Page 9 of Life After You

"You all know there’s a song we’ve avoided. One that means too much."

The crowd erupts again, anticipation mixing with something heavier—an almost palpable sorrow settling over the venue.

I let them murmur, let them feel it. Then I press on.

"How can we play our brother’s song when he’s not here to sing it?"

A ripple of hushed agreement moves through the audience.

"We will never be the same. We can never sound the same. And I will not—I refuse—to imitate my friend."

Silence stretches for a heartbeat. A breath. A pause.

"So tonight, we try something different. This…" I inhale deep, steadying myself. "This is my second chance."

The crowd is completely still now, hanging onto every word. Some are crying already, and fuck if I don’t feel it too.

"I know he would have loved this. He would have laughed his ass off at me sitting here talking your damn ears off."

A few chuckles ripple through the tension.

"I’ll be honest… I feel nervous." I glance down at my guitar, then back at them. "But fuck it. Let me know what you think, yeah?"

A few whoops and hollers break out, but I don’t let it distract me. I close my eyes. Breathe.

And then I start to play.

A soft, intricate riff, something my abuela would have been proud of. My fingers move instinctively, tracing old memories—warm kitchens, sunlit afternoons, her encouraging smile as I played classic Spanish ballads for her.

I start to sing.

The moment I open my mouth, I’m gone. Caught in a past life. Braden’s voice in my head.

The first time he played this song for us. The way his face had fucking lit up when he nailed the first recording. That stupid conversation over pizza, when we swore we’d be world famous, filthy rich, and forever drowning in women—even though he’d been head over heels for his girl.

That night at the dive bar when we played this live for the first time, Mac’s face glowing with pride in the crowd. The way the verses had come together over mini-golf, inspired by the ridiculous beeping retro beat of Skull Mountain.

The echoes of a past I can’t get back.

My voice comes out raw, aching, my fingers chasing notes I don’t have to think about.

And then, it’s over.

The last chord fades into silence, my breath hitching as the venue holds still—so fucking still—

And then the noise erupts.

Shouts. Cheers. Sobs. The kind of reaction that doesn’t need words.

I blink against the heat behind my eyes, realizing—fuck, I’m crying too.

"Thank you, everyone. For your support. For—"

Movement catches my attention.

The guys step back on stage, closing in.

"You been holding out on us, you Latino beauty," Trey sniffs, his eyes shining.

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