He's not my dad

part 28

The Airstream is quiet now, wrapped in that hazy, floating calm that comes after everything slows down again. We’re tangled together on the narrow bed, limbs lazy, skin warm, breathing finally even. Outside, the night hums softly, distant traffic and crickets blending into white noise.
Chuck props himself up on one elbow, looking around with exaggerated seriousness.

“Okay,” he says, gesturing around us, “I need to talk to you about the throw cushions.”

I laugh, tucking myself closer to him. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “I just didn’t realize I was dating someone who travels with decorative pillows.”

“They make it feel like home,” I argue.

He grins. “I live out of a guitar case and a duffel bag. This”—he taps the fairy lights, the little plant on the shelf—“is wildly domestic.”

“That’s because you’re feral,” I tell him sweetly

He snorts and kisses the top of my head. “Fair.”

We lie there for a moment, comfortable, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on my arm.
“We’re heading to the next show tomorrow,” he says. “Six-hour drive.”
I groan. “Please tell me that’s band hours, not actual hours.”

“Actual,” he replies. “But I’ll ride with you. I trust you more than Anthony with a steering wheel.”

“That’s a low bar,” I say.

He laughs, then suddenly pulls back slightly, eyes lighting up with mischief. He raises both hands like he’s about to confess something huge.

“Okay,” he says, already laughing, “I have to ask. You have to tell me.”

My stomach drops. “I don’t like that tone.”

“Who’s the better kisser,” he says, unable to keep a straight face. “Me or my dad?”

“Oh my God,” I groan, shoving him hard in the chest and immediately covering my face. “You are impossible.”

He collapses back onto the pillows, laughing so hard the bed shakes. “Your reaction tells me everything.”

“I refuse to answer that,” I say through my hands. “Absolutely not.”

“That wasn’t a no,” he teases.

“I hate you,” I mumble.

“No, you don’t,” he says, pulling me back against him, still laughing. “But I win. Obviously.”

I shake my head, mortified and smiling despite myself, and curl into his chest. The Airstream creaks softly as it settles, and for the first time since hitting the road, I feel completely at ease.
Tomorrow brings a long drive, another city, another stage.
But tonight? Tonight is just us.

.......

I balance the paper bags in one arm and knock hard on the back of the van with the other. Nothing happens at first. I knock again, louder.
Finally the door creaks open and Freddie appears, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes bloodshot like he hasn’t slept since the Obama administration.
“Please tell me that’s food,” he croaks.
I hold up the bag and the tray of coffees like an offering. “Breakfast sandwiches. Coffee. Real coffee.”
He stares at me for a second, visibly emotional. “You’re my hero,” he says solemnly, taking everything from me. “I will remember this kindness forever.”
“I just have one question,” I say. “What time are we leaving?”
“Eleven,” he replies without hesitation.
I grimace.
He frowns at my face, confused, then squints down at his phone. His eyes widen. “It’s—” he cuts himself off, then yells back into the van, “IT’S TEN FIFTY, YOU ANIMALS.”
I’ve been up since nine. I went for a run. I showered. I even had time to question my life choices twice. Freddie starts shouting a creative string of obscenities that definitely violate several noise ordinances.
I peer into the van and immediately regret it. It’s just a tangled pile of limbs, blankets, empty beer cans, and humanity. I genuinely cannot understand how five grown men have been traveling—let alone sleeping—in that thing.
“How are you all still alive?” I mutter.
Freddie jumps down from the van and, without shame or warning, takes a leak against the side of the bar.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that,” I say, turning away.
“Thanks for the food!” he calls cheerfully. “Ten minutes!”
I hurry toward the Airstream, coffee in hand, and climb inside. Chuck is sprawled across the bed like he’s been dropped there, one arm hanging off the side.
“Rise and shine, rock star,” I say, prodding his shoulder.
He groans like he’s being physically harmed. “Why is the sun… so loud?”
“We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
He opens one eye. “Ten what?”
“Minutes.”
He closes it again. “No.”
I laugh and poke him harder. “Get up. I brought food.”
That does it. He groans again but rolls onto his back, blinking at me.
“You’re really here,” he says slowly, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “And you brought breakfast.”
“I ran, I showered, I fed your band,” I say. “I deserve a medal.”
He reaches for me and pulls me down for a quick kiss, smiling into it. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Correct,” I say, handing him a coffee. “Now drink this before I let Freddie drive.”
That gets him sitting up fast.