The Reckless Collision

Ray.

~~~

While Sam and Molly stayed upstairs, getting ready for the evening, I headed down to prepare for the party. Molly had promised to help Sam with her shower, and honestly, I didn't want to intrude on their "girl time." Still, I couldn't shake the slight anxiety about leaving them alone. Molly never held back when it came to voicing her opinions, and with the online gossip still swirling, I usually tried to stick close to Sam.

But tonight, things felt different. Sam didn't seem too concerned about the rumors, which eased the knot that had been sitting in my chest for days. I just hoped that calm would last.

The band was coming over, as usual. We all had a good relationship outside of work, often hanging out when we weren't on tour or in the studio. Beyond them, though, I hadn't invited anyone. Sam didn't have many friends in L.A., and to be fair, neither did I—not the kind you could really count on, anyway. My brother Logan, James, and Andrew. Beyond them, most people felt like temporary passengers in my life.

I'd asked the guys to keep their plus-ones to a minimum. Too many strangers might overwhelm Samantha, and after everything we'd been through recently, I wanted her to feel comfortable tonight.

Walking into the kitchen, I paused to take in the space. It was spotless—far cleaner than usual. Sam must have tidied up earlier, probably while I was sorting out other errands. A faint smile tugged at my lips. She always thought of the little things, even when I didn't notice right away.

I started unloading the dishwasher, the clink of plates and glasses echoing softly. After a quick trip to the car to grab the bags of liquor we'd forgotten earlier, I began stocking the fridge and arranging snacks. The stereo came to life with the familiar strum of a guitar.

"'In the sun... in the sun... I feel as one...'" I sang along, my voice blending with Kurt Cobain's. "'In the sun... in the sun... married... buried.'"

I couldn't help myself. Pretending to strum an air guitar, I nodded to the beat, letting the music carry me. The rhythm of preparation was oddly satisfying—singing, dancing, setting up trays of snacks. It felt like I was shaking off some of the tension from the past week.

A faint voice called out from the foyer, snapping me out of my moment. "Hey."

"Hey," I called back, lowering the volume on the stereo. "You're early."

"Not that early," Logan said, striding into the kitchen and claiming a stool at the island.

As usual, he was dressed head-to-toe in black: a crisp shirt and dark jeans, every inch of fabric meticulously smooth. Logan had an almost obsessive devotion to his iron, even bringing it on tour. I used to tease him about it, but honestly, I was a little jealous of how effortlessly polished he always looked.

"What's wrong?" I asked, noting the faint tension in his expression.

"Nothing," he replied, grabbing a chip from the tray and crunching loudly. "Where's Sam?"

"She's upstairs with Molly," I said, heading to the fridge.

The music hummed softly in the background as I pulled out a bowl of guacamole I'd made the night before. Peeling off the plastic wrap, I placed it in the center of the tray, surrounded by an assortment of chips, pretzels, and nuts.

"I was just about to say, Mom's guacamole would've been nice," Logan said, dipping a chip into the bowl.

"I made that," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Last night."

"Not bad," he admitted, though his tone was dismissive.

"Seriously, Logan. What's wrong?" I pressed, studying him.