The Reckless Collision

Chapter Seventy-Five

Elena exhaled, her posture relaxing slightly as she unclipped her guitar strap. "Fine. I'll stay. But Logan, you need to stop acting like everything's my fault."

Logan ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Yeah. Sure." It wasn't much of an apology, more like a sarcastic agreement. And for the love of God, I couldn't figure out what the issues were.

Logan was not keen on taking on Elena but there had to be more than just that it has been weeks. Logan didn't say anything more, just picked up his drumsticks and returned to his kit.

"Let's take it from the top," I said, my voice steadier now. "And this time, let's play like we actually want to be here."

We ran through the song again, and though it wasn't perfect, it was better. The tension didn't completely disappear—it lingered in the stolen glances, the occasional sharp tone—but at least we were playing.

When the rehearsal ended, I lingered in the room, packing up my gear slowly as the others filed out. Andrew was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway.

"Good call earlier," he said, his tone neutral but his expression unreadable.

"Thanks," I replied, though it felt hollow. There was so much I wanted to ask him, to say, but the words caught in my throat. He gave a small nod and left, leaving me alone in the quiet.

I slumped onto the couch, my guitar case leaning against my knee. The weight of the night pressed down on me, and I could feel the cracks widening, the pressure building. The band wasn't the only thing falling apart; I could feel it in myself, in the way my thoughts spiraled and my emotions frayed.

Later I went back to the hotel to get some sleep before a big show tomorrow. The hotel suite was dimly lit, the city lights outside casting fractured patterns on the walls. The muffled hum of traffic drifted in through the cracked window, blending with the faint rustle of curtains stirred by a lazy breeze.

I sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the half-empty glass of whiskey on the nightstand. The burn of it still lingered on my tongue, but it hadn't done much to dull the ache in my chest.

Behind me, I heard the bathroom door creak open, and soft footsteps padded across the carpet. Samantha appeared in my peripheral vision, her hair damp and loose around her shoulders, the faint scent of coconut clinging to her skin. She was wearing that damn silky black robe the fabric hanging loose over her frame.

"Can't sleep?" she asked, her voice quiet, careful.

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak yet. She hesitated for a moment before crossing the room to sit beside me, the mattress dipping slightly under her weight.

"What's going on, Ray?" she asked gently, her hand resting lightly on my arm. Her touch was warm, and grounding, and I leaned into it without meaning to.

I let out a long breath, the kind that felt like it was dragging everything inside me out with it. "I don't even know where to start," I admitted, my voice low and strained.

"Try," she urged, her tone soft but firm.

"Elena and Logan can't stop fighting. Andrew's been distant like he's carrying something he won't let anyone else see. And me? I'm just trying to keep it all together, but it feels like I'm holding onto pieces of a puzzle that don't fit anymore." I ran a hand through my hair, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "And then there's us. I don't want to mess this up, love. I don't want to lose you."

Her hand tightened on my arm, her touch anchoring me as my voice cracked. "Ray," she said softly, her tone laced with a mix of sadness and understanding. "You're not going to lose me, our journey just started, we have a huge road ahead of us, but I believe in us and this is just a part of that journey. And because you are feeling this way I need to tell you something."