The Quiet Unease
Chicago March 2011
For a Tuesday night, the hotel bar wasn’t overly crowded, even with a handful of fans scattered throughout. They wandered in easily, unbothered, and headed for the reserved section they’d requested. The band was already there, settled in and waiting.
Late-night dinner plates cluttered the table—picked-over appetizers, crumpled napkins. Wine bottles stood between them like punctuation marks, some empty, some not quite there yet.
Jon slid into his chair and felt the night finally catch up to him, the edge of adrenaline on the cusp of coming down or lingering in the afterglow a little longer. One thing he knew for sure: he needed wine.
“Ah, behold—His Royal Highness arrives” Lema said, lifting his highball. “We’ve been holding court.”
Jon arched a brow. “Fuck off, Lema. Looks more like starting without me.”
“Allow me to amend that injustice,” Lema mocked, pouring wine into Jon’s glass.
Laughter rippled around the table, and after a beat, Jon joined in.
The show had held together. Jon clung to that. He’d even joked with the crowd about it—how one minute he was playing Dad, the next he was under the lights with a guitar strapped across his chest. He’d done his job. He’d compensated. That had to count for something. The tour didn’t stop because things felt slightly off.
Someone nudged him, leaning in close. “Hey,” Obie said quietly, “you notice anything… off tonight?”
Jon tilted his head, eyes scanning the table as he sipped. Off? Sure, he had noticed. The tiny things. Richie drifting mid-bridge, cues just a touch late, the way a downbeat hung a half second longer than it should have. Nothing catastrophic. Enough to needle at him, though.
Draining his glass, he let the warmth settle, reaching for another. Across the table, Richie was talking with his hands, animated, loose. Too loose. Matt and Cliff laughed too loudly at something Kennedy and Jeanie were saying.
His eyes searched for his wife. She’d be watching—not in judgment, but with that quiet radar for everything that stacked beneath the surface. Pregnant, exhausted, running a tour with one hand while holding their life together with the other. The last thing he wanted was to upset her.
He also didn’t want to be upset himself. Didn’t want to sit here tight and vigilant, pretending the night hadn’t drained something from him. The show hadn’t fallen apart, but it hadn’t locked in either. And he refused to let that be the only thing he carried upstairs.
So he kept refilling his glass. Not enough to make it a problem. Just enough to take the edge off, he told himself.
♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱
The arena felt different when it was empty—big and quiet. Ari preferred it this way when she needed to get things done. No screaming, no lights, no expectations. Just concrete, cables, and problems that could still be fixed.
She adjusted the IV line slung over her shoulder, an old, familiar weight she hadn’t expected to need again, and glanced at the dog sleeping at her feet, blissfully unaware that she was running a tour, growing a human.
Night one in Chicago had survived itself—far from a disaster—but it had frayed in small places. A few missed cues. A half-second delay that shouldn’t have been there. Tiny things most people wouldn’t notice. Ari noticed everything—especially when she hadn’t slept in two days.
She always had.
“Okay,” Ari said, stopping mid-floor. “Let’s isolate bass and keys first.”
At the front of the house, Kennedy was already at the console, fingers moving with muscle memory. Lefty crouched by the monitors, head tilted like he was listening through bone instead of ears. Tony lingered a few feet back, tablet tucked against his chest, eyes tracking the room instead of the screens.
With a nod from Ari, the section rolled back, bass and keys coming through the mains, precise and bodiless, locked to timecode.
It wasn’t wrong. That was the problem.
Ari tilted her head, listening as the sound rolled through the empty seats. There was a softness to it, like something that should’ve landed didn’t quite commit. She felt it more than heard it—an echo of last night.
“Again,” she said.
Obie shifted his weight near stage right as they ran it back, eye narrowing at nothing in particular. Familiar. Still not settling.
A glance passed between Stan and Kennedy, just a flicker. Not worried. Not casual either. The kind you gave when someone missed a mark they usually hit in their sleep.
Ari exhaled slowly through her nose.
Richie wasn’t even here—and somehow his fingerprints were still all over the room.
She didn’t say his name. None of them did. But the missed cues from night one had lingered longer than they should have. The way Jon had gone still at soundcheck yesterday—jaw tight, irritation flashing sharp and fast before he swallowed it down and moved on.
Get it together, he’d muttered under his breath. Not loud enough to start anything. Loud enough for Ari to hear.
It probably meant nothing, she told herself. People were allowed to be tired. People were allowed to have bad days. They just had to get through tonight’s show, and then they could all enjoy a much-needed week off.
Her body reminded her she was running on fumes as she crossed the floor, the dull ache in her lower back flaring when she stopped too fast. Second trimester was supposed to be the easy part. Guess not with an eight-month-old cutting teeth, a husband who’d turned the hotel bar into his personal after-party, and Richie tossing back rounds like he was racing the clock.
Cliff’s voice murmured behind her, asking if she needed anything, and she shook her head no. She’d left Jon back at the hotel sleeping, deservedly so, even if she’d had to step over his boots and an unopened bottle of water on the way out the door. Lily was with Gloria. Everyone was where they needed to be.
Which meant this—this almost-right sound, this quiet unease—was hers to handle before the band arrived.
“Let’s make a note,” Ari said calmly. “Nothing big. Just… flag it for tonight.”
Kennedy acknowledged it with a brief nod, fingers already moving.
Ari rested a hand on Meatball’s head, grounding herself in his solid warmth. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t blowing up today. She’d make sure of it.
♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱
The house lights dropped on schedule.
The roar hit hard and immediate, a living thing that pushed against the stage and spilled back into the rafters. Ari barely reacted. She was already moving, eyes tracking positions out of habit—security posts, camera swings, Jon’s mark at center stage.
The first song hit exactly where it should.
The second almost did.
Richie came in a fraction late on the bridge. Not enough to derail it, not enough for the crowd to notice. Jon fought the stink eye and compensated without looking, his voice steady, shoulders tightening just a hair as he leaned into the downbeat. The band corrected itself and rolled on.
Ari’s fingers tightened around her radio.
She didn’t say anything. Not yet.
By the fourth song, the sound had settled into something workable. Not perfect, but close enough to pass. Ari stayed side stage, weight shifted carefully to ease the ache in her back, eyes flicking between the monitor world and the band.
A wink and a smile every time Jon caught her eye.
Richie’s timing drifted—never off the map, just… loose. He overcorrected once, rushing to make up ground, then pulled back too hard on the next bar.
From the front of the house, Kennedy glanced toward her.
Ari shook her head once. Keep it moving.
Jon finally shot him the stink eye after a transition dragged longer than it should have. It was quick, controlled, but the familiar faces in the front row definitely caught it. He recovered with a quick smile to the crowd, like nothing had happened.
The crowd loved him for it.
Ari watched Richie’s hands more than she listened now. Watched the way his focus came and went, how he locked in for a full song and then drifted somewhere just past the lights. No train wrecks. No missed starts. Just enough to keep her jaw tight.
Halfway through the last song before the circle set, she realized she’d been holding her breath.
She let it out slowly and forced herself to move. She wanted to get to the quick change before Jon came offstage. The radio crackled with routine updates—camera ready, cue standing by, all green. The machine was still moving.
Jon was coming down the stairs just as she turned the corner. The frustration on his face was obvious. She quickly pushed into the makeshift dressing room and asked Dawn to give them some space.
“Breathe,” she said as he tossed his jacket to the floor and his shirt followed.
“So, you noticed too,” he spat, grabbing a towel and a seat.
Ari reached for the blow dryer, brushing some of the sweat from his hair.
“Yeah. It’s my job to notice.”
“What the fuck is wrong with him tonight?”
“We’re all tired. And we need this break coming up.” She handed him his red shirt and watched him pull it over his head.
“I don’t buy that bullshit.”
Ari tilted her head. “No, you buy the performance you can see. I buy the shit no one sees.”
Jon snorted, grabbing the towel again. “So what? I should just let it slide.”
“No,” she said, sharp. “You get back out there, shake your ass, and sing.”
Jon scoffed. “That’s your big professional note?”
“Not at all,” she said, unbothered. “It’s knowing your fans like it when you shake your ass. And your wife suggesting you put on a sleeveless shirt while doing it.”
He dropped the towel. “You and your obsession with bare pits is a scary thing.”
“Maybe,” she said, winking. “Hormones and all, I just can’t help myself. Sleeveless, arms up, bare pits. You know the rules.”
He leaned back, eyes flickering up at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“You’re halfway there, rockstar,” she said, bending to kiss him.
Jon straightened, slipping his jacket back on, eyes already flicking toward the stage. Richie nailed the ending—voice raw but steady, final note true. Perfect, even. Like he’d been there the whole time.
Ari let him go, brushing a hand down her front to get her own energy moving. She followed Jon out of the quick-change room as her radio crackled. She checked the setlist and keyed the comms.
“Circle stage, five minutes,” she muttered.
Big Red appeared in the doorway, eyebrow raised. “You okay to head out there?”
She gave a small nod, already walking past him. “I’m fine. I’ll grab a water on the way.”
As she stepped into the corridor, the thrum of the crowd hit her like a pulse. The piano intro started, soft and deliberate, filling the arena with anticipation. Jon’s silhouette appeared onstage, jacket catching the light. He caught her eye, gave a half-smile, grabbed the mic, and started singing, his voice raw and intimate, carrying to the farthest rows.
Ari stepped back, scanning the stage and monitors, listening to the sound roll through the arena. Every cue she’d flagged, every tweak she’d made was holding. The mix was locked, the band tight. Nothing was going to fall apart—not tonight, not while she was here. She let herself take a small, satisfied breath.
Their harmonizing—tight, locked in. Between the two of them, there wasn’t a glitch, a misstep, or a chaos they couldn’t handle. The fans would never notice the work behind the scenes; they’d just feel the magic.
Ari’s chest muscles loosened as she let herself enjoy the rhythm of the room, the controlled chaos she’d mastered, and the band firing perfectly. She caught Jon glancing her way, smirked, and thought—bring it on, world.