He's not my dad

part 27

The morning I leave New York feels strange—like standing on the edge of something exciting with one foot still planted in everything familiar. My small Airstream sits parked at the curb, polished and impossibly shiny, like it belongs to someone far more confident than me.

Bree and Kate circle it slowly, inspecting it like suspicious mechanics.

“It’s cute,” Kate says finally, tilting her head.
“But I really don’t think you’ll be able to drive safely with that thing attached to your car. You’re going to clip a mailbox. Or a cyclist. Or… a building.”

“I will not,” I protest. “I’m an amazing driver.”

Bree snorts. “That’s not what your insurance history says.”

“I’m better than you,” I shoot back without missing a beat.

She laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Fair.”

Kate crouches slightly, peering at the hitch. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t get something smaller. Or… nothing at all.”

“Because I like having a bed that’s mine,” I say. “And a door I can lock. And a bathroom that hasn’t been violated by Anthony.”

“That’s valid,” Bree agrees immediately.

The moment stretches, and the joking softens into something heavier. Bree steps closer, wrapping her arms around herself.
“I’m going to miss you,” she says quietly.

I pull her into a hug without thinking. “It’s two weeks,” I remind her gently. “Not a lifetime.”

“I know,” she says into my shoulder. “But still. It feels weird.”

Kate joins us, the three of us standing there tangled together on the sidewalk like we’ve done this a hundred times before and never quite learned how to say goodbye properly.
“You better send photos,” Kate says. “And updates. And proof that you’re not dead on the side of the highway.”

“And proof that Chuck is feeding you,” Bree adds. “I don’t trust men on tour.”

“I’ll survive,” I promise. “Probably.”

They finally step back, giving me room to breathe. I take one last look at the Airstream—my temporary home, my small leap into the unknown—and feel a flutter of excitement settle in my chest.
Two weeks on the road. New cities. Chuck. Music. Freedom.
I climb into the driver’s seat, waving at them through the window.

“Text us the second you hit traffic,” Kate calls.

“And if you crash the Airstream,” Bree adds, “I get your shoes.”

I laugh, starting the engine. As I pull away, I catch them in the mirror—two familiar figures shrinking into the background of my old life.
For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m leaving something behind.
It feels like I’m heading toward something new.

........

The band is only two hours away, which feels like a blessing considering the white-knuckle grip I have on the steering wheel for the first half hour. Towing the Airstream isn’t as terrifying as Kate predicted, but I’m still hyper-aware of every turn, every bump, every horn honked in my direction.

When my sat nav announces, “You have arrived at your destination,” I blink.
This is it?

I slow the car, pulling into a cracked asphalt parking lot beside a building that looks more like a storage unit than a music venue. The sign flickers weakly, one letter missing. I’m pretty sure the place could legally hold about forty people—fifty if they don’t mind violating fire codes.

Then I see Anthony’s van.
It’s unmistakable. Rusted sides, duct tape on the bumper, band stickers layered like sedimentary rock. Relief washes over me. At least I’m not lost.
I unhook myself from the car and step inside.

The bar is dim, sticky, and smells faintly of beer and regret. The stage is barely raised—just enough to trip over—and the band is mid-rehearsal. Freddie’s adjusting his amp, Anthony is arguing with the sound guy, and Chuck—
I stop short.
Chuck is drunk.
Not tipsy. Not relaxed. Drunk drunk.
He’s swaying slightly where he stands, a beer clutched loosely in his hand, voice louder than necessary as he laughs at something that clearly isn’t funny. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. This isn’t post-show celebration or pre-gig nerves.
This is belligerent.
My stomach drops.
He spots me a second later and grins wide, throwing his arms out. “There she is!” he slurs. “My girl made it!”

The room feels suddenly too small.
I force a smile as I walk toward him, my excitement draining away with every step. This isn’t how I pictured our reunion. Not this. Not him like this.
Anthony shoots me an apologetic look from across the stage.
Great.
Something tells me these two weeks aren’t going to be as simple as I hoped.

.....

I don’t know how they do it, but somehow the band pulls it off.

Despite Chuck’s earlier state, once he’s onstage something shifts. Muscle memory takes over. His voice is rougher than usual, edges frayed, but it works—it suits the room. The crowd is small but loud, pressed close to the stage, beer bottles raised, shouting lyrics back at them like this place matters.

And it does.
By the end of the set, the applause is real. Earned. Anthony bows dramatically. Freddie grins like a kid on Christmas morning

The second we’re backstage, Chuck collapses onto a battered sofa and pulls me down with him. I barely have time to laugh before I’m on his lap, his arms locked around me like I might disappear if he lets go.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he murmurs into my neck. “I keep thinking I imagined it.”

“You didn’t,” I say, smiling despite myself.
He presses his face into the curve of my shoulder, breathing me in. “God, I missed you.

It feels like we’ve been apart for months, not a week. He’s everywhere—hands warm and familiar, voice low and earnest, forehead resting against mine like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

“I’m so glad you came,” he says again, softer this time.

“I think he’s said that about twelve times,” Dana says with a grin. She’s perched on a crate nearby, Freddie’s jacket draped over her shoulders. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you since we left New York.”

Chuck lifts his head, squinting at her. “That’s slander.”

“You asked if you could put her face on the drum kit,” Freddie adds helpfully.

I laugh, and Chuck groans dramatically. “You’re all traitors.”

The tension eases as drinks are passed around, stories swapped. The band buzzes with post-show adrenaline, that loose, happy chaos that follows a good set. Even Chuck settles, his grip on me softening but never loosening completely.

Eventually, he straightens up like he’s had a sudden thought.

“Alright,” he announces, clapping his hands once. “I’m calling it. We’re leaving.”

Anthony squints at him. “You okay to make decisions right now?”

Chuck ignores him and looks at me instead, a familiar wicked spark lighting his eyes. “We should go. You know. Before someone else gets ideas.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” I say, already smiling.

“Oh, I do,” he replies. “I was thinking we should officially christen the Airstream.”

Groans and whistles erupt around the room.
“That’s not what christening means,” Dana calls.

“Speak for yourself,” Chuck says, standing and pulling me up with him. He leans down, murmuring in my ear, “I’ve been very patient.”

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks are warm.
As we head toward the door, his hand finds mine, steady despite everything. Whatever tonight threw at us—bad decisions, cheap beer, questionable judgment—we’re here.
Together.
And for now, that’s enough.