Page 7 of Life After You

The kitchen is easy to find. A warm, inviting space with rustic cabinets and a mismatched set of chairs around a large wooden table. A fridge hums softly in the corner, its light spilling out as I rummage for something edible. I settle on a half-empty loafof bread and some peanut butter, spreading it over a couple of slices with a butter knife I find in a drawer.

As I lean against the counter, eating my makeshift meal, the stillness of the boarding house settles over me. For the first time in days, I feel a tiny sliver of peace. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, but for now, the simple act of standing here in this quiet kitchen is enough.

Chapter Four

Logan

Isit at the edge of the worn leather bench in the back of the tour bus, my acoustic guitar balanced on my lap. My fingers absently pluck at the strings, and the familiar notes of a song Braden and I wrote together years ago fill the quiet space. I find myself lost in thought, hands picking at chords I normally avoid in sequences that speak to me. A smirk tugs at my lips as thoughts and memories drift over me. The rest of the band is scattered around. Chace stretched out on the opposite couch, rhythmically tapping his drumsticks on his knee, Sam scrolling through his phone and Trey leaning against the small kitchenette counter, nursing a beer.

Even with everyone here, the mood is heavy. A cloud that’s been hanging over us since Braden’s death. Burnt Ashes was always Braden’s dream before it was anyone else’s. He built it from the ground up, dragging me along with him, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted the spotlight. Braden had this way of making you believe in him, in his vision. With him gone, the shine had lost its luster.

We talked—long and hard—about jacking it in. Maybe stepping back from music altogether. Maybe writing for other artists, getting into something else, or hell, even going back to our old jobs.

What started as garage band sessions that pissed off the neighbors ended with a record deal that changed our lives. We were mid-tour when Braden’s accident happened, and everything fell apart. I strum a minor chord, the sound cutting through the ache in my chest. Glancing up at the guys, I clear my throat. “We need to decide what we are doing about the set list for tomorrow. Are we keeping ‘Second Chances’in?”

Chace stops tapping his sticks, frowning. “I don’t know, man. Playing that one just feels…weird without him.” Sam looks up from his phone. “It was one of Braden’s favorites. I think the fans would want to hear it.”

“Yeah, but is it for them, or is it for us?” Trey’s voice is quiet but firm. He takes a swig of beer, his eyes locking with mine. “You’re the one who’ll have to sing it, Lo. What do you want to do?” I exhale sharply, leaning back against the couch.

“I don’t know. Every time I think about playing it, it’s like…he’s right here. I can hear him in the harmonies. I don’t know if I can handle that.” The room falls silent, Braden’s absence settling over us like a thick fog. Burnt Ashes has always been more than a band. We’re a family, forged through late-night jam sessions, shitty motels, and the kind of chaos only the road can bring.Braden was the heart of the family, and without him, it feels like we’re missing something vital. Chace breaks the silence.

“What if we played it as a tribute? Strip it down, acoustic? Make it about him?” Sam nods slowly. “We could bring the lights down low, make it intimate. The fans would get it. They’d feel it.” My fingers still on the strings as I consider their words. Turning ‘Second Chances’into a tribute feels right, but it also feels like ripping open a wound that’s barely started to heal. I look at Trey, who gives me a small nod, like he’s saying, “Whatever you decide, we’ve got your back.”

“Okay,” I say finally. “Let’s do it. Acoustic. Just one guitar and vocals. No drums, no bass, no frills. Just…raw.”

Chace taps his sticks once against the couch arm, a subtle acknowledgement. “We’ll make it count.”

The bus falls into contemplative silence, each of us lost in our own memories of Braden. My mind drifts back to the early days of Burnt Ashes. Braden was relentless, dragging us to every dive bar and open mic night he could find.

“We’re gonna make it, Lo,” he said one night after a particularly rough gig. We’d been paid in beer and peanuts, and the crowd had been more interested in the football game on the TV than our music. “We just have to keep going, people are going to know our name. Burnt Ashes is going to be legendary.”

Now, the name Burnt Ashes is known, but not for the reason’s Braden envisioned. His death turned the band into a tragic headline, and I hate it. I hate that our success is overshadowed by the loss, that every interview comes with questions about Braden and what it’s like to keep going without him.

“You think he’d be proud?” I ask quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. Trey sets his beer down and crosses the room, sitting on the arm rest of the couch next to me. “Of course he would. He believed in this band more than anyone. He’d want us to keep going.”

“Yeah, but would he want us to be this?” I gesture vaguely around the bus, my frustration evident. “Would he want us to be the band that’s famous because he’s gone.”

“We’re not famous because he’s gone.” Sam says firmly. “We’re famous because we’re damn good at what we do. And yeah, people talk about Braden because he was amazing. But that doesn’t mean we’re riding on his coattails. We’re honoring him by keeping this going. By playing the music he loved.” I nod slowly, considering Sam’s words. I contemplated what to say for a moment, before I sucked in a breath and set my guitar in her case.

“We’re still Burnt Ashes, even without Braden.” My voice is steady, firm. “The heart of the band might be gone, but the fire he started. It’s still burning. We owe it to him to keep it alive.”

I look at each of the guys. My brothers.

“We’re missing another family member. After tonight, we get her back. Because if Braden were here, there’s no way in hell he’d leave her trapped in the personal hell she’s locked herself in. Right?”

Silence. Just for a second.

“He’s talking about Britney Spears, right? Save Britney 2025—” Trey stage-whispers.

Chace’s drumsticks whip through the air and smack Trey upside the head.

I nod my appreciation for his fine work.

“Management isn’t gonna like this,” Chace warns, ever the voice of reason.

Trey rubs his head. “We’re rockstars, baby. Just living up to our reputation.”

Sam sniggers. I smirk.

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