I nod, swallowing painfully. “We don’t exactly talk about it. We just know that what happened will come out. It will get us attention for all the wrong reasons, and we don’t want that. Hell, Mason still can’t even admit she’s dead.”

“And you don’t know what to believe.”

I give him a look. “Statistics don’t lie. I’m not a fan of getting my hopes up for nothing.”

He lifts the bottle at me in silent solidarity.

“What happened to her will only add more attention. And not necessarily the good kind,” I go on. “We know that. It was bad enough when people started showing up here. They came for a ghost more than the music.” I wince. “Her death, disappearance, kidnapping, whatever, should mean more than that.”

He smiles sadly. “You don’t want to exploit her.”

“Exactly. It was her dream too. Doing it without her, using what happened to our advantage...it feels wrong.”

He glances toward the window, watching the raindrops sliding down the glass. “What do you think Izzy would say? What would she want you to do?”

A lump forms in my throat, and I look down at my fingers. “She’d roll her eyes at us. Kick our asses maybe.” I smile, eyes burning. “She’d record us and send it out without our consent, because she believes in us and knows we can’t do anything without a shove from her.” I chuckle wetly. “Even if she can’t be a part of it.”

“Maybe knowing that is just the shove you need,” he whispers.

My smile is grim when I lift my head to face him once more. “Mason’s not ready.”

He arches both brows. “What about you?”

I can barely make it through one night without a drop of alcohol.

I’m lucky if I can get three hours a night of restful sleep, and that’s only thanks to said alcohol.

It’s a miracle I’m even still alive.

“It’s okay, you know,” he says, “to put yourself first.”

I stiffen. “Oh, is it?”

He sighs at the sarcasm biting through my words. “You’re good. You’re really good. And I’m not just talking about the band as a whole. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

I chuckle. “I’m no Mason Wyatt.”

“No, you’re Waylon McAllister.”

I snort and look away.

“Way?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something without getting punched in the face?”

I stiffen. “If you have to preface it with that, then no, you probably shouldn’t ask it.”

“Waylon.”

God, I hate how he says my name.

Like it was only ever meant to be on his lips.

How fucked up is that?