Six Strings and Second Chances

Five

Riley

It had been a whole two weeks. Fourteen days. I was still counting. I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse, but Logan hadn't bailed on me yet. No yelling. No threats. No fake nice smiles that curled into something mean the second backs were turned. Just... quiet patience. Steady. Still felt weird.

"Ready?" Logan asked as I climbed into the truck after school, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel like he was playing an invisible beat.

I shrugged, pulling my hoodie tighter around me. "Where are we going?"

"I gotta swing by the studio for a couple hours," he said. "Band practice. You cool hanging out?"

I shrugged. "Whatever."

He seemed to take that as a yes.

We drove in silence, the kind that wasn't awkward, just... quiet. He tapped his fingers on the wheel like he was playing some invisible song. I didn't ask. I didn't need to. I'd heard him mess around on his guitar enough by now to know his brain was always chewing on some melody or whatever.

I spoke before I could stop myself.

"Is the guy with the hair gonna be there?"

Logan blinked. "The hair?"

I gave him a look. "The one from Gino's? Looks like he eats drywall?"

Logan lost it—full, ridiculous laughter that filled the truck. The kind of laugh you can't fake. He smacked the steering wheel once, eyes crinkling like I'd just told the world's best joke.

"Jesus, Riley," he managed. "You can't say that stuff when I'm driving."

I shrugged. "Not my fault your friend looks like a cartoon construction worker."

"You're gonna fit in just fine."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You keep saying that like it's a good thing."

"It is," he said, grinning sideways at me. "Band practice is a safe zone. You're allowed to hang out, eat gross food, draw on the walls—"

"I'm definitely doing that."

"—and lightly bully everyone in the room. It's encouraged."

I blinked. "Wait, for real?"

"Oh yeah. Dee will throw it back twice as hard. Gabe might cry. Mason deserves it."

That pulled something out of me I didn't expect—a tiny, traitorous laugh I couldn't quite swallow.

Logan didn't make a big deal of it. Just tapped the steering wheel again, like he was keeping rhythm with the moment. "All I'm saying," he added, "is you don't have to be anyone but yourself in there. And if yourself wants to roast Mason's haircut, I will personally back you up."

I looked out the window, hiding another smile. Maybe I wouldn't hate this.

The hallway to the rehearsal room smelled like old carpet, dust, and coffee that had burned too long on a hot plate. It wasn't fancy—some converted warehouse space with black scuff marks on the walls and someone's ancient band sticker half-peeled off the door. But Logan walked like it was home.

He nudged the door open with his shoulder. The noise hit me first—drums being tuned, a low bassline humming under someone's muttered curse, then a sharp, metallic crack as a cable hit the floor.

"Look who's on time! And you brought company!" A blue-haired Asian girl said.

Logan grinned. "Yup. Riley, meet the chaos crew. This is Dee and Gabe. You remember Mason—."