But it also makes what I have to say to the guys that much harder. Stalling, I check the setup of my drum set, as if I haven’t already done it a few times today. I drop my rag to the ground and use my foot to mop up the sweat that’s dripped there. The studio may be air-conditioned but take after take of this song has me drenched in sweat.

I glance back over my shoulder. Hawkin has taken a seat in the swivel office chair, Rocket is texting someone, and Vince has his head angled up to the ceiling and his eyes are closed.

“You want to tell us what’s going on with you, Giz?” Hawkin asks without looking my way.

“Who said there was anything wrong?” I ask.

“Fuck, man. We know you,” Vince says. “You don’t miss fucking beats to save your life and yet you missed several today. Something is wrong. We know it. You know it. Just spit it the fuck out already.”

I drop my head and nod. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m trying to fix something before it becomes wrong.”

“The tour? The travel? What?” It’s Rocket that asks and that earns devastating groans from everyone.

“It’s not a problem yet,” I lie because it’s just easier to break shit to them in pieces.

“Yet?” Hawkin crosses his arms over his chest as Vince tilts his head to the side.

“Jase?” Vince prompts.

“You know, the gift that keeps on giving. My probation.”

They all pause. They were there that night at the hotel. After, anyway. They helped me pick up the pieces of myself I was willing to leave behind. They talked me down from the ledge I was teetering on. They supported me through the charges. They know the why behind it all and yet here we are, still dealing with the ramifications all this time later.

“What’s going on?” Vince’s eyes narrow as Rocket steps closer.

“New judge. New hoops to jump through for approval, but we’re figuring it out,” I say.

“We’re?” Hawkin asks.

“Nathaniel. Me. Abigail,” I say, now clearly having their attention. And so I proceed to explain to them the whole scenario. Nathaniel’s talk with the judge. Our discussion over having to get married. My decision to go along with it.

“It’s just fucked in all the ways it can be fucked,” I say, ending my drawn-out explanation. “It was never a problem before so I assumed it wouldn’t be this time. I . . . fuck, I shouldn’t have waited until now to ask, but I did and now we know and are trying to fix it.”

But their faces say it all. Disappointment. Worry. Stress. Uncertainty. To cancel a sold-out world tour comes with ramifications on numerous fronts.