“Then I won’t go.” It hurts to say it, but it’s the truth. She’s more important to me than anything, and if she doesn’t want me to be gone during our first few months of marriage then I won’t. It’s that simple.

Music starts playing from inside the house and I quickly slip the metal ring on my ring finger, which will hopefully alleviate some of Ella’s worry. “Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you in a week when I get back in town.”

“You better not say no,” he grumbles and I hang up the phone before he starts ranting, something he does a lot.

Tucking my phone into my back pocket, I go back inside the house, wondering how Ella is going to react to the news. I can see her pretending like she’s okay with it but deep down not really wanting me to go. She hides her feelings well so if I’m going to do this I need to make sure she’s completely and utterly okay with it. Any doubt and I’ll stay. Besides, as much fun as the tour would be, our little life in San Diego is good and why ruin a good thing?

Because being part of this tour is my dream.

Frowning at the thought, I shut the back door behind me as I step inside the kitchen. Ethan is sitting on the table, drinking from a red plastic cup and Lila is laughing at something he says while she pours herself a drink over at the counter. There’s another couple chatting in front of the kitchen sink. I used to go to school with them, but I can’t remember their names. I wave to them when they say “what’s up” and then I head for the living room.

“Bottoms up.” Ethan lifts his cup as I pass by him, toasting to something, and then he throws his head back and guzzles the drink.

“Are you wasted already?” I ask. “Because you’re supposed to play the drums in, like, ten minutes or so.”

“Nah,” he says, but his bloodshot eyes suggest otherwise. “I’ve got this. Besides, I can play the drums when I’m drunk perfectly fine.”

“Micha, do you want me to make you a drink or pour you a shot?” Lila calls out with a bottle of orange juice in her hand.

“No, thanks,” I tell her, scooping up a beer from the cooler near the doorway. “I have to stick to beer.”

She nods knowingly as she sets the juice down on the counter beside the row of vodka, tequila, and Bacardi bottles and a stack of plastic cups. Ever since Ella called me out on my asshole drunken behavior about a year ago, I take it easier on getting trashed, usually sticking to only a few beers. It was hard at first, but now it’s comfortable.