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I started laughing because River hit that on the head. “Yeah, no shit.”

Lerner put their fingers in their mouth and let go with an ear-splitting whistle. “What’s the announcement, guys?” Arlo and Goldie quit fighting long enough to face the group.

Arlo glanced at Goldie for a moment before he reached for his hand. Goldie stepped closer, and their fingers twined together. “We’re getting married.”

Goldie smirked. “In Vegas when we go to Rocktoberfest, and you’re all invited, along with your plus ones.”

I laughed at them. Sky and Sandy had married at a small ceremony a few years ago. Kit and Riv were still engaged, saying they were in no hurry to walk down the aisle.

Now, Arlo and Goldie—the Battling Bickersons, as Lerner had called them and we’d all picked up on—were doing the wedding march. We were all becoming quite domesticated. Well, they were.

“How long have you guys really been together?” I asked.

The band had a rule that we didn’t talk about our private lives in public, but Arlo and Goldie were a puzzle I hadn’t been able to solve. Now, I was determined to ask the questions I’d always wondered about.

They looked at each other, and Arlo laughed. “Since our first tour. We fight, and we break up, but we always get back together, so it seemed smart to just get married and fight together.”

Seemed like some fucked-up logic to me, but to each his own. Thatcher entered the control booth, and I was ready to go home.

Things with the two of us were moving along…at a snail’s pace. It was my fault. I hadn’t given him any signal that I was ready to make some decisions regarding my future because I was stuck.

Part of me wanted to quit the band because I wasn’t very optimistic about playing bass after rehab. The other part of me felt guilty about wanting to quit because the band was my family. We looked out for each other and shared the highs and lows of the music business. Without my bandmates, who would I be?

I hadn’t voiced my concerns to anyone. Hell, I didn’t like thinking about it at all, but I was actually running out of time to sit on the proverbial fence. After we finished the album, we were supposed to interview drummers to join the band, and once we found someone to take Hardy’s place, I couldn’t leave them searching for a bass player.

I’d started rehab, and my therapist said I was on track for a full recovery—in a year to eighteen months. I hadn’t shared that news with anyone either. I felt helpless because I knew the band was counting on me, and I was going to let them down.

In addition to that, the scars on my hand from the multiple surgeries were god-awful ugly, and I hated for anyone to see them. They were a constant reminder of the accident, and it was nearly impossible to put it behind me when they were always right there.

“Are we done for the day?” I asked, my anger and frustration apparent in my snapped question.

Uncle Tony returned to the studio and stared at me. “JD, son, what’s the matter?”

I huffed. “We’re wasting time. Sky has to get back to Illinois because school’s going to start soon, and I’m sure Sandy’s tired of being home alone. We need to get one more song on the album, and we’re. Running. Out. Of. Time!” I hadn’t meant to shout, but I was at my wit’s end.

A strong hand came down on my shoulder, and when I turned to my right, I saw Thatcher standing beside me. “Honey, what’s wrong? Come talk to me.”

Thatcher faced the group and spoke. “Give us a minute, guys.”

He then put his arm around my waist and led me out of the studio and down the hall to the small, covered balcony at the end of the hall. “Talk to me, Jordan. Is your hand bothering you? Do you need something for the pain?”

I sniffed as the tears returned. “No. I wish they’d had to just cut it off.” I tugged the fiberglass brace from my wrist and hand, tossing the damn thing on the concrete of the balcony.

“Hey, now, come here.” Thatcher took me into his arms and rubbed circles on my back as I cried, yet again.

“Jordan, tell me what’s bothering you so much. I’ve noticed you’re stressed, but I didn’t want to ask what was wrong. I hoped you’d talk to me about what’s going on when you were ready, but you’ve barely said ten words since you started physical therapy.”

Thatcher produced a handkerchief from somewhere and stepped back, keeping his left arm around me. He lifted the cloth and wiped my eyes before holding it to the end of my nose. “Blow.”

I did as he said, and when he wiped my nose and shoved the handkerchief in his pocket, I giggled. “That’s gross.”

Thatcher kissed the tip of my nose before kissing my forehead. “That’s nothing compared to some of the shit I’ve seen. Now, I insist you tell me what’s wrong. Are you in pain?”

“No. I’m not in pain. I’m frustrated as hell because I don’t know what to do.”

Thatcher led me to a bench and sat, pulling me onto his lap. “What to do about what?” He gently cradled my left hand and rested it in his.

I glanced behind us to see we were alone. “I want to quit the band. I think my left hand will be useless when it comes to playing guitar. I feel guilty because I injured it because I wasn’t thinking straight. I knew better than to try to bust the glass with my hand, and I don’t want to play music anymore. I just want to write songs. I hate performing, and this ugly thing is completely useless.” I held up my left arm, showing him my disgusting flesh as the tears came again.