’ve never gone hungry. You’ve never been left with nothing but a suitcase and a half-pack of smokes wondering where your next gig is coming from.”

Evie’s voice dropped. “Maybe that’s because I had one parent who actually cared about me and my future.”

“You know what?” Celeste snapped. “Your father was a quitter. He had talent. Fire. And he threw it all away to become another pencil-pushing zombie. You idolize him because he gave you safety, but safety’s not the same as living. I lived, Evie. And if I had to do it all again—yes, even the dancing—I would. Because at least I had the guts to chase something real.”

Evie was at the door, trembling. “I'm done with this, with you. You’ll never see me again, 'Mom'.”

“Evie, wait—” Celeste called, her voice cracking.

Evie slammed the door shut on her way out.

Celeste glared out the passenger window of the RV, watching her daughter climb into a white Prius. “You’ll be back.”’ Her voice was low and guttural. "I'll make sure of that."

Twelve weeks later, Evie pulled her white Prius into the east lot of the civic center. The engine ticked as it cooled, and a city bus hissed to a stop down the block. She shifted into park, turned the key, and drew a long breath before unbuckling her seatbelt.

She was auditioning for the San Jose Bright Start String Quartet. It was her first year of eligibility. After so many years of violin lessons, she'd finally perform for an audience that wasn't just the performers' parents.

She wore her pale yellow dress—the one she usually saved for church or violin recitals. It was modest and airy, cinched at the waist, with sleeves just past the shoulder and a subtle embroidered hem. Her white-blonde hair had been brushed straight and neat, flowing down her back like a veil of silk. She’d pinned it so it wouldn’t fall forward. No makeup, no accessories. Just clean, precise lines—how she liked things to be.

Reaching across the seat, she took her violin case and slipped her phone from her purse. The lock screen blinked to life.

4:44 PM.

Early. As always.

She stepped out, adjusted the strap on her shoulder, and walked across the lot toward the civic center entrance. Her flats tapped softly on the concrete. The air smelled faintly of mulch and exhaust. She paused at the big glass doors, glanced at her reflection, smoothed the skirt of her dress… and pushed them open.

And then—

The world stuttered.

One blink.

Two.

Gone was the crisp tiled lobby and echoing quiet of the civic center.

Instead—

She stood in a dingy, smoke-choked bar. A wall of stale beer and sweat stung her nose. The lighting was a greasy yellow, casting long shadows and highlighting every water stain on the ceiling. Torn leather booths lined the walls. Neon signs flickered over a grimy bar top coated with rings from neglected drinks. The air hummed with the feedback of an old speaker, and the floor was sticky beneath her shoes.

Evie was still in her yellow dress—but her violin case was gone.

In her hands: a pair of wooden drumsticks.

Heart hammering, she turned in a slow circle, trying to orient herself. A small stage was tucked in the back of the room, lit by a crooked rig of old lights and surrounded by fraying curtains. Three people were up there, watching her.

Front and center stood a woman with metallic silver hair, a long fringe falling just past thick black eyeliner. Her makeup was heavy—smoky black eyeshadow, deep burgundy lips, and cheekbones carved like they’d been sculpted from ice. A cigarette dangled from her fingers as she cradled a glittering purple electric guitar. She stood in front of a mic like it belonged to her.

To her left: a broad-shouldered man covered in sleeve tattoos, his arms wrapped around a deep red bass guitar. He had a thick beard and wore a black tank top and ripped jeans, grinning like this was all a joke.

To her right: a wiry guy with sharp features and a mop of curly hair held yet another guitar and a guy who looked like her was the wiry guy's brother was seated in front of a vintage-looking electronic keyboard. He adjusted a knob absently and didn't look up.

The drum kit at the back of the stage sat empty.

The silver-haired woman leaned forward and said into the mic, voice gravelly, “Are you deaf? I said you’re up.”

Evie blinked at her, frozen. “What… what happened? Where am I? I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

The woman exhaled a plume of smoke and cocked her head, suddenly softer. “Look, we’ve all been where you’re at. You’re here now, you’ve got your sticks—come on up and let us hear you play.”

The keyboardist added gently, “Don’t be nervous. We won’t judge you.”

The bassist laughed. “Well, that’s not exactly true. It is an audition. But hey, we won’t judge you harshly. Even if your drumming sucks balls.”

Evie wanted to run. Her palms were slick on the sticks. She didn’t know how to play drums. She had never played drums. But something inside her twisted—a deep compulsion. She didn’t understand it, but she knew the only way forward was through.

She climbed the short stairs to the stage.

The drum stool was cool beneath her as she sat. Her fingers settled on the sticks with an eerie familiarity. She adjusted the hi-hat pedal with her foot. The other band members looked at her expectantly.

The woman nodded once. “We’re doing Reapers by Muse. Count us off.”

Evie took a shaky breath, tapped the sticks together, and called out: “One, two, three, four!”

And then—her body moved.

Her foot worked the bass drum pedal in perfect time, syncopated and powerful. Her left hand snapped the snare, her right controlled the cymbals like she’d been born with a metronome in her blood. Her wrists flowed through triplets and rimshots. It wasn’t her brain doing the work—it was something deeper, something instinctive.

The band kicked in: slashing guitar riffs, thunderous bass, synthesized ambiance from the keys. Evie held the pocket, drove the beat, exploded into the chorus fills with mathematical precision and raw power.

She lost herself in the song.

Every beat was a truth she hadn’t known she’d carried. Every crash of the cymbals erased a fear she’d thought permanent. She was on fire and ice, flowing but anchored, creating and becoming something impossible.

As the final notes rang out and the reverb faded, there was a long moment of silence.

“Damn,” the bassist breathed. “Girl, you just carved that shit into stone.”

The woman smiled at her, something unreadable behind her black-lined eyes. “Name’s Nyx. That’s Griff on bass, the guy on keys is Mars and his brother on lead guitar is Zane. We're Dead Halo.”

Zane gave a mock salute. “You’re good. Like… crazy good.”

Griff nodded. “We’ve got more people to see, but you’re the one to beat. Seriously.”

Nyx asked,“Got a number? We’ll call Monday with our decision.”

Evie blinked, still dazed. “Uh… yeah. Sure.” She rattled it off. Nyx jotted it down on the back of a cigarette pack with a black Sharpie.

And just like that—She was back.

Standing at the front doors of the civic center. Her hand gripped the handle of her violin case. The evening sun shone through the glass. The smell of smoke clung to her yellow dress. Her hair smelled like it too. The drumsticks were gone.

She fumbled for her phone.

4:59 PM.

She still had time.

Clutching her case, Evie darted inside and headed for the audition rooms, flats whispering across the polished floor. Her mind reeled. That was no dream, not a hallucination. It had been real. Evie swallowed hard as she climbed the steps toward the rehearsal suite. Thank God she was always early. But she was rattled. The rules of the world had changed. And Celeste had something to do with it.

“Evie Monroe,” the moderator called a few minutes later.

She moved to the center of the room on autopilot, violin in hand, bow trembling slightly in her grip. Four judges sat behind a long table. One of them offered a tight smile. She nodded politely. Tried to still her breathing.

The first few notes came out dry. She adjusted, found her rhythm—until an image of that bar, sitting behind a drum kit, playing with a rock band, flashed across her mind. Her fingers faltered. A missed note. She covered quickly, pressed on, but she could feel the tension tightening her muscles.

She had drilled the piece for weeks. Over an hour each day in her room, the notes burned into muscle memory. She had played it perfectly just that morning. But her fingers trembled now and her tempo was slightly off. She clipped a run in the middle and overcompensated with too much vibrato. By the end she couldn’t even meet the judges’ eyes. 

She stood, bowed stiffly, muttered "Sorry" and then walked out without waiting for feedback. She didn’t need it. She already knew that she'd blown the audition.

As she walked down the Civic Center steps, violin case tight in her grip, she pulled out her phone and called her mother.

Voicemail. She tried again. Voicemail. “Pick up, Mom,” she muttered, dialing a third time. Still nothing.

Then her phone buzzed.

A text from Celeste: “If you want answers you’ll have to see me again. I’m in Flagstaff tonight. Tomorrow it’s Gallup followed by Amarillo and then on to Oklahoma City. Your call where we meet.”

Evie stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. The letters on the screen were sharp as a knife’s edge. Her thumb hovered. She opened the map app. 

San Jose, CA to Flagstaff, Az: 721 miles. 

No way she could get there tonight. And she had school the next three days, so that ruled out Gallup and Amarillo. But Oklahoma City—she could make the Friday night performance if she flew. She booked a flight. Round trip. One night only. She also reserved a hotel near the airport along with a rental car. It was making a dent in her savings, but her future was on the line, so it was worth every penny.

Her fingers trembled as she drove home.

That night, the scent of garlic and butter greeted her before she even walked through the door. 

"How was the audition? Lauren, her stepmom, asked when Evie entered the kitchen. She wore a pale blue blouse under a soft ivory cardigan, hair clipped neatly, lipstick a gentle rose.

"It could have gone better," Evie said.

"Oh, I'm sure you did fine. And if not, it's God's will." Lauren shot her a sweet smile. "Can you set the table and then get your father? I'm almost done with this? He's in the study."

Dinner was lemon herb chicken over angel hair pasta with roasted vegetables — colorful, perfectly seasoned. Lauren loved to cook.

Evie sat quietly through the meal, her thoughts churning.

Finally, as her fork scraped the last of the pasta, she said, “I need to tell you both something.”

Her dad looked up from his plate. “Yeah?”

Lauren’s posture shifted slightly. She was listening closely.

Evie took a breath and told them. About the teleportation. About the club. About the drums and the rock band audition. About reappearing at the civic center in time for her real audition. She didn't mention blowing that audition. When she finished, they were silent.

Greg, her dad, leaned back. “That’s… a lot.”

Lauren folded her hands in her lap. “Evie, sweetheart… are you feeling okay? Is the stress getting to you? We could pray together.”

“I know how it sounds,” Evie said quickly. “I wouldn’t believe it either. But it happened. And now Celeste says that if I want answers, I need to meet her. She’s doing shows all week. I booked a flight to Oklahoma City on Friday night.”

Greg looked surprised. “You're going to see her again? I thought that you'd put her behind you.”

“I need answers. Dad. She’s playing in Flagstaff tonight. Gallup tomorrow. Amarillo on Thursday and then Oklahoma City.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like she’s doing Route 66 in reverse.”

Evie blinked. “What?”

Greg smiled faintly and sang under his breath:

“And Oklahoma City is mighty pretty… You see Amarillo, Gallup, New Mexico, Flagstaff, Arizona…”

Lauren picked up the next line, her voice clear and sweet:

“Don’t forget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino…”

Evie stared at them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“‘Route 66,’” Greg said. “Old rock standard. Covered by everybody. It’s about a highway that used to go from Chicago to L.A, Sounds like your mom is taking it backwards.”

Lauren’s expression had tightened. “Evie, I don’t like this. Flying out to see her like this, alone, no plan…”

Greg sighed. “I agree. I mean, it’s your money. And you’re 18. But I’d rather you waited. At least let me go with you.”

“I need to do this myself,” Evie said. “I need to understand what’s happening. She said she’d explain.”

Greg exchanged a glance with Lauren, then leaned in. “If things get weird, you leave. You call me. You don’t go anywhere alone with her if it doesn’t feel right. You understand?”

Evie nodded. “I promise.”

Lauren hesitated, then reached across the table and took Evie’s hand. “I’ll be praying for you.”

Evie smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

That night, in the quiet of her bedroom, Evie curled beneath her comforter, staring up at the ceiling. The shadows seemed longer than usual. She closed her eyes and prayed, "No more weirdness until Friday."

But even as sleep reached for her, something deep in her bones told her the strangeness had only just begun.

The sky over Oklahoma City was turning a bruised shade of scarlett when Evie pulled into the parking lot of the small music venue. The place was tucked between a shuttered pawn shop and a vape lounge that pulsed with blue light. A flickering sign above the door read The Hollow Room in crooked red neon. 

Evie parked the rental car, a gray Honda Civic, and turned off the ignition. Her hands were stiff from gripping the steering wheel. She’d come straight from school to the airport in San Jose, barely made her flight, rented the car at Will Rogers Airport, and drove here in one shot. No dinner. No change of clothes. No idea what was waiting for her.

She stepped out of the car and pulled her backpack from the back seat. She walked to the entrance, heart thudding with every step. A massive man stood at the door. Shaved head. Black vest. Arms like tree trunks folded across his chest. His eyes narrowed as she approached.

“I’m here to see Celeste Monroe,” Evie said, her voice steady despite the anxiety twisting in her stomach. “My name’s Evie.”

He didn’t move. Just clicked a small radio on his belt and muttered, “Some girl is here to see Celeste.”

A short burst of static. Then a woman's voice said, "I'll escort her. Be just a second."

The man gave her a slow once-over and then jerked his thumb toward a side hallway. “Follow her,” he grunted as a woman in black appeared from the shadows behind him.

The woman looked like she belonged here — mid-thirties, sharp cheekbones, black jeans, combat boots, leather jacket. She didn’t say anything. Just turned on her heel and started walking.

Evie followed her down a narrow, dim hallway lined with old posters, peeling paint, and the faint scent of mildew. Somewhere above them, the muffled sound of laughter and tuning guitars filled the space. At the end of the hall, the woman opened a door marked Green Room in faded Sharpie. She gestured Evie in, then closed the door behind her.

The room was cramped and cluttered. Empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers littered the coffee table. A muscular man with long gray-streaked hair tied back in a ponytail was seated on a torn leather couch restringing a bass guitar. Another man, also pushing forty, was fiddling with a phone, his fingers covered in silver rings. A third man was pacing, stretching his arms and cracking his neck like he’d been sitting too long in a van.

They looked up when Evie walked in.

Celeste stood near a mini-fridge. She was wrapped in a skin-tight black dress that barely reached her legs. Fishnets were visible between the dress and the black thigh high boots. She hadn't changed her hair color, still black on top, bleeding into fiery crimson around her shoulders. A guitar was slung over her back.

Celeste glanced at the others. “Can you give us a moment?.”

The men rose without argument. A couple gave Evie brief, unreadable glances as they filed out. One nodded politely. The door shut behind them.

Evie stood stiffly, backpack still slung over one shoulder. “Why did I have to fly all the way to Oklahoma for you to talk to me?” she asked, her voice edged with frustration.

Celeste didn’t respond immediately. She pulled out her cigarette pack, tapped one free, and lit it with a silver lighter. She took a drag, then — without a word — offered the pack to Evie.

Evie blinked at it, then scoffed. “No, I don’t want a cigarette,” she snapped. “I want answers.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow, unbothered. She slid the pack back into her pocket.

“One moment I’m at the San Jose Civic Center,” Evie continued, “and the next I’m in some gross dive bar auditioning to be a drummer in a rock band. I don’t know how I got there. I don’t play drums. I shouldn’t have been able to play anything — but I did.”

Celeste took another drag and asked flatly, “How’d you play?”

Evie hesitated. “Amazing,” she admitted. “But I shouldn’t have. I don’t know drums. Never touched them in my life. I don’t understand how any of it is possible.”

“That’s because,” Celeste said, her voice low and measured, “all your training — all your violin lessons, all your long practice hours — they were redirected. Shifted to the drums. You didn’t lose your skill. You just changed the instrument.”

Evie’s mouth went dry. “But how? Why?”

Celeste’s gaze sharpened. Her jaw tightened as she flicked ash again and said coldly, “Why? Because you stood in judgment of me. Like you had the right. You said you’d never see me again. I didn’t like that.”

Evie flinched at the bitterness in her mother’s tone.

“As to how,” Celeste added with a dismissive shrug, “let’s leave that a mystery for now.”

Evie exhaled through her nose, trying to stay calm. “Okay. I learned my lesson. I’m sorry for judging you. I’ll still track you down every year. Happy?”

Celeste snorted, smoke curling from her nostrils. “Hardly. We’re just getting started, little girl. You’re going to see what it’s like to live my life. Then you can look down your nose at yourself.”

Evie shook her head. “You were right. I had no right to judge you. I was mad because I wanted to be more a part of your life. Do you have any idea how many times I bragged when I was little that my mom was the lead singer and guitarist of a rock band? I’ve played your songs so many times on Spotify that the algorithm thinks I’m obsessed with hard rock.”

That seemed to hit a nerve. Celeste sighed and chewed her lip for a moment, thinking. Then she spoke softly.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Join me on stage tonight. Sit in for Gunther on a couple songs. You’ll still know how to play. The drums haven’t left you.”

Evie stared. “You’re serious?”

Celeste nodded. “Afterward, we’ll go to The Velvet Trap. They’ll love a mother-daughter act. You’ll make enough in tips to cover your flight.”

Evie recoiled. “You’re insane if you think I’m going to dance naked on stage.”

Celeste smirked. “Your other option is to say yes when the band calls you Monday. You’re the front-runner. You’ll probably have to drop out of school, but I’m guessing you’ve already got enough credits to graduate.”

Evie stared in disbelief. “I’ve been accepted to Stanford,” she said, voice trembling. “I’m not giving that up to be in a stupid band. I want to be a doctor. I want to help people. Do something meaningful with my life.”

Celeste’s smile vanished. Her expression turned cold. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?” she said flatly. “Fine. Do it the hard way. See if I care. Let me know when you’ve lost that stick up your ass — then we can talk.”

Evie opened her mouth to apologize, the words already forming — I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. Please don’t be angry — but it was too late. Celeste had turned her back.

“Get out,” she said. “Unless you want me to call security.”

Evie stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding. Then she turned and left the green room in silence. The hallway felt darker on the way out. Outside, the wind had picked up. It whipped at her hair as she walked to the car with numb fingers. Somewhere inside, her mother was lighting up another cigarette, maybe tuning her guitar.

Evie slid into the driver’s seat and sat in the dark. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of her own future. Because her mother had powers — real ones. And Evie had seen what she could do when she was hurt. And Evie had hurt her. She didn’t know what would happen next. But she knew — deep down — that this was just the beginning.

She flew home Saturday morning, bleary-eyed and silent through the whole airport routine. Her backpack felt heavier than it should have, and not just from the textbooks she'd never cracked open. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw her mother’s face — sharp, mocking, the cigarette smoke curling like a curse around every word.

“Okay, do it the hard way.”

What did that mean?

She kept asking herself that the whole weekend, like the answer might slip into her thoughts if she stared hard enough at her bedroom ceiling. Dancing at The Velvet Trap had sounded like the hard way. And yet Celeste had called it the easy way — like there was something worse waiting in the wings.

By Sunday night, Evie was exhausted from thinking about it, from going over every second of the conversation. She didn’t sleep much. She barely ate. She felt like she was standing on the edge of something vast and dark.

Thankfully there was no school on Monday—it was spring break, and she had the whole week off. That was a relief, since she hadn’t touched any schoolwork over the weekend. The IB program was intense, and once you fell behind, it was hard to catch up. Naturally, her teachers had assigned extra homework to keep everyone busy during the break.

She was working through a particularly hard Calculus problem when her phone rang with an unknown number. Her fingers were trembling as she accepted the call.

“Hello?”

“Evie? It's Nyx from Dead Halo. I…we…wanted to say congrats. You crushed the audition. You're in the band.”

Evie’s breath caught.

“I’m honored,” she said. “I really am. I’d love to say yes, but... I need to be upfront about my schedule. I’ve got school Monday through Friday. I’m class president, so I have meetings on Wednesdays after school. I’ve already been accepted to Stanford. I’m planning to start in September.”

There was a long pause on the line.

Then Nyx said flatly, “Why did you audition if you’ve got all that going on and you’re just gonna quit in four months?”

Evie felt her stomach drop. “I—I didn’t plan to audition. I just ended up there. It’s complicated. But I’m really sorry if I wasted your time.”

Nyx let out a breath. “Look. It was an easy decision with you, but we'll need to do some callbacks for anyone else. So, if you change your mind about college and want to be in a great band, call us before Sunday. I really hope you do. Besides being the best drummer no question, it'd be great to have another woman in the band. Dilute all that testosterone.”

"I'll think about it," Evie said, despite knowing she wasn't going to give up Stanford.

That night, she showered early and tried to convince herself that she was overthinking everything — the audition, her mother’s weird magic, the creeping sense that reality was beginning to tilt sideways. It wasn’t working.

She opened her bedroom door and everything changed.

She was standing in a different room. It was a cozy one-bedroom apartment. Small, but nice. Her bed and dresser were in a room with heavy curtains and soft carpet. The couch and coffee table from her dad’s house — the ones from their family room — sat in the adjoining living space. The room had a faint floral scent.

There were fresh flowers in a glass vase on the coffee table. She blinked at them and leaned down to read the card. “Congratulations on your first place of your own. We’ll miss seeing you every day, but we are so proud of you. Love, Dad & Mom.”

Her stomach twisted.

She fumbled for her phone. According to the GPS, she was still in San Jose — only a few miles from home. She grabbed her purse and her coat and walked outside. The lot was quiet. A cold wind bit at her arms. She found her Prius, got in and drove straight home.

The house was dark except for her dad's and stepmom's bedroom. She unlocked the door with her key and slipped inside, heart pounding. She started up the stairs.

Her dad poked his head out of the master bedroom, squinting. “Hey, Evie. I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Is it okay if I sleep here tonight?”

“Of course. We’re still setting up your old room as a guest room, but there’s a bed in there. You know where the sheets and blankets are.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, forcing a smile.

She crossed the hall and opened the guest room door. And again, everything changed.

Now she was standing in a much smaller space. A studio apartment. The carpet was worn and stained in spots. The walls needed paint. Her bed and dresser were there — jammed against one wall — but there was no room for the old family couch. Instead, there was a sagging recliner that looked like it was from Goodwill.

She checked her phone again. This time she wasn’t in San Jose. She was in Sunnyvale— fifteen minutes away.

Evie stared around the tiny apartment. She opened her purse to grab her keys, but something else caught her eye. A half-used pack of cigarettes. Open. Nestled next to her wallet. She picked it up slowly, like it might bite.

“What the heck…” she whispered.

Her fingers trembled.

What would happen if she went home again? Would she be transported to another apartment? One even worse than this? Was this part of her mother's 'hard way'? She crumpled up the pack of cigarettes and tossed it, but she put her keys back in her purse.

Evie sat down on the edge of the creaky bed, her heart in her throat. She didn’t know what to do next. She stared at the crushed cigarette pack laying on the floor across the room, trying to decide what to do. Even knowing that it was most likely a mistake she decided to try again.

She stood, grabbed her purse, and made her way down to the parking lot. Her Prius sat there, waiting like a familiar ghost. She got in and drove back to San Jose, her fingers clenching the wheel a little too tightly. By the time she pulled into the driveway, it was after eleven. The lights were off. The house looked asleep—normal. Safe.

She tried the key. It didn’t fit. Her stomach dropped as she jiggled it, tried again. Nothing. She backed up a step, heart pounding. A light flicked on in the master bedroom. Shadows moved behind the curtains. Then footsteps, approaching the door. Lauren opened the door. Her hair was down, robe tied tightly around her waist, but her face wasn’t the soft, serene mask Evie was used to. Her eyes were wary. Tired. Her mouth set in a firm, unfamiliar line.

“What are you doing here, Evie?”

Evie blinked. “I—uh—I just wanted to sleep here tonight.”

Lauren didn’t open the door any wider. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Your dad is still upset.”

Evie’s heart pounded harder. Why is her dad upset? She was afraid to ask. "Please. I'm really tired and I don't want to drive all the way back to Sunnyvale tonight."

Lauren gave a heavy, pained sigh. “What am I going to do with you? Okay, just for tonight. But for God’s sake, don’t smoke in the house.”

Evie stared at her, stunned. “Smoke? I don’t—” But then she stopped herself. The pack in her purse. Lauren and her dad thought she was a smoker.

She forced a nod. “I promise.”

Lauren opened the door just enough for her to squeeze past, then turned and walked upstairs without another word.

Evie stood in the entryway for a long moment, the house dark and cold around her. She didn’t dare go upstairs to her old room—that was a trap. She grabbed a sheet and blanket from the hallway closet and made a bed on the couch in the family room. She lay down, closed her eyes. And the world changed again.

The couch vanished beneath her. The ceiling above her was stained brown with old water damage. The air smelled like mildew and something sharp—cigarette smoke. She bolted upright. Another studio apartment. Worse than the last. The walls were cracked and yellowed. The window across the room had a massive fracture snaking through the pane, letting in a steady leak of cold air. A gaping hole in the drywall exposed wooden studs and black insulation.

A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the counter. Evie crushed it out, her hand shaking.

She paced the room, trying to calm her breathing. That’s when she saw the orange prescription bottle on the counter. OxyContin. Her stomach turned over. She picked it up slowly. It was prescribed to Lauren Reardon. Evie’s breath hitched. Had she stolen pain meds from her stepmom? 

She went for her keys. The key to her dad’s house was gone. So was the Prius key. In their place was a single fob with the Toyota logo. She stepped outside, clicking the button.

A beat-up yellow Corolla chirped from across the lot. The bumper was cracked. One of the mirrors was held on with duct tape. She checked her phone. Now she was in Gilroy—thirty minutes south.

Further. Again.

Every time, the apartment was worse. Every time, the world seemed to rot a little more around her.

She drove aimlessly for a while, not wanting to go to her dad's and be confronted by allegations of theft or worse. Eventually, she saw a Best Western near the interstate and pulled in. The clerk was young, bored, scrolling through his phone. She handed over her debit card.

He ran it. Declined. She pulled out the backup card her dad had given her just for emergencies.

He stared at the screen for a moment, then looked up, his expression hardening. “This card came up as stolen. I’m supposed to call the police when that happens…”

Evie’s heart froze.

“…But I’m not going to do that to you,” he added. “I do have to keep the card, though. And you’ll need to leave.”

She muttered a thank-you and walked back out, her head spinning.

She drove to a park & ride and parked under a flickering light. The cold crept into the car fast. She climbed into the backseat, pulled her coat over her, and tried to sleep. The moment her eyes shut—transported yet again

Now, she was on a smelly twin mattress in the corner of another studio. The floors were linoleum, curling at the edges. The cigarette wasn’t just nearby this time. It was in her mouth. Smoke rising from the tip, burning her eyes. She felt the urge to suck, to pull smoke into her mouth and then deep into her lungs. She snatched it from her mouth and stubbed it out, before she could give in to the disturbing temptation.

There was a bong on the kitchen counter, its murky water half-full. Two bottles of cheap vodka sat beside it—one empty, the other close. Her hands shook as she took in the mess. The filth. The staleness. The gut-deep ache that something inside her was breaking.

She stood there for a long time before finally whispering, “Well… fuck me.”

It was the first time she’d ever said the word. And it felt good. Cathartic. Like tearing open a wound to let out the poison. She hated that she liked it.

She went to the mattress and sat down. Her fingers twitched. Her lungs itched. They wanted a cigarette. They wanted her to bathe them in smoke. The craving was like an animal pacing just under her skin. And God, she wanted to swear again. She wanted to drink. To scream.

She did neither.

She lay down on the tiny, gross mattress and closed her eyes, her whole body tense with resistance. She could still taste the smoke on her lips. Somewhere far away, she thought she heard Celeste laughing. Eventually, she drifted into a restless sleep, her hands clenched into fists.

Evie woke earlier than she’d expected. It wasn’t school that roused her—there was none today. And she knew her mother, wherever she was, wouldn’t be up before noon. But Evie couldn’t shake the restless anxiety gnawing at her. The apartment she’d woken up in—the one that reeked of mildew, smoke, and poor life decisions—felt more like a sentence than a prank. She had no idea how long she was meant to live in this alternate version of herself, but she was determined not to let it sink her.

She swung her legs out of bed and crossed the cold floor, wrapping herself in an old hoodie she'd found on a plastic chair in the corner. The kitchenette had little to offer: a few mugs stained with old coffee, an empty fridge, and a half-open box of cherry Pop-Tarts. At least there was a toaster. She popped a couple in, pulled out a jar of instant coffee from the back of a cabinet, and heated water in a chipped kettle. The coffee tasted like burnt paper and chemicals, but it had caffeine.

Her eyes flicked to the bottle of vodka on the counter. Just a splash would make the coffee taste less awful. And maybe dull the sharpness behind her eyes. Her gaze lingered on it longer than she liked. Then her eyes drifted to the crumpled pack of cigarettes nearby.

A sudden craving gripped her chest—sharp and relentless. She wanted a cigarette, though she'd never smoked before and had no intention of changing that. The urge clawed at her thoughts, insistent and irrational, and only the brittle edge of her resolve kept her from giving in..

“No,” she muttered aloud, as if saying it would seal her decision. She pushed both temptations into the trash can, hard, like slamming a door shut.

Then she rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

There was barely enough Soft Scrub left in the bottle to handle even half a kitchen, but she rationed it. The counters were coated with sticky grime and mysterious orange smears. The sink drain was black with gunk, and something unidentifiable had fossilized in one corner of the fridge. She scrubbed until her fingers ached and her back burned, until the surfaces at least looked clean, if not pristine.

Then came the bathroom.

It was like walking into a crime scene. The toilet had a yellowish ring that resisted her first three scrubbing attempts. The base of it was sticky and stank of ammonia. The floor tiles were grimy with dark scuffs and what might’ve been mold. The tub—if it could still be called that—had a rusted drain and streaks of something brownish trailing down from the faucet. The soap dish held a half-melted bar of soap embedded with hair.

Evie bit her lip, gagged once, and kept scrubbing. It was pushing one o'clock by the time she finished, but the smell in the apartment had shifted—from sharp and sour to vaguely musty. It was progress.

She picked up her phone and dialed. Voicemail. She waited. Then came the buzz.

“You know the rules. Face to face only.”

Evie didn’t hesitate this time. She texted back.  “Could we video chat? I no longer have money to fly.”

A moment later, her phone began to ring. She answered.

Celeste appeared, backlit by a window in her RV, wrapped in a silk robe. “This will be fine for now,” she said coolly. “So, what do you want?”

Evie took a breath. “I’m sorry about what I said on Friday. I had no right. I was upset. I wasn’t fair to you. Can I go back home now?”

Celeste tilted her head, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I gave you choices, sweetheart. You made yours.”

Evie’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to live in a place like this. It’s not… it’s not safe. Is there any other option?”

Celeste’s eyes narrowed. She sipped something from a mug, then said, “You could go for door number one. But it won’t be just one night. You’ll need to be on stage with me. A few days.”

Evie’s stomach dropped. “I’d be okay with being in your band. I just… I don’t want to be a stripper.”

Celeste raised an eyebrow. “You are such a prude. Fine. No stripping. But if you want to be with the band, there are two conditions.”

Evie braced herself. “Okay. What are they?”

“First, you can’t show up looking like you’re there to teach Sunday school. You’ll have to look the part.”

Evie sighed. “Nothing permanent. No tattoos. No piercings.”

Celeste gave her a mock salute. “Agreed. Temporary only.”

Evie narrowed her eyes. “What’s the second condition?”

“You’ll have to be Drake’s girlfriend.”

Evie blinked. “Drake? Which one was he?”

Celeste gave her a slow, amused smile. “Bass player. Long ponytail. Rugged. Muscular. You can’t miss him.”

Evie’s face wrinkled. “He’s as old as you are!”

Celeste's eyes glinted. “Watch it. He’s actually a couple years older. But he’s loyal and honest. He knows the rules.”

“You mean pretend to be his girlfriend?”

“Not pretend,” Celeste said flatly. “But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. He knows how I feel about consent and what I’d do to him if he ever broke that.”

Evie sighed, long and slow. “Okay. I guess… that’ll be fine, if it gets me home again. I have a ton of homework, but if I grind through it, I can be ready by Thursday.”

Celeste gave her a half-smile. “Atta girl. I’ll see you then.”  And then the screen went black.

Evie grabbed her purse and headed to the car. She slid into the driver’s seat of the battered Corolla and turned the key—

—and suddenly, she was in her Prius, pulling into the driveway of her dad’s house.

Her eyes widened. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, heart pounding. She stepped out, walked slowly to the front door, and tried her key. It turned easily. Inside, the house was warm, clean. Normal. Her room was untouched, the bed still made, her backpack by the desk. She blinked back tears.

She ran a hot bath and sank into the steaming water, her body floating weightlessly. As the warmth seeped into her skin, she realized with a start—she no longer wanted a cigarette. The craving had vanished, like it had never existed. She smiled.

After her bath, she made herself a huge salad with spinach, cranberries, walnuts, goat cheese, and balsamic vinaigrette. She ate it slowly, savoring every bite like it was the first real food she’d had in days.

Then she sat down and began her homework, determined to clear the decks before Thursday. She tried not to think about what awaited her then: a stage, a spotlight, and a man twice her age who would be calling her his girlfriend. She tried not to think about it at all.

Evie’s life slipped back into its old pattern so seamlessly it was like the past few days had never happened. Her dad and stepmom didn’t say a word about her absence—because, as far as they were concerned, there hadn’t been one. They smiled at her like she was their reliable, grounded daughter who always did the right thing and never caused trouble.

She didn’t tell them about her deal with Celeste. They wouldn’t understand. Heck, she barely understood it. And deep down, she suspected they might not even remember anything when she came back. If magic could yank her across town without so much as an Uber, it could probably erase memories too.

Celeste hadn’t sent a ticket or an address. No “Meet me at Gate C23” or “We’re playing Detroit on Thursday.” Nothing. Just silence. Which told Evie exactly how she’d be traveling: the same way she got to the dumpy apartment last time. No suitcase. No goodbyes. Just poof—gone.

She worked day and night to finish her homework. Essays, problem sets, annotated readings—done. The pile was Everest-sized, but by Thursday afternoon, it was behind her. The relief was real. She wanted no distractions when she was figuring out how to play drums on stage and be someone’s girlfriend.

She wasn't going to do anything physical with Drake. That much was certain. She'd play the part, hold his hand, give him the occasional chaste kiss, but nothing beyond that. She wasn’t that girl. She didn’t even know the man.

That evening, she helped Lauren make dinner—a real one that took time and effort. They chose pork medallions with a cranberry-port wine reduction, served alongside roasted sweet potatoes tossed in olive oil and thyme, and a salad of mixed greens with goat cheese, candied pecans, and a homemade vinaigrette. It was the kind of meal that needed two people in the kitchen just to keep up with the prep. They moved around each other like dance partners—Evie chopping shallots, Lauren stirring sauce, Greg setting the table and making wry commentary from the doorway.

It was nice. Grounding. The house smelled warm and rich, and for a little while, Evie let herself believe that Celeste had forgotten about their arrangement, that maybe she'd gotten lucky. That the weird spell or pact or whatever it had been was off the table now.

After dinner, as Lauren stood to collect the plates, Evie moved to help her. She took a single step. And was somewhere else. Just like that.

Evie was no longer in the dining room of her dad's house. She was in a long, narrow room with scuffed black walls covered in faded concert posters and band stickers. An overhead light buzzed with a faint, uneven hum. Mismatched couches and chairs were scattered haphazardly around a beat-up coffee table littered with beer bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and several guitar picks.

Across the room a man in his early thirties slouched in a folding chair. He had hard lines around his mouth and the weariness in his pale blue eyes suggested he'd lived a rough life, slouched in a folding chair. She somehow knew he was Jonah, who played keyboard and other times rhythm guitar, depending on the song.

Celeste was standing a few feet away, radiant and terrifying. She wore tight black mini-dress that clung to her curves, fishnets stretched over long legs ending in glossy black stilettos. Her hair, teased and wild, burned from inky black roots into fire-engine red tips, looking like it might actually ignite at any second. Heavy black eyeliner framed her bright, predatory eyes. She looked like the ringleader of a dangerous circus act.

She grinned at Evie like a cat that had cornered something soft and frightened—eager to play a while before delivering the final blow.

She was seated on a couch—low, velvety, and lumpy with age. And she wasn’t alone. She was leaning against someone. Someone warm. Someone solid. She turned her head and froze. Drake.

He had one arm lazily draped around her shoulders, his fingers just brushing her upper arm. He smelled like smoke and pine resin and the kind of aftershave that didn’t advertise on television. His long, gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. He wore a black T-shirt, stretched just enough to draw the eye—dark ink curling over forearms muscular and veined.

Evie looked down.

She was wearing tight black leather pants that hugged her legs like paint. Her top—a lace-up black bustier—pushed her chest up in a way that made her blush. Black ankle boots with metal studs added three inches to her height. Her nails were long, painted blood-red, and tapered to clawlike points. Silver rings adorned nearly every finger.

She raised a cigarette to her lips and then froze. She'd almost taken a puff off it. It had felt so natural. Her heart stuttered. She reached over to crush it out in the ashtray, but Drake gently stopped her.

“Hey,” he said with a low chuckle. “Don’t waste it. I’ll smoke it if you don’t want it.”

She hesitated. Then handed it to him.

He smiled and gave her a slow, lingering kiss—nothing aggressive, but confident, possessive. His lips were warm, a little rough. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—her spine melted into him, her limbs suddenly loose, boneless.

He pulled away before it deepened, looked her in the eye, and said, “Thanks, babe.” Then he took a drag.

Evie’s heart was thudding so hard it echoed in her ears. She now understood what Celeste had meant when she’d said “not pretending.” about being Drake's girlfriend. The kiss—simple as it was—had triggered something in her. Something real. This was supposed to be an act, a role she agreed to play for a few days to get out of that disgusting apartment and back into her life. 

She glanced up at him, at the strong line of his jaw, the silver in his hair, the easy confidence in the way he leaned back, totally comfortable with her curled into his side. And she wanted him. She still wanted to hold his hand and give him chaste kisses, but so much more as well. He was her man and she wanted all of him, every muscular inch.

Despite her comfort being wrapped in Drake's arm, she needed to talk to her mom. “I’ll be back, baby,” she said softly, the word 'baby' slipping from her lips as naturally as if she’d said it a hundred times before. 

She stood and then walked—no, sauntered—across the lounge toward Celeste, her high-heeled ankle boots clicking confidently against the scuffed concrete floor. No wobble, no hesitation. Just a steady, confident stride. They felt like they belonged on her feet, just like Drake's arm hand belonged around her shoulder.

"We need to talk," she hissed in Celeste's ear.

"I thought you'd never ask," Celeste said over her shoulder as she exited the room. 

Evie followed her mother into a remarkably clean bathroom and then sucked in sharply when she saw her reflection in the long mirror above the pair of sinks.

Most of her long, white-blonde hair was gone—chopped into a fierce, asymmetrical bob. One side was shaved down, the remaining locks falling jaggedly over her right eye, edgy and theatrical. A vibrant streak of electric blue ran through the longer side, catching the florescent light with an almost unnatural gleam.

She lifted a hand to touch it, fingers trembling slightly. “What the hell—?”

Her earrings caught her attention next—multiple piercings climbing up the edge of her left ear, each one adorned with tiny silver rings or studs, culminating in a small, dangling padlock that tapped lightly against her jaw when she turned her head.

The makeup was intense. Smudged black eyeliner extended like talons from her eyes in bold, winged sweeps. Her lips were painted a dark, glossy wine—nearly black. Heavy contouring carved sharp angles into her cheekbones, transforming her soft face into something fiercer, older, more defiant. She looked like a rock star. She looked like trouble.

“I thought we agreed—nothing permanent,” Evie said, eyes still locked on the mirror, her voice tight with disbelief.

Celeste shrugged, uncapping a small tube of glitter and dabbing some onto her own eyelids. “Your hair will grow back. And those earrings are all hinge-back. No new holes. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Evie folded her arms over her cleavage. “So how long do I have to look like this? How long does this whole thing last?”

Celeste pushed herself off the wall and walked over, standing beside her daughter in the mirror. “You just got here, baby. Cool your jets. Relax, enjoy the ride, and you’ll be back in your own bed before you know it. We’re on tonight for forty-five minutes tonight. You'll know all the songs—I made sure of that.” She winked. “Afterward, we’ll grab some food, have a beer or two, unwind and decompress. Then you’ve got the rest of the night to yourself. Don't have to be anywhere until soundcheck tomorrow at six.”

Evie glanced sideways at her mother. “And I suppose I'm to spend my free time with Drake?”

Celeste shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I imagine he’ll have some ideas about how you spend it.” She grinned, then her tone softened. “Look, I know this is weird for you. But he’s a good guy, Evie.He may look like a wolf, but he’s warmth and devotion where it counts. He’ll treat you right. And more importantly, he’ll listen. If you say ‘no,’ that’s the end of it.”

“I didn’t think I’d actually feel something,” Evie said quietly. “When you said I wouldn’t be pretending, I didn’t realize what you meant. He’s the second guy I’ve ever kissed. Second.” She looked at herself in the mirror—at this version of herself who looked so confident, so fearless—and whispered, “What if I can’t say no?”

Celeste shrugged. "You're not a kid anymore. You get to make big girl choices now. Keep this in the back of your mind, what I said about nothing being permanent, that was about your makeover. What you do starting now is all on you."

There was a knock on the bathroom door. A muffled voice called out, “Five minutes!”

Celeste smiled. “Time to fly.”

Evie exhaled slowly and followed her mother out of the bathroom. As they emerged into the dim hallway beyond, the thrum of a bass guitar warming up echoed from the stage. The air smelled like sweat, beer, and anticipation.

“Where are we, anyway?” Evie asked, realizing she still didn’t know where this club was.

Celeste glanced over her shoulder, her stilettos clicking confidently down the corridor. “We’re at the Foxfire Club. South Chicago. It’s grungy but the sound system is killer.”

“And tomorrow? Same place?”

“Tomorrow it’s The Midway Taproom. Then Saturday, we hit The Iron Coil—both in Chicago.”

Evie nodded, her heart beginning to pound again—not with fear this time, but with adrenaline. Two more nights. Three performances. Then she’d go home. She hoped.

The curtain was still down when they took the stage, but the energy behind it was electric. A murmur — low, constant, buzzing — filled the space beyond the heavy velvet barrier. Evie could hear the clink of glassware and the occasional laugh rising from the audience. She sat at the drum kit, her legs slightly trembling, whether from nerves or anticipation she wasn’t sure.

The setlist was neatly taped to the hi-hat stand, a lineup of song titles that somehow felt as familiar as her own name. A pair of spare sticks rested within reach, just in case. She tapped each drum lightly—snare, toms, floor, then a quick check of the hi-hat and crash cymbals. Each surface gave a clean, tuned response. The skins had the right tension. Tight but not choked. Resonant. Alive. Just like she felt.

To her right, Jonah was hunched over his keyboard, flipping switches and adjusting dials, his scarred hands moving with practiced efficiency. Celeste did a quick strum on her guitar and turned a knob on her amp. Drake, with his long gray-streaked ponytail and sleeveless shirt, was tuning his bass, his foot tapping to an internal rhythm that was already in sync with hers.

Celeste looked up, catching each band member's eye in turn. They all nodded back—subtle, steady. No words needed. She turned to the side of the stage and gave a thumbs-up. A moment later, the curtain began to part.

A cheer rose from the crowd — not deafening, but real and loud enough to curl excitement down Evie's spine. Bright lights flared across the stage, turning the audience into a shifting blur. It looked like the place was more than half full. A hundred people or more. Real people. Here for the music.

Celeste stepped to the mic, her voice sultry and commanding as it echoed through the venue. “Hello, Chicago,” she purred, eyes glittering. “We are Witchlung, and we’re here to put a spell on you.”

Evie lifted her sticks and clapped them together. "One, two, three, four."

The band exploded into the song 'Sigils in the Dust' from Witchlung’s self-titled first album. The rhythm came to her fingers without thought, just as it had at the audition with Dead Halo. She hit each beat with conviction, driving the sound forward. 

Celeste’s voice tore through the verses with raw emotion, Jonah’s keys weaving dark, dreamy atmospheres beneath the crash and thump of Evie’s drums. Drake’s bass was the spine, heavy and relentless, and the way he moved in time with her made her feel like they were one continuous force.

Evie didn’t have to think. Her body knew. Her arms, her feet, her core—they moved with a certainty she didn’t question. There was no fear, no nerves, only rhythm. Only power.

And the crowd responded.

Cheers, clapping, swaying bodies. She could feel the energy building, not just in them, but between them. The audience and the band fed each other, their excitement becoming one pulsing thing. It was unlike anything she’d experienced before. Dozens of violin recitals, all the hours of rigid posture, sheet music, polite applause—none of it had prepared her for this.

This was raw. Thrilling. Alive.

She was beginning to understand now why her mom had stayed. Why she’d chased this life, even when it left her broke, or stranded, or sleeping in a van. Evie felt it—the pulse, the freedom, the unspoken magic between performer and listener.

The set stretched across forty-five relentless minutes. Song after song. Slower, heavy tracks that crept like ghosts, then fast, aggressive ones that tore like wildfires. Sweat dripped from her brow. Her arms burned, she thought her wrists might give out. Sweat poured down her chest, disappearing into her bustier, but she didn't ease up, not until the final cymbal crash echoed out across the cheering crowd.

Celeste gave a slight bow and leaned into the mic again. “That’s our time tonight, Chicago. You’ve been beautiful.” The curtains closed and she turned to Evie “That's it. We’re the openers so no encore. Let’s clear out.”

They got to work. Evie collapsed her kit. Jonah unplugged cables. Drake carried amps like they weighed nothing. One of the venue crew members set a large cardboard box by the back door. It was stuffed with band merch—t-shirts, posters, CDs—some crinkled, others freshly folded. He then handed Celeste a modest wad of cash.

Once the gear was loaded into the back of the panel van, everyone started peeling off. Celeste and Jonah headed for her RV, deep in quiet conversation. Drake got behind the wheel of the van, and Evie climbed into the passenger seat, still catching her breath.

 “You killed it tonight,” he said without looking over. “Didn’t miss a beat.”

Evie’s cheeks warmed. “Thanks, babe.”

The engine turned over with a growl, and the van rumbled to life. Most of the van was packed to the roof—amps, drum cases, cables, merch boxes. But the long bench seat behind them, folded all the way down into a makeshift bed, was empty except for some rolled bedding and an old leather jacket tossed carelessly near the headrest.

It struck her — That’s probably where I’m sleeping tonight. With him. The thought sent a cascade of feelings through her. Anticipation. Dread. Curiosity. Desire.

The memory of his kiss lingered in her mind—warm, confident, unhurried. Her body had leaned into him without hesitation, without thought. Being held again, feeling the weight and safety of his arms around her, sounded… wonderful. Comforting. The idea of cuddling next to him, the feeling of his breath on her skin, his strong arms wrapped around her, filled her with a mix of nervousness and... something else. Not fear. Anticipation?

But this was no teen crush sitting next to her. This was a man—a grown man, an experienced man—who she now shared a strange, complicated bond with. She’d always imagined the first time she’d sleep beside someone would be with her future husband. Someone her age. Someone she’d known for years. Everything felt rushed. Blurred. Torn from a different world.

She stared out the window at the blur of Chicago streets, her body still electric with adrenaline from the night’s performance. When she’d agreed to join her mother’s band, she’d expected something cold and restrained—more like one of her violin recitals than anything truly alive. She’d never imagined music could feel like this: wild, visceral, thrilling. Her brief, innocent encounters with teenage boys had done little to prepare her for the presence of the rugged, magnetic man sitting beside her. Would she find him wild, visceral and thrilling too? And if she did, what then? What would it mean for Stanford and her plans to become a doctor? 

The van rolled into the glowing lot of a 24-hour diner called The Lantern, its flickering sign buzzing above cracked asphalt. A few semis idled in the corner of the lot, and the quiet night was broken only by the low hum of insects and engines. Inside, the diner had that timeless, rundown charm — red vinyl booths, scratched laminate tables, and old jukebox with worn buttons that probably hadn’t worked in years.

They slid into a booth by the window. Celeste and Jonah on one side, Evie and Drake on the other. Drake took the seat against the wall without hesitation, and Evie gave him a grateful glance. It felt safer that way — no pressure, just space. Still, she slid in close to him, their thighs touching. His warmth, his presence, was grounding. She didn’t want to overthink that too hard.

Celeste ordered without consulting anyone. “Four burger specials, extra large fries, eight beers.”

The waitress, a woman in her forties with tired eyes and a nametag that read Doreen, raised an eyebrow. “I can bring two per person at a time, but I'm only bringing six, unless she—” she motioned to Evie, “shows me a very convincing ID.”

Celeste just smirked. “Show the lady your ID, sweetheart.”

Evie shifted in her seat and struggled a little to get the ID card out of her pocket — her leather pants were practically glued to her. She handed over an Illinois license: Evie Monroe, age 21. Her pulse jumped a little seeing Monroe. That was Celeste's last name.

Doreen inspected it for a moment, then handed it back with a shrug. “Good enough for me. I’ll be right back.”

Evie slipped the ID away as the table filled with the glow of lighters. The smell of cigarette smoke rose around her, acrid and familiar. She hadn’t smoked in real life, but somehow, her hands itched for it now. The craving startled her — sharp, magnetic, like something she’d always known but forgotten.

“I thought smoking wasn’t allowed in restaurants anymore,” she said.

Drake took a drag and exhaled slowly. “You think your mom would bring us somewhere that didn't allow smoking?”

Celeste grinned. “We’re outside city limits and this place lives in the gray zone.”

The beers arrived. Glass bottles slick with condensation. Evie took one, nursing it as the others quickly moved to their seconds. She could feel the buzz from the show still alive in her bones — a tingle beneath her skin, electricity running hot. But the beer dulled it a little, gave her something to hold onto.

The others talked about the gig — how tight the rhythm section had felt, how good the crowd had been for a Thursday night. They swapped road stories, band battles, and disastrous hotel stays. Evie listened, not really joining in. She didn’t have anything to add yet. But she liked the way Drake’s arm rested lightly behind her on the booth, his presence steady and warm.

After a while, she slid her untouched second beer across the table to him.

He glanced over, brows raised. Then leaned in close and murmured near her ear, his voice low and just for her. “Everything okay, hon? Not like you to pass one up. And you’ve gone quiet.”

Evie turned toward him, lips brushing his cheek before she answered. “I’m fine. Just in a quiet mood.”

He smiled — slow, genuine — and gave her a one-armed squeeze, just firm enough to make her chest ache with warmth.

Dinner came hot and greasy — exactly what they all needed. Conversation quieted as they ate, the hush of shared hunger taking over. Afterward, they piled back into the vehicles and drove on in the dark, heading toward a park near the lake that allowed overnight parking. It was quiet, tucked away beneath big trees. A kind of sanctuary for wanderers.

In the RV, the band took turns in the tiny shower. Evie went last, scrubbing off sweat and smoke, and emerging clean but still buzzing from the night. She pulled on soft sweats, a Witchlung T-shirt that hung off one shoulder, and an oversized hoodie that smelled faintly of patchouli and fabric softener.

She hesitated at the RV door. Part of her wanted to ask Celeste if she could sleep there — just for comfort. But the lights were low, the curtain pulled. The unspoken boundary was clear. So she crossed quietly to the van.

Drake had already arranged the back bench into a bed — blankets, pillows, even a small battery lamp casting a gentle golden glow. He looked up and smiled. “Cozy enough for you?”

Evie nodded and climbed in beside him. They didn’t speak much after that. They curled beneath the blankets, bodies close, her head on his shoulder, his arm draped lightly over her. They kissed once or twice — slow, exploratory, warm — but it didn’t go any further.

She wasn’t sure if she would have stopped it if it had. But Drake didn’t push. He just held her close as the night deepened around them, and eventually they both drifted into sleep — tired, content, and tangled in something new.

Evie woke to warmth.

Not just the usual tangle of blankets and body heat, but the specific, grounding warmth of being held. Drake’s arm was around her, solid as stone. His chest pressed firmly to her back, the steady rise and fall of his breath syncing with hers. Light crept between the gaps in the van's curtains, warm and gold. Outside, birds called and wind rustled faintly through trees. For a moment, she stayed still, letting herself melt into the moment.

Then she shifted, and she felt it. It was him, long, hard, and wedged between her butt cheeks. Her breath caught. Drake's rigid manhood was inches from her womanhood. And it was making her hot, down below. She tried to pull her ass away, but that only made it slide against her soft flesh and the heat intensified. 

A sleepy breath stirred the hair at the back of her neck, followed by a kiss so gentle it made her shiver. He shifted this time and his cock pushed between her legs. She moaned involuntarily. He slid back, she moaned again. One of his hands moved up to her breasts while the other slowly moved south. 

"God damn it," He groaned. 

“What’s wrong?” Evie said in a low husky voice, almost panting.

“Condoms,” he mumbled. “I meant to grab some from the RV last night. I'm such an idiot.”

"That's too bad." She wasn't sure if she was more relieved or disappointed. She’d always imagined her first time happening in the honeymoon suite of a tropical resort, rose petals on the bed, a wedding ring on her finger. At the moment, that felt like a stupid schoolgirl fantasy. Her body yearned to become a woman right there in the panel van. 

The hand moving south slipped past the waistband on her sweats.“There's other things we can do instead.”

She didn't ask what things.She turned her body and kissed him, his tongue entered her mouth and his large, strong hand was underneath her panties. Fireworks want off in her head. She kissed him back with her whole being. With his free hand, he gently guided hers into his sweats to the tower of flesh that had started the fire that was now raging within her. 

She was hesitant at first, afraid she might hurt him with her sharp nails and unsure at what she was doing. She'd never even seen a cock let alone hold one in her hand. It was so much bigger than she'd dared to let herself imagine. Was she even doing it right? He wasn't hesitant. His fingers worked her lady bits with confident expertise, that was making her body feel like it might explode. 

"That's great, keep doing that," He said in a low voice when she started running her hand up and down his long shaft. "Yeah, just like that."

She was lost to the world. It was his hand on her and her hand on him and their lips crushed upon each other. It suddenly became too much. She shrieked as a white hot fire erupted throughout her body. He roared and her hand was coated with hot, thick fluids. She kept pumping her hand up and down and more kept coming out. They continued to kiss while his erection slowly grew soft in her hand.

Drake reached over the side of the bench and dug around the floor for a few moments. He tossed her a cloth, which she used to clean up her hand and his torso. Next he came up with a pack of cigarettes and a scratched-up lighter. He lit two and passed one to her. Evie reached for it instinctively—then paused when she remembered that she wasn't a smoker.

He noticed and drew back slightly. “Oh—sorry. You quitting?”

She gave him a crooked smile. “Not exactly.” She wanted to say that she'd never actually started, but he wouldn't understand. His memories were of her as a smoker, just like he remembered them being a couple and being band mates. Two of them were now true.

"Fuck it. Why not make it all three." She took the cigarette and brought it to her lips. The smoke settled into her lungs with surprising ease. She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke sail toward the ceiling of the van. Her lungs thanked her by easing off on the intense cravings. 

She spotted an empty beer can on the floor and leaned down to pick it up. She set it between them and gently tapped her ash into it. She sank back against him, her head resting near his collarbone, the rise and fall of his breathing beneath her cheek. They smoked together in comfortable silence.

“Food?” he asked as he crushed out his cigarette

“Yes please,” she said, her stomach catching up with the rest of her.

They slid on shoes and stepped out into the warm midday light. Evie checked her phone. 12:37 PM. She blinked. “This is the latest I’ve ever slept,” she muttered. “Usually eight a.m. is sleeping in.”

Drake held the RV door open for her. Inside, the smells of breakfast hit her immediately—eggs, toast, and coffee, thankfully. Jonah was at the tiny stove, scrambling eggs like a man on a mission. Celeste sat perched at the little built-in table in a silk kimono, a cigarette in one hand, a mug in the other.

“Look who decided to rise and shine,” she said as she gave her daughter a playful wink.

Evie slid onto the bench beside her mom, and snatched the cigarette from between her fingers and took a long drag. She then passed it back to her mom as she exhaled smoke across the small table.

Celeste grinned and pulled her into a warm hug, her fingers brushing Evie’s messy hair back from her face. “There she is. There's my girl.”

After breakfast, Jonah and Celeste took the van and headed into town, leaving Drake to work on the RV. The sun was high, the air dry and warm, and the tools were already spread out on a tarp next to the vehicle. Drake was working on replacing the alternator which had been threatening to fail since they'd left St. Louis. He'd picked up a rebuild replacement the day before. He'd been at it for about ten minutes when Evie stepped out of the RV, her hair dripping wet from a shower and sipping a lukewarm soda.

“You gonna stand there looking pretty, or you planning to help?” he asked, not unkindly.

“I’m here for moral support,” she said with a grin, then dropped to sit on the bumper, folding her legs under her. “And maybe to pass you tools. If you tell me what they look like and don't just say names like Allen this or 7/8th that.”

He smirked. “Can you hand me a phillips head screwdriver, it's the one with the cross-shaped tip.”

She dug through the tool box. Everything in it was coated with grease and chrome. She finally found something that matched the description. After handing it over, she grabbed a rag sitting on the bumper to wipe her hands. It looked dirtier than her hand so she put it back. 

He chuckled. “You’re doing great. It's a big help not having to stop to grab a tool every few minutes."

She grinned. “So, what are you doing?”

He tapped the rebuilt alternator with his toe. “Alternator is going so I'm replacing it. Without it, the battery won’t stay charged. No juice, no fridge, no lights, no tunes.”

“Well, that sounds like a nightmare,” she said.

She handed him more tools once he'd described them to her with charming patience. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did,” he said, with a grin. “But yeah. Shoot.”

“How did we meet?” she asked softly.

He leaned back on his heels, wiped his hands on the dirty rag, and gave her a look full of fondness. “You forget already?”

“I like the way you tell it,” she replied.

He considered that for a moment, then nodded. “It was about a year ago. We were rehearsing—just you and me, one of those nights when Jonah had a migraine and Celeste was chasing down a gig. You were working out a new rhythm line and I was stuck on a bass part. It was late, and we just... clicked. Started messing around with sounds, but the energy was different that night. More than music.”

Evie listened quietly, the sun warming the top of her head.

“You started flirting with me,” he went on. “Just little stuff. I pretended not to notice at first. Thought your mom would skin me alive if she knew. But over the next few weeks, it just got harder to pretend I wasn’t feeling it too.”

“And my mom didn’t freak out?”

Drake snorted. “Oh, she definitely gave me the ‘hurt her and I’ll end you’ speech. But when she saw how real it was between us, she gave her blessing. Said she saw the way you looked at me when you thought no one was watching.”

Evie looked down, cheeks warm, heart full. She could imagine it now—something building quietly between two people who spent countless hours creating something together, and then finding out there was more to it than just music.

She smiled. “How long do you think they’ll be gone?”

Drake glanced at the RV and then at the sun. “Another hour, easy.”

She leaned up against him. “There are condoms inside the RV. We wouldn't have to hold back this time.”

He gave a wistful sigh. “I’d love to, but I can’t stop now. If I don’t get this fixed, we’re not making it to the next venue.”

She greeted her teeth. “Fine. Want a beer?”

“You know it. And if you could grab the smokes too... you’d be my hero.”

Evie stepped into the RV, hesitated by the fridge, then made her way to the small bathroom. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, fingertips grazing her now-dry hair—still shaved on one side, with a bold streak of blue cutting through the strands that fell over her right eye. She'd removed her makeup that night before, so it was easier to see the Evie she'd been before her mom's magical makeover. She thought about how she'd looked on stage and wanted to look like that again, fierce, electric, predatory.

She opened her mom’s makeup case and started reapplying the dramatic look. Winged liner. Bold lipstick. She was surprised how easily her hands moved, how she didn’t need to think about it. When she was done, she stared at the mirror. Beautiful. Dangerous.

She could hear Drake clanking away at the engine. She was still disappointed that he'd refused her. To him they probably had sex all the time. For her it would have been her first. He'd had no idea what she'd offered to him. That helped lessen the sting a little bit. She wanted him to touch her like that again. He'd been the first person who'd touched her down there, except herself, but not even she had ever made it feel that good.

She started rubbing herself, hoping to create the sensation of his expert hand on her most intimate of parts. Her fingers felt good buried in her panties, great even, but they weren't anywhere as amazing as his. But he was too busy being responsible, so she had to take care of herself. She kept at it, picturing his rugged face, her back pressed against the bathroom wall, her thumb teasing her clit while two of her fingers slid in and out of her soaking wet pussy. She bit her tongue to stifle a cream when the orgasm crashed into her. It had felt better than any of her prior solo attempts, but it hadn't cooled her desire. She wanted him more than ever. 

She wiped her hand with some tissue, grabbed the beers and the cigarettes, and stepped back outside. Drake looked up, wiping his brow.

“Get lost on the way?” he teased.

She gave him a crooked smile and stuck a cigarette between his lips, letting him smell what she'd been up to in the RV.. 

“You're so mean,” he said. 

“Next time, don’t say no.” She flicked the lighter, lit his cigarette, then one for herself. 

He grinned. ““Yes ma’am. You look amazing, by the way. Can you hand me the socket wrench?”

She blew smoke into the sky. "Which one is that?"

By the time Celeste and Jonah returned from errands, the RV doors creaked open with the familiar sound of groceries and gear being shuffled in. Outside, Jonah joined Drake to finish installing the alternator, their voices low and focused under the RV's propped-up hood. Inside, Evie followed Celeste into the soft-lit space where the day’s golden light filtered through gauzy curtains, washing over the occult-themed decor like stage lights before a show.

Celeste dropped a tote bag near her bed and crouched, pulling open the wide drawers beneath the mattress. “Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into tonight,” she said with a sly grin. “The Midway Taproom crowd is more rowdy than last night’s. We’ll want to match their energy.”

Evie sat cross-legged on the bed, watching as her mother spread out a sea of dark, dazzling fabrics—black mesh, deep burgundy satin, shimmering vinyl, and chains. There were boots, belts, and silver-studded accessories in a pile that looked more like treasure than wardrobe.

She picked up a black vinyl skirt.. “So… how do you do it?” she asked, running her fingers along a silver zipper.. “All of it. The teleporting. Turning me into a drummer. Making Dad… hate me.”

Celeste gave a small sigh, pulling out a crimson satin camisole. “He doesn’t hate you. It’s hard to explain, but what you’ve been experiencing is like a pocket reality. A space built just for you. The people in it are real enough, but they’re not the exact versions from your original life. They’re shaped by the narrative around you.”

Evie blinked, then looked down at a fishnet top in her hands. “So… what about Drake? You created that too?”

Celeste paused, meeting her daughter’s eyes. “I didn’t create it. I cultivated it. There’s a difference. The connection you two have? It’s something that could have developed in real life… if circumstances had been different. If your worlds had collided another way.”

Evie’s lips parted slightly. “So I really could have felt this way about him?”

“Yes—and no. You’re a little older in this version of life. More independent. He is too. You’re both still yourselves… just shaped by different choices.”

Evie gave a half-smile. “Okay, but now I have to ask… are you real? Or another version of you?”

Celeste didn’t hesitate. “I’m fully me. No copy, no filter.”

Evie was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “Why are you doing this to me? I know I made you mad, but isn't this going a bit over the top?”

Celeste exhaled. “Yes, I was furious on Christmas—but this isn’t about that. I did what I did because I saw you living in a bubble—one built by your dad, Lauren, and your church. You didn’t know what the world really looked like outside of school, Sunday service, and violin recitals. I wanted to open your eyes. You have a natural talent for the drums—something extraordinary. That band I pushed you toward? They could help you reach incredible heights. You’re a fine violinist, and you’d make a decent doctor. But greatness? That’s in your drumming."

"And Drake?" Evie toyed with the ring on her left thumb. "Is that about me being great too?"

"You should wear that tonight." Celeste pointed to the black vinyl mini skirt in her daughter's hand. "Drake is about expanding your perspective. You don’t have to limit yourself to church-approved guys your age. There’s a whole world of people out there, and you shouldn’t feel pressured to settle just because someone checks the boxes for your dad and stepmom. Keep an open mind—romance doesn’t always come in the package others expect."

Evie let out a short laugh. "Drake definitely doesn’t check any of Dad or Lauren’s boxes. Not even close. He’s the opposite of the guys I used to date back home—the church guys with clean-cut smiles and perfectly rehearsed answers."  She paused, her tone softening as she looked toward the window, thoughtful. "The thing is… he checks a lot of my boxes. Boxes I didn’t even know I had. He makes me feel safe, but not in that guarded, curated way I grew up with. It's a wild kind of safety—like I could be completely, brutally honest with him and he wouldn’t blink."

An hour later, Celeste stepped out of the RV, her thigh-high boots clicking against the pavement. Her black leather pants clung to her legs like armor, the laces at her sides revealing glimpses of skin with every step. The deep crimson of her satin camisole glowed like blood beneath the cropped leather jacket, silver zippers catching the light. Her teased black-and-scarlet hair spilled over her shoulders in waves.

Evie followed, her combat boots hitting the ground with a steady, deliberate thud. The black vinyl mini skirt clung to her hips, its O-ring zipper flashing in the sunlight. A burgundy mesh crop top floated over a black bralette, soft as smoke against her skin. Chunky silver rings stacked her fingers, and studded bracelets clinked at her wrists. Hoop earrings and a chain-link choker completed the look. 

Jonah looked up from where he was coiling cables by the van. His lips parted in a slow grin as he caught sight of Celeste. “Jesus, woman. You’re gonna make it hard to focus on playing tonight.”

Celeste tilted her head, smirking. “Good. We should make ‘em work for it.”

Evie laughed softly and turned toward Drake, who stood leaning against the van with a cigarette in one hand and a rag in the other, wiping grease from his fingers. His eyes found hers immediately and widened.

He let out a low whistle, giving her a slow once-over. “Damn, Evie…”

“You like it?” she asked, twirling slightly so the hem of her skirt fluttered.

He looked like he wanted to grab her, but his hands were still smudged with grease. “You look beautiful. Fierce. I’d hug you, but I’d ruin it.”

She stepped close and kissed him, their mouths brushing softly. She could taste smoke on his tongue.

“I’m riding with my mom tonight,” she said, smiling. "Girl talk."

He nodded, his thumb briefly brushing her hip. “Have fun. I’ll see you there.”

Inside the RV, the road blurred past the windows as they drove to the gig. Celeste drove with one hand on the wheel, her serpent-shaped ear cuff catching the light as she turned to glance at her daughter.

Evie sat in the passenger seat, running her fingers along the edge of her skirt. “I really liked going through your clothes with you,” she said. “I used to imagine doing that when I was a kid. Thought it’d never happen.”

Celeste’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “I should’ve made it happen a long time ago. But I let myself think I wasn’t welcome in your world. Or that I’d only make things harder for you.”

Evie shook her head. “I didn’t always understand why you stayed away, but I don’t think it was all your fault. Things were... complicated. Dad and Laurel had a way of deciding what was best without asking me.”

Celeste’s gaze returned to the road. “This whole thing—this ‘pocket’—was meant to open your eyes. To give you a look at another possible life. But it’s done the same for me. I forgot how much I missed just… being with you. Watching you become yourself.”

Evie looked out the window at the highway blurring past. “Do you think we could do that more? In the real world, I mean. Find ways to keep this going?”

“I want that,” Celeste said, her voice rough. “Whatever path you take—music, medicine, something totally else entirely—I’ll be in your corner, really.”

Evie reached over and placed her hand over her mother’s on the gearshift. “I’d like that.”

Twenty minutes later, the RV rumbled into the lot behind The Midway Taproom, a low-slung bar tucked near the airport, the dull roar of jets passing overhead. Drake and Jonah were getting out of the van which was parked next to the back entrance.

Evie didn’t wait for directions. She headed to the back of the van, hauled out the drum hardware case, and ducked through the narrow service door onto the dimly lit stage. Trip after trip, she moved with purpose. When it came time to set up the kit, her hands fell into a rhythm that surprised her. She’d torn one down the night before—but this was the first time she was building one from the ground up.

A venue sound tech helped them run cables and mic the gear. Once the stage was set, they ran a quick sound check, then made their way to the green room to wait for the show to start.

She and Drake claimed the couch again—this one sagged so deep it felt like it might swallow them whole. He pulled her close, his arm draped around her shoulders, warm and steady. She lit cigarettes for them both, the flick of the lighter briefly cutting through the dim haze. Across the room, her mom and Jonah passed a bottle of whiskey back and forth. She and Drake stuck to their beers. Time blurred in smoke and laughter until, suddenly, they were being called to the stage.

The crowd was bigger than the night before—rowdier. Evie settled behind her kit and let her sticks twirl once in her fingers before she struck the first snare. The rush hit her like a drug.

She poured herself into the performance, into every crash, every beat, every glance shared between her and Celeste, or her and Drake. The crowd moved like a sea—hands in the air, bodies in motion. They were feeding off the band’s energy, and Evie was feeding off theirs. By the time the final note rang out, she was dripping with sweat and shaking from the adrenaline.

The breakdown was fast and efficient. Years of experience in a body she'd only just gotten used to. And then they were back at the diner—same cracked booths, same buzzing lights. But everything felt different.

Plates of fries, greasy burgers and bottles of beer arrived in waves. The table quickly filled with empty bottles, an overflowing ashtray, and inside jokes. This time, Evie wasn’t just listening. She joined in. She laughed, chimed in with her version of the night's performance, and argued about which song hit hardest.

As they rose from the table, Evie felt something she hadn’t in a long time—uncertainty. For years, her future had been crystal clear: graduate with honors, attend Stanford, become a doctor. She still wanted that. But now, another vision tugged at her—one filled with drumsticks, a brightly lit stage, and the roar of a crowd. Was it possible to have both? And if not… which version of herself would she have to leave behind?

That night, Evie was surprised when Drake guided her into the RV and not the van.  "We're sleeping here tonight?" she asked, a flicker of confusion in her voice.

Drake gave her a puzzled smile. "Yeah? We trade off when it’s warm enough. But when it gets too cold, we all crash in the RV. Did you have something different in mind?"

"I just thought..." She trailed off, unsure of how to explain the pang of sadness that struck her. Maybe it was because she already felt the clock winding down.

Drake just chuckled softly. “You’re cute when you overthink stuff.” He leaned in, kissed her forehead, and disappeared into the back bedroom to change.

Evie stayed behind in the small bathroom, the hum of the RV’s overhead light buzzing softly. She let the warm water of the shower wash over her, rinsing away the scent of smoke, sweat, and music. When she stepped out, she dried off slowly, thoughtfully, and reached for something delicate and lacy from the drawer.

She stood in front of the mirror and applied a touch of makeup — not for the stage this time, but for herself. A dusting of shimmer on her cheeks, a swipe of plum gloss, a hint of eyeliner. She wanted to feel beautiful. She wanted this night to be beautiful.

When she entered the bedroom, Drake was already lounging under the covers, shirtless and calm, eyes half-lidded in the amber lamplight. He looked at her and smiled — not the wide, teasing grin he wore on stage, but something gentler, something full of unspoken meaning.

"You look... wow." He sat up a little straighter. “Like a dream.”

She climbed into bed beside him. They kissed softly at first, and then more deeply, as if the silence between them could only be filled with touch. Her nightie was soon discarded and he claimed every inch of her with his lips and tongue. She clutched at his back like he might disappear if she let go for a moment. His cock brushed her thighs repeatedly. It was long, thick and impossibly hard. She'd touched it before, ran her hand up and down its length and now she yearned to have it inside her. To claim her. Make her a woman. Make her his. Part of her was afraid of undergoing yet another transformation, from innocent girl to sexual woman, but it was being devoured by the torrent of pleasure that was consuming her. 

"Do you want to keep going? I can stop if you want," Drake breathed into her ear.

This was it. She could still say no. Remain who she'd been before her mother's magical makeover. Keep her honeymoon fantasy alive. Stay inside her father's bubble.

"Don't stop. I want to feel you in me."

She barely had the words out before Drake had a condom in place and was poised before her entrance. He gazed into her eyes.

"I said yes. Now fuck me already," Evie screamed. 

He pushed into her and she screamed louder. All doubts and hesitation faded away. He moved his hips back and forth, his cock making her pussy sing. She rocked her hips in time with him and they were making music once again, with their bodies as the instruments. He brought her to orgasm shortly before her own. He got up to dispose of the condom and grab some cigarettes.

They lay together smoking and listening to each other breathe. Occasionally breaking the silence with soft words. She told him how good he made her feel, how safe. He told her she had a fire in her that made everything brighter. Their words weren’t loud, but they mattered.

At one point, Evie lay still, her head resting on his chest, his hand brushing slowly through her hair. Her throat tightened unexpectedly. Tears welled in her eyes. She closed them quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice — but of course he did.

"Evie..." he murmured, catching the shine of her tears in the dim light. "Hey. What’s wrong?"

She blinked quickly, forcing a smile that trembled at the edges. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just... happy.”

He looked at her with concern, but softened when she placed her hand on his cheek.

“I’m joyful,” she added, more steadily this time. “That I got to be your girlfriend..”

Drake tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his gaze steady. “You’re more than that, Evie. You’re unforgettable.”

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, holding onto the warmth of his skin, the beat of his heart, and the feeling of belonging she’d never quite had before. She didn’t know what would come tomorrow. But tonight, in the quiet of the RV, with the distant hum of crickets outside, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

The following day, Evie made a conscious choice to stay close to her mother. The previous night with Drake had felt like a closing chapter, a heartfelt goodbye wrapped in affection and silence. Now, her heart turned toward the woman who had opened this world to her. It wasn’t just a day to bond—it was a day to learn, to soak up everything she could about the life she was beginning to long for.

They spent the morning in downtown Chicago, walking beneath towering steel and glass, the skyline dazzling under the spring sun. Their first stop was Millennium Park, where they took selfies in the reflection of The Bean. From there, they wandered to the Art Institute, where Celeste pointed out the surrealism wing. “These paintings inspired our second album cover,” she said with a grin, gesturing to a Dalí.

"Tell me what it's really like," Evie said as they strolled through the Chicago Cultural Center. "Not just the highs. I want to know the lows. What should I avoid? What should I be ready for?"

Celeste smiled knowingly. "Touring is magic and madness. You'll feel like a goddess on stage and invisible off it. Sleep becomes a luxury. Relationships strain. There are cities you only see at midnight and diners you’ll remember forever."

Over coffee at a moody cafe tucked away in Wicker Park, Celeste continued to talk shop. "Biggest lesson? Guard your peace," Celeste continued. "People will try to take pieces of you—fans, promoters, even bandmates. Learn to say no. Learn to rest. Never let anyone guilt you out of your own boundaries."

Evie sipped her espresso, hanging on every word.

“And watch the contracts. Everyone wants a piece of you once you start doing well. You need someone you trust reading every line. That’s how bands get trapped. We got burned bad on a merch deal once. Took years to crawl out of that.”

As they strolled along the lakefront, Evie turned to her mother. “I think I want to join Dead Halo.”

Celeste blinked, then smiled with quiet pride. “You'd do great with them.”

“But I still want to go to Stanford. I still want to become a doctor.”

Celeste nodded. "You’ll figure it out. You’re smart, focused, and more determined than anyone I know."

Evie hesitated, her gaze trailing the waves lapping against the shore. “I don’t want to end up like… I mean, I know your story. You had to make a choice. A band or a baby. I don’t want to have to make that choice. I want a life where I don’t have to give up one to have the other.”

Celeste reached out, touching her daughter’s arm. “I can help you with that.”

Evie wondered how her mom intended to help. "I also want to keep the makeover. But make it mine. A mix of who I was and who I am now."

They talked about her old favorite colors—baby blues, soft pinks—and how she could blend those pastel tones into an edgier style. Celeste smiled, already brainstorming outfits.

They returned to the RV, where the band was already prepping for the evening. Evie and Celeste changed into their show outfits, adjusting makeup, touching up hair. The greenroom buzzed with pre-show energy, and the moment their boots hit the stage, Evie felt it again—that magic. That electric communion with the crowd. Her sticks blurred in her hands. Her heart pulsed with the beat.

When the curtain fell, she didn’t hesitate. She made a beeline to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. “I love you, Mom.”

Celeste hugged her tightly. “I love you, Evie.”

The stage lights dimmed. The venue noise faded. And then, in an instant, she was gone.

Back in her bedroom at her father’s house. It was Saturday night. Her fingers brushed over the fabric of her new outfit: a cropped, distressed baby blue tee layered over a lace-trimmed pink cami. Black faux leather shorts hugged her hips and fishnets ran down to chunky pink platform Mary Janes on her feet. Her cross necklace hung at her collar, joined by studded bracelets and dangling padlock earrings. Her fingers were adorned with silver rings, nails long and painted in alternating pink and baby blue. 

She looked in the mirror, Her hair was still shaved on one side with the other hanging low in front of her right eye, but it was now mostly pink with touches of light blue. It also looked like it had been styled in a high end salon, not cut with dull scissors in a bathroom.

She glanced around her bedroom. Nothing had changed since Thursday. The same romantic charm lingered in pastel pinks, creams, and lavender. The vintage floral wallpaper was as familiar as ever, and the corkboard—carefully arranged with photos, favorite quotes, and a Stanford pennant. Her bed, draped with a white lace canopy and layered in plush pillows and a hand-stitched quilt, looked just as inviting. On the bedside table, the roses remained fresh, the lamp still sat on its delicate doily, and her hardcover Bible waited, untouched.

The room was exactly the same. But she wasn’t. It felt foreign now—too neat, too delicate, too quiet. Like a place she had once lived, not somewhere she belonged. She would have to change that, make it hers again. She wasn't sure how exactly, but it would be fun experimenting.

She heard the front door open.

“We’re home, Evie!” her dad called.

Her heart thudded against her ribs. What would Lauren and her dad say when they saw her? Would they think her new look was normal, or would it be the shock of their lives? She drew a steadying breath and started down the stairs to find out.

When Evie reached the bottom of the stairs, the change in atmosphere was immediate. Her father, Greg, froze mid-step. Lauren, halfway through setting her purse on the entryway table, turned around slowly, blinking as though trying to clear a trick of the light.

Her new look hit them like a gust of wind—sharp, colorful, and completely unrecognizable.

“Evie?” Greg asked, blinking again. “What… what did you do to your hair?”

Lauren didn’t speak at first. Her gaze swept from the pink asymmetrical bob to the cropped tee, lingered on the fishnets, then drifted back up—taking in the silver rings, studded bracelets, and padlock earrings—before finally landing on her stepdaughter’s heavily made-up face.

“I—” Lauren’s voice caught in her throat. “Is this… some sort of costume?”

“No,” Evie said calmly. “It’s me. This is my new look.”

Lauren inhaled, then frowned. “Do you smell that?” she asked, turning toward her husband. “Cigarettes.” She spun back. “Have you been smoking, Evie?”

Evie met her eyes without hesitation. “Yes.”

Lauren scowled. "You're a smoker now?"

Evie thought for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe I am."

Her father frowned. “What's happened to you? We've only been gone one day.”

She took a breath, standing straighter. “I went on another magical trip. I know you didn’t believe me the first time I told you, but it happened again. I went to Chicago. I was in Mom's band. I played with her on stage in front of a real audience. It was incredible.”

Lauren exchanged a glance with Greg. “Evie, we talked about this. Fantasizing is one thing, but—”

“I’m not fantasizing,” she said firmly. “I was transported. Like, literally. Magic. My mom made it happen. She showed me a different version of what my life could be like.”

Her father’s face stiffened at the mention of Celeste, but Evie kept going.

“I’m going to join a band called Dead Halo.”

Lauren’s jaw dropped. “You’re joining a secular rock band? With that kind of name? Playing the devil’s music?”

Evie brows lowered. “It's just music. Loud and hard.”

Her dad ran a hand through his hair. “This band… they want a violinist?”

Evie shook her head. “No. I’m the drummer.”

“The drummer?” he asked incredulously. “Since when do you even play drums?”

Evie walked into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pair of wooden chopsticks. She turned back, her face calm. Then she began tapping on the countertop, her rhythm sharp and complex, her hands a blur. She rolled seamlessly into a syncopated pattern that would make any trained percussionist pause.

When she stopped, both her father and Lauren stood in stunned silence.

Greg stared at her. “Where did you learn to play like that?”

“I told you,” she said softly. “Chicago. The band. The gigs. I lived it.”

Lauren sat down slowly, still trying to absorb the image of the girl before her. “But… what about college? Stanford? Medical school?”

“I still want that,” Evie said. “I want to go to Stanford. I want to be a doctor. But I also want to be a professional drummer. I want it all.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “I’ve been down the rock band road, and I think you’re making a mistake—but you’re an adult now, and it’s your choice to make. Just remember: living under this roof means school comes first. If your grades slip—or heaven help you, if you drop out—you’ll need to find somewhere else to live.

Evie nodded. “Fine.” She went back to her bedroom, pulled out her phone, and called Nyx.

“Evie!” Nyx answered with her usual unfiltered enthusiasm. “Talk to me and make it good news.”

“I want to join Dead Halo,” Evie said. “Count me in.”

Nyx shrieked. “Yes! Hell yes. I’ll tell the guys. They’re going to lose it.”

“I’m excited too,” Evie said, a smile pulling at her lips.

“Let’s rehearse tomorrow," Nyx said. "Eleven a.m., same spot as the audition. We'll go over our entire repertoire. Don't worry it's only twelve songs.”

Evie hesitated. Sunday. Church. For over a decade, she’d never missed a Sunday morning service. Never.

Nyx picked up on it. “Something wrong?”

Evie looked out her window, back at her neatly made bed and soft-colored posters. Her old world. “No problem, see you tomorrow." Remembering that she had been transported to the audition, she added, "Can you tell me the address again?"

Shortly before eleven on Sunday, Evie stood outside the weather-worn double doors of the Backline Tavern, its peeling black paint and battered neon sign humming faintly in the mid-morning haze. The place looked like a secret carved out of the edge of nowhere, halfway between San Jose and Fremont. 

She pulled her baby blue moto jacket tighter around her cropped tank, the breeze still cool and sharp. The jacket’s distressed denim framed her striking new look—pink mesh sleeves over a fitted “Dead Halo” band top, a baby pink pleated mini skirt brushing the tops of her fishnet stockings, and silver chains swaying with each breath. It was nice of her mother to give her a full wardrobe that matched her new style.

A rust-red hatchback pulled into the lot and idled. The moment Nyx stepped out, her brows shot up, and her glossy black lips curved into a broad grin. “Damn, girl,” she whistled as she walked over, boots crunching gravel. “Is this the same sweet church girl who auditioned in a buttercup dress?”

Evie smiled, her pulse quickening with the rush of being seen—really seen—for the first time. “I felt like a sore thumb at the audition. I wanted to look the part this time.”

Nyx gave a low chuckle. “You could’ve thrown on a denim jacket and jeans, called it a day. But nah, you went for a full makeover. I approve 100%. The guys’ jaws are gonna hit the floor.” She unlocked the tavern door and pushed it open with a theatrical flourish. “Come on. We’ve got some time before the others drag in. I’m usually the first one here, even when I’m ten minutes late.”

Evie stepped inside but lingered near the doorway, watching Nyx as she strolled toward the stage. The way she moved—confident, unbothered, alive—hit Evie like a drumbeat in her chest. Her thoughts swirled, remembering the quiet conversation with her mom: her fears about pregnancy, about having to choose between motherhood and her dreams, and her mom had said she could help. Well, that was one way to fix it. Hard to screw up your future with an accidental baby if you're sleeping with women. 

Nyx caught her looking and smiled, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket.

"Can I have one of those?" Evie asked, hoping a cigarette might calm her suddenly too tense nerves.

Nyx walked up to her slowly, drew the cigarette out and instead of handing it over, she leaned in and placed it between Evie’s lips, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brushed Evie’s chin, making her breath hitch. Nyx flipped open her lighter, the flame flickering up between them. But just as she brought it forward, Evie reached up, plucked the cigarette from her lips, and stepped in—closing the space, pressing her mouth to Nyx’s in a bold, breathless kiss.

Nyx responded immediately, her hand moving to Evie’s waist, pulling her closer. It was a kiss that sparked like live wire—hungry, unexpected, thrilling. They were still tangled in it when the door creaked open behind them.

Griff’s voice rang out: “Well, shit. Looks like none of us are winning that pool.”

Mars followed him in, whistling low. “Damn, Nyx. You move fast.”

Evie flushed, but didn’t let go of Nyx’s hand. She braced for Nyx to tease them, maybe throw out a cocky line—but instead, Nyx leaned into her shoulder and said with a wicked smile, “What can I say? When the universe gifts you a firecracker, you light the fuse.”

Rehearsal started soon after. While Evie’s rhythm and instincts remained sharp, the songs were new terrain. She tripped on a fill here, mistimed a break there. But by the third run-through, she was starting to lock it in

When rehearsal wrapped, they scheduled the next one for Thursday night. The energy in the room was high, a buzz of good-natured sarcasm and respect flowing freely now that Evie had proven she could hang.

The guys packed up and filtered out, one by one. As the door shut behind them, the quiet returned.

Nyx stepped close, brushing her hair back from her eyes. “You killed it today. Seriously.”

Evie gave a breathy laugh. “Thanks. I didn’t think I’d keep up.”

“You more than kept up.”

They stood there for a moment, the weight of earlier still hovering in the space between them.

Nyx finally cleared her throat. “Hey, I was thinking—we could grab some takeout. My place is a few blocks away. Just chill, talk about... this.” She motioned vaguely between them, where the kiss still seemed to hang in the air.

Evie hesitated. “Should I ride with you?”

Nyx glanced at the empty lot. “Probably not a great idea to leave your car overnight here. This lot’s seen better days.”

Evie’s cheeks colored, the implication sinking in. “Oh.”

Nyx immediately looked flustered. “Wait—I didn’t mean—I mean, I wasn’t trying to assume anything. I just figured we might have a few drinks and you’d maybe crash on the couch or something. I wasn’t—”

Evie touched her arm lightly, smiling. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Nyx looked relieved, then gave her a soft grin. “I mean, I’m not saying we won’t end up in bed together… but I’m not assuming anything either.”

They walked out together, laughing a little, brushing fingers as they moved toward their cars. As Evie climbed into hers and started the engine to follow Nyx to the takeout place, the idea of spending the night with her wasn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as it might have been.

Evie pulled her Prius onto the frontage road, trailing Nyx’s beat-up hatchback as it led the way to the take out place. “Tofu Riot. Vegan punk food,” Nyx had said, grinning like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Evie smirked softly to herself. She’d never had vegan food. Her dad always claimed, half-joking but also dead serious, that “God put animals here for a reason. It’s just rude not to eat them.” The phrase had always struck her as absurd, but now it seemed even more alien. She wondered what he’d say if he knew she was following a girl she had just kissed to a vegan take-out place with a name like Tofu Riot.

Or if he knew she liked kissing that girl.

Her fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel as a flicker of anxiety passed through her. Her dad wasn’t like Lauren—he didn’t talk much about sin, didn’t quote Leviticus at dinner—but she’d grown up watching his expression when stories came on the news about same-sex marriage, or when someone in the congregation “fell into that lifestyle.” It wasn’t hate, but it wasn’t love either. It was disappointment, a quiet kind of judgment she knew too well.

Tofu Riot looked like it had been built in a garage and never properly moved out. The walls were littered with punk rock posters and a chalkboard menu listed items like "No-Cluck Nuggets", "Riot Fries", and "Tofu Anarchy Burger."

Nyx waited inside for their order—spicy aioli smash burgers and truffle fries, while Evie stepped outside to call her mom.

Celeste answered on the first ring.

“Evie,” her voice was calm and bright, as if she’d been expecting the call. “How’s your day going?”

“What did you do to me?” Evie said. Not angry, not even frustrated. “This morning I kissed a girl. I kissed her and I liked it. Really liked it."

"I looked into your future again," Celeste replied gently. “I saw what could be. You and Nyx—there’s a path where the two of you become something wonderful together. So, I removed some barriers that had been built during your upbringing."

Evie gritted her teeth. “You could’ve told me this was what you had in mind when you said you'd help."

"And you could’ve asked how I'd planned to help."

Evie looked back through the Tofu Riot's plate glass window. Nyx was inside laughing with the cashier, confident, radiant. She was so beautiful, so sexy. "Dad is going to lose his mind. And Lauren—she’ll say I’ve been possessed.”

Celeste sighed. "They will. Life will become quite hard for you. But only if you continue to live under their roof."

Evie said, "Where else am I going to live?" Her heart skipped. “Wait…you mean live with Nyx?”

"You’re standing at a crossroads tonight with three paths forward." Celeste said. "If you go home and sleep in your own bed, the sapphic urges will pass, and you’ll settle into a comfortably heterosexual life. Stay the night at Nyx’s place but don’t have sex, and you’ll end up as roommates. You’ll hold on to your attraction to women, dabble in dating men, and find a way to keep both halves balanced. Your father will eventually find out. He’ll tolerate it—grudgingly—as long as you keep the queer side of yourself a secret from the church and his friends."

"And the third path?" Evie asked.

Celeste’s voice turned somber. "If you sleep with her tonight, Your dad will explode. He’ll talk about conversion therapy. He'll stage interventions with the church elders. But you'll move in with Nyx and your relationship with her will become quite extraordinary."

Nyx exited the restaurant holding a takeout bag. “Ready to roll?”

Evie stared at the ground, heart hammering, mind spinning. "I have to go," she whispered into the phone.

"Trust your heart, sweet girl," Celeste said. Then the line went dead.

Nyx’s apartment was a two bedroom corner unit in a weathered building with faded red bricks and a humming fluorescent light in the stairwell. The inside was lived-in but cozy. A low, deep couch sat under a cluttered bookshelf full of books, sheet music, and vintage photographs. The coffee table was scuffed but covered in incense trays, coasters made from old CDs, and a half-filled ashtray.

“Used to have a roommate,” Nyx said, nudging the door shut with her hip. She tossed her keys in a bowl shaped like a quarter note. “She moved in with her boyfriend, and I’ve been debating getting another one. But honestly, it’s nice having the place to myself."

They sprawled on the couch with their paper food containers of plant-based smash burgers with spicy aioli, truffle fries and a pair of grapefruit IPAs they'd rescued from the fridge. 

“So.” Nyx said between bites. “You going to tell me what the hell happened between last week and this morning? Because I remember this wide-eyed, terrified church girl who looked like she was about to faint when I told it was her turn at the drums. Then today you show up looking like a punk Barbie and give me a kiss that made my brain short-circuit.” She raised an eyebrow." My gaydar’s usually dead-on—and at that audition? Nothing. Not a flicker. But today? High alert. So, what gives?"

Evie flushed and laughed into her bottle. “Yeah... okay. You deserve an explanation.”

Evie unraveled the whole wild, strange truth. About Celeste, and the magic. The teleportation to the audition, the way she could suddenly play drums like she'd been born behind a kit. She told her about Chicago, and Drake, and the makeover that felt less like a costume and more like stepping into her own skin. 

“I told her I was scared of ending up pregnant like she did. She said she could help." Evie paused to light a cigarette. "I didn’t realize what she meant until... well, I kissed you.”

Nyx leaned back, looking delighted. “So your mom turned you gay?”

Evie chuckled. “Yes…well, I think bisexual might be more accurate, but I'm leaning way more toward girls. You at least.”

Nyx raised her beer in salute. “Damn. Can you give me her address? I want to send her a bouquet of flowers as a thank you.”

Evie laughed so hard she nearly dropped her beer.

Then her phone buzzed. A call from Dad. She let it ring. A moment later, a text: "Where are you? We're about to have dinner."

She typed back: "At Nyx’s place. She’s the singer in my band. Having takeout."

Seconds later, his reply came in: "Don’t stay out late. Need to talk about you skipping church. And school’s tomorrow."

Evie sighed. She opened her maps app, looked up directions from Nyx’s apartment to school. Twenty-five minutes with traffic. Not bad. But she'd have to go home first. Her homework was still in her bedroom.

Nyx noticed what Evie was doing. “Thinking about heading home?” she asked, then paused. “Oh, right—it’s Sunday. School tomorrow.” Her eyes lit up, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Or... are you thinking about staying?”

Evie hesitated, knowing she was at a crossroads, facing a decision that would reverberate through the rest of her life. 

She could go home—crawl into bed, wake up early, go to school, smile politely at Laurel, and be her father’s straight-as-an-arrow, little angel. Someday marry a nice, God-fearing, church approved, man. Live a straight, safe, silent life.

Or…she could stay. Let herself fall for the silver-haired siren who made her heart race. Admit that she wasn’t straight, not anymore. Build something wild and real and electric—behind a drum kit, beside Nyx. A life that would be anything but straight, safe and silent. The idea of it terrified and thrilled her.

Nyx lit a cigarette. "If you want to stay longer." Her voice was quiet and tender. "We could throw on a movie. Or just hang out. Sit on the balcony and drink beers. Talk about whatever… us. No pressure. It was just a kiss after all, a very intense and most welcome kiss.” She smirked. “But that doesn’t mean it has to go any further than that."

Evie’s cheeks colored. “Right. Of course.” Then, after a pause, she added softly, “But what if I want it to go further?”

Nyx leaned over. The kiss came naturally. Deeper this time. More urgent. They didn’t speak as they made their way to Nyx’s bedroom. Clothes fell away with gentle laughs and eager hands. Everything was unhurried, intimate. They made love with the nervous tenderness of firsts and the confidence of choice. It was messy and awkward in places, beautiful and intense in others—but it was real. It was so different from Drake. He was hard, muscular, and dominant. Nyx was soft, gentle and giving. The orgasms were different too, but both were wonderful and all consuming. 

When it was over, they lay together in a tangle of limbs and tangled emotions, both stunned by how deeply they already cared. Nyx pulled the comforter up around them and curled an arm around Evie’s waist. 

“That was wonderful. I'm happy you stayed.”

"Me too." Evie nestled into the side of Nyx's neck. They closed their eyes.

Nyx's body was still and relaxed. Evie lay curled into her warm body, enjoying the sound of her soft, gentle breathing. So much better than Drake's hard snore. 

She had chosen the third path.

Not home. Not denial. But—Nyx. Her body was relaxed from the intimacy they'd shared together, but her mind raced. Her dad would lose it. Church, Laurel, the life they'd planned for her—it would all unravel. No suburban house with a husband and golden retriever. Would there still be Medical school, Stanford? Was she even going to graduate high school? Would she end up like her mom, chasing gigs, never in the same town for more than a few days, broke and drifting? Or would Dead Halo find the kind of success that had evaded Witchlung?

She glanced at Nyx—her silver hair tousled, lashes dark against her cheek—and felt a rush of warmth. Love, maybe. Something close. The questions faded. All she really knew was this: she wanted to drum. She wanted to do it loud, fierce, and free. And she wanted Nyx—onstage, in her arms, in her life. She kissed her girlfriend gently on the cheek and then fell into a contented sleep.