A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(36) Slow Down

( KEVIN )

I make Scott stay at Avi and I's place for the night. Mostly because I'm slightly terrified as to what he could do when he goes home, alone, to an empty, silent house—and all of Mitch's things are still there. I hadn't expected him to agree so easily, but I guess that's just what grief and exhaustion can do to someone.

We hug Kirstie goodbye, and Esther reminds her to text us when she gets back to her and Jeremy's place. She nods in agreement, her arms lingering around Scott's tall frame before finally letting go, sadly smiling up at him, and waving goodbye to all of us one last time.

Esther laces her fingers through Scott's hand as we quickly exit the tourbus and then run across the front lawn to the side door, so that, hopefully, nobody will notice us; what with the media's "love" for us these last few months, you never know who could be watching—even in such early hours of the morning. Avi unlocks the door as the bus drives away, and then the four of us head inside.

"Scott, you can take my room," I tell him almost instantly, reaching for his suitcase and setting it off to the side. "I'll sleep on the couch. Esther, do you want the guest bedroom?"

"Uh, under normal circumstances, I'd likely fight for Avi's room, but, yeah, the guest bedroom's fine," Esther says with a small smile, clearly seeking to make light of such a solemn situation. I'm almost grateful, though there's still that dull tug at my heart when I'm reminded of all of our shirts, the reason why we're wearing them.

"I'm gonna go hit the shower real quick," Avi says, already heading towards the stairs. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale; if it weren't for the beard covering half his face, he could likely pass as a ghost. I can tell his anxiety has been on full-swing since tour recommenced, minus one member, last month. Seeing the crew—but especially him, Kirstie, and Scott—so heartbroken over all of this just hurts. And there's no other description for it.

Of course, I've been hurting, too. But part of me is more pained seeing other people suffer, rather than myself. Bottling up emotions and then just letting it all out through music and/or prayer has been my specialty for years now. And even such a horrible tragedy like this isn't going to end that.

"Scott, come on," Esther says gently, leading the blonde down the hall and towards the stairs. "It's almost one in the morning, let's get to bed."

He mumbles something, but I can't hear or understand it. I watch the two go upstairs, and then sigh when the shower turns on. The clock on the stove reads 12:49, and, though I should be tired, I'm just not. My mind swims with the events of the day, and I solemnly collapse into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. I still can't get over the fact that we all broke down up on-stage, so much so that we couldn't even sing, and that the thousands of fans filling the rows did it for us instead. Their voices harmonizing Scott's and Mitch's parts of the chorus echo in my memory, and I know that that's something I'll never be able to forget, even if I wanted to.

And that's not just because that was the very last Pentatonix concert ever.

At that sudden thought, I can feel my stomach drop and tears threaten to fill my eyes. I pull out my phone, opening up Twitter (for the first time in a long time), and save the first image from the night that I can find—which just-so happens to be from "Standing By," and Mitch's face is behind the four of us on the screen. I attach the picture to a tweet, typing: Thank you, Hollywood, for an amazing last night of tour. Your support means the absolute world to all of us. We love each and every one of you. 💚

Barely able to see the screen, I post it and then immediately log off of Twitter, knowing that that will likely be my last tweet—and I'd rather not see the fans' or the media's reactions to it if I can help it.