Thirty-Eight

Monkey in the Morning

 

Ari was still smiling when they reached the bedroom—then the quiet disappeared.

Lily was already standing in her crib, triumphant, her blanket and favorite stuffed toy discarded behind her like yesterday’s news. Meatball was stretched out beneath the crib, one massive paw forward, one eye half-closed but alert—the picture of lazy devotion, as if he had been on watch the entire time and took the role very seriously.

The second Lily spotted them, she squealed and babbled happily, her whole body bouncing with excitement. Whatever had delayed them clearly hadn’t met her approval, and she looked more than ready to lodge a formal complaint about it.

“Hey, monkey,” Jon said, lifting her from the crib with an easy familiarity that made her immediately settle against him. “Sorry we took so long. Daddy had to help Mommy wash her hair. Very important. Very hands-on.”

Ari didn’t even look at him at first. She reached for Lily’s blanket, smoothing it out with practiced ease, calm as anything.

“Say another word,” she said mildly, “and I revoke your shower privileges.”

Jon paused.

Ari knew that look—that split second where he considered it, weighed the consequences, and chose chaos anyway.

Then he grinned.

“There’s other rooms.”

“All of which you’re welcome to sleep in if you keep it up.”

Lily reached up and gave Jon a tiny, admonishing pat on the cheek, her face scrunched in mock severity, as if she fully understood the situation and had decided to intervene.

Meatball thumped his tail once in silent agreement, ever loyal to whoever was winning the argument at the time.

Jon only smiled wider.

“Give her to me,” Ari said, stretching out her arms. “She needs a new diaper, and you have breakfast to make.”

“Go to Mommy,” Jon said, passing Lily over. “Who wants pancakes?” he added as he headed for the door, already halfway out of the room.

Meatball was up instantly, nails clicking against the floor as he followed. He skidded to a stop in the kitchen just as Jon reached the oversized island, barely managing to keep his footing. He barked once—sharp, hopeful. Then again, louder, as if sheer enthusiasm might somehow speed the process along.

Jon pulled a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “Scoot.”

Meatball hesitated, sitting and standing in quick succession, caught somewhere between obedience and optimism, unsure which version of himself would yield pancakes faster.

“You heard me. Go.”

“He thinks the pancakes are for him,” Ari said, shifting Lily on her hip as she came down the stairs, her voice carrying that quiet amusement she never quite hid.

“They’re not.”

Ari snorted softly and settled Lily in her high chair. A very disappointed dog followed, ears low but eyes still hopeful. Lily immediately began pounding the tray with both hands, delighted with her own noise, while Meatball positioned himself at her feet like he’d been assigned there.

“That a boy,” Ari said absently. “You know who feeds you.”

Jon glanced at the dog, then back at Ari, clearly outnumbered in his own kitchen. He flipped the pancake with unnecessary flair, sending it higher than required, catching it cleanly.

Ari didn’t look up. “Showing off again?”

“Hey. Be nice, or I’ll feed yours to the dog.”

Lily responded with a squeal as Meatball carefully licked banana from her fingers, tail thumping in quiet triumph. Jon just shook his head, resigned.

By the time the pancakes were done, Ari had coffee brewed and juice poured, the rich aroma filling the loft like a soft, steady warmth that settled into everything.

Jon stacked three pancakes onto each plate and carried them over. Ari took the top one, buttered it, tore it into small pieces, and arranged them on Lily’s tray. Lily studied the offering with exaggerated seriousness, her little brows furrowing as if she were evaluating quality, then promptly crushed a piece in her fist. A second later, she shoved most of it into her mouth, victorious, leaving streaks of banana and butter across her cheeks.

Meatball whined softly from the floor, gaze locked with laser focus on the tray above him.

While they ate, Jon talked through the next couple of days. Even with a break in the tour, his schedule hadn’t completely loosened—there were still commitments back in New Jersey that needed his attention. Ari listened, half-focused, already knowing the rhythm of it, planning to stay in Montreal and give Max time with his family.

A piece of pancake slipped from Lily’s tray.

Meatball was on it before it hit the floor.

Ari sighed, equal parts fondness and resignation, and reached for her coffee, wrapping her hands around the warmth of the mug. This—this easy, slightly chaotic rhythm—was exactly how lazy mornings were supposed to feel.

♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱ ♱

After breakfast, they bundled up and headed out for a walk.

Lily was zipped into her snowsuit—no bows, no fluff—just insulation and zippers, practical and efficient, a knit Stones beanie pulled low over her ears. She looked like a baby built for parking lots, loading docks, and long walks between venues. Her mother’s taste showed in every inch of it.

Eyes wide and curious, she kicked lightly against the footrest, testing the limits of her little world, then settled back, satisfied.

The sky stretched above them in a clean, unbroken gray—March in Montreal at its most honest. Not stormy, not kind. Just present. With most of the snow melted away, the city felt stripped down to its bones, waiting to see what would come next.

Mount Royal Park was quieter than usual. Patches of ice clung stubbornly to shaded paths and tucked corners of grass, small remnants of winter refusing to give way too quickly. The sun pushed through anyway—pale, determined, offering light without much warmth.

Joggers passed in steady lines, breath visible in short bursts. Couples and families wandered without urgency, dogs pulling at leashes with quiet indignation, deeply offended by the idea of restraint.

Jon pushed the stroller, one hand firm on the handle, the other tucked into his coat pocket. A low baseball cap shadowed his face, brim pulled down out of habit more than necessity. His stride was easy and confident, like it always was.

Ari matched him without thinking, her coat buttoned just enough, a thick wool scarf wrapped high around her neck, tucked close against the cold.

They walked for a while without speaking, the stroller wheels crunching softly over gravel and salt. As the path climbed, the city noise faded behind them, replaced by the quieter rhythm of wind through bare branches and the steady cadence of their footsteps.

Lily made a soft, questioning sound, her attention bouncing between the shifting scenery—bare trees, lingering patches of snow, puddles catching pale light.

A jogger passed too close, his bright red jacket flashing across her line of sight. She froze, eyes wide—then broke into a delighted squeal, arms jerking against the straps as if she might launch herself after him.

Jon laughed. “Guess he’s popular.”

“She’s easily impressed,” Ari said. “Fast, loud, brightly colored.”

“Just like her mother,” Jon said, not teasing so much as stating a fact.

“I was not that impressed.”

He smiled at that. “I beg to differ.”

“Hm. They say the memory is the first to go.”

Jon slowed, then stopped the stroller entirely. He turned toward her—really looked this time—like he was pulling something up from memory, fitting it into place.

“Let me see,” he said. “‘Take a picture. They last longer.’”

Ari snorted softly. “What I said was, ‘You want a fuckin’ Polaroid?’—after I caught you watching me sleep. I thought you were a creep.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” Jon said easily. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose, cold against his lips, then curled his arm around hers as they started walking again.

She didn’t answer.

He wasn’t completely wrong—but she wasn’t about to give him that.

Instead, she leaned into him as they walked, her steps naturally falling into sync with his, her breath matching his rhythm. The cold pressed in around them, a quiet reminder of winter still holding on.

The path curved upward until they reached the lookout.

Below them, the city spread out like a map, the river a dull ribbon cutting through it under the shifting gray sky. Lily stirred at the change in elevation, making a soft sound as she shifted in her seat. Ari glanced down instinctively. Lily blinked up at them, then settled again, one mittened hand gripping the edge of her blanket.

They didn’t stay long. The cold eventually worked its way in, persistent and patient. Jon turned the stroller back toward the path, and they started down.

By the time they reached the car, the air felt just a little warmer against their cheeks—a small reward for the climb. Their faces were flushed pink from the wind. Jon lifted Lily into her car seat while Ari slid behind the wheel, brushing stray strands of hair from her face.

The engine hummed to life, a welcome contrast to the cold outside.

“So,” she said, glancing over, “how about lunch? Somewhere warm. Somewhere the burgers have just enough grease, and the french fries are criminal.”

Jon grinned, settling back in his seat. “You read my mind.”

They drove a few blocks to Petit Soho.

The place greeted them with the smell of fried food and beer, the low hum of lunchtime chatter wrapping around them like something familiar and lived-in. Lily was swept away by Gabriel the second they stepped into the kitchen, disappearing from Ari’s arms without ceremony.

Lunch stretched longer than planned.

Ari moved easily through the space, slipping into a rhythm that clearly belonged to her—greeting regulars, grabbing the mail from the office, checking in without needing to think about it. She stole fries from Lily’s high chair whenever she could get away with it, quick and unapologetic.

Jon watched from his seat, quiet, one arm draped along the back of the chair, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, private smile as he took it all in—the ease she had here, the way the space seemed to settle around her.

By the time they left, the city had softened into early evening, the edges of the day blurring gently.

The warmth of the restaurant lingered with them as they climbed back into the car, carrying it along as they headed back toward the loft.

 

Thirty-Seven

 

Touch, Tease... PLEASE!

 

Steam curled thickly throughout the bathroom, clinging to the mirrors and softening every edge, warm and fragrant. The scent of her candied-apple shampoo lingered in the air, sweet and familiar. Ariana closed her eyes for a moment, letting the steady heat of the water soak into her shoulders, chasing away the last threads of sleep.

Ari lingered under the spray, letting the water run longer than she needed, simply because she could. For once, no one was knocking. No one was calling her name. No tiny voice was demanding her attention with increasing volume and determination.

Her lips curved as she tipped her head back, eyes still closed. Experience had taught her better than to trust silence in this house, especially not when he was involved.

Jon could do quiet.

He just never bothered when it came to her.

She smoothed a hand absently over her arm, listening past the steady rush of water, half expecting the inevitable interruption. It was less a question of if and more a matter of timing.

Three… two…

The corner of her mouth lifted just slightly. There it was. That shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.  The kind she’d learned to recognize without needing proof. A presence that filled the space differently, lie the air itself had decided to lean closer.

Of course.

Right on cue, the bathroom door opened.

She didn’t bother turning. There was only one man arrogant enough to interrupt her shower without knocking.

“If you woke Lily—”

“Relax,” he said easily. “I didn’t.”

Ari cracked one eye open and glanced over her shoulder.

He stood in the doorway, bare-chested, hair rumpled, still carrying sleep in the edges of him—but his eyes were already awake, focused, holding that familiar pull she knew too well.

“Where is she?”

“In her crib. Babbling like crazy.”

“To who?”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Who else? Meatball.”

As if on cue, Lily’s voice drifted through the monitor—soft, determined strings of nonsense syllables, punctuated by the rhythmic thump of something against the crib. Feet… or a tail.

Ari huffed a quiet breath, the corner of her mouth lifting.

Jon didn’t move.

His gaze had already dropped, tracing its way slowly down her back—unapologetic, unhurried.

Not subtle. Never subtle.

“Planning on just staring?” she asked, tilting her head slightly.

One corner of his mouth lifted. “Haven’t decided.”

Her eyes flicked back to him, amused. “Gonna earn it?”

That was all the invitation he needed.

Jon stepped into the shower, the door clicking shut behind him, the sound swallowed instantly by the steady rush of water. Steam thickened around him as he lingered for a second beneath the spray, letting it run over his shoulders, through his hair, down his chest.

Ari felt him before he touched her—close enough to shift the air, to fill the space behind her without closing it entirely. It made her pulse lift, anticipation settling low and steady.

Her curls clung damply to her back, darkened by the water. He took in the shape of her—the gentle swell of her belly, the curve of her spine, the quiet ease in the way she stood.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, softened in a way that had nothing to do with the steam.

“Took you long enough,” she replied, playful but warm.

He huffed a quiet laugh and stepped closer, slow enough to give her time, to leave the choice hers.

She didn’t hesitate.

She turned into him, meeting his gaze fully—green catching blue, something unspoken passing easily between them. Her hands found his shoulders, fingers brushing over familiar lines, tracing ink she already knew by heart before slipping into his hair, tugging just enough to draw him closer.

His hands settled at her hips, thumbs moving in slow, absent arcs against her skin—grounding, steady. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, taking his time like he always did when he meant it.

One hand drifted higher, resting lightly against her belly, instinctive and anchoring all at once.

For a brief moment, everything narrowed to that single point of contact—to the quiet understanding that didn’t need words.

Her breath caught as she closed the remaining space between them, leaning fully into him.

“If you’re going to hover,” she murmured, “at least commit.”

A low hum of amusement brushed against her skin. “Oh, I’m committing. I’m just pacing myself.”

“Then…” she prompted softly, rising onto her toes.

He answered with a teasing kiss along her jaw, deliberately unhurried, brushing just shy of where she wanted him. Testing.

She didn’t let him get away with it.

Her hands slid to the back of his neck, tugging him in with a playful insistence, tilting his head just enough to steal the advantage. A quick nip at his earlobe drew a quiet chuckle from him, his lips still grazing hers.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re setting expectations.”

“Then meet them.”

This time, he did.

The kiss deepened, the edge of play giving way to something heavier, more certain. He stepped in closer, heat and water amplifying every point of contact until the rest of the world blurred into steam and sound.

Ari shifted against him, lifting a leg to curve around his hip, pulling him in with a quiet, deliberate demand.

“Impatient?” he asked, voice rougher now, matching her energy.

His hand slid higher along her thigh, firm but measured. He gave her space to pull away if she wanted it.

She didn’t.

Instead, she drew him closer, meeting him with equal force.

Neither of them gave an inch.

“Efficient,” she said, unapologetic.

A soft laugh left him, but it didn’t last long.

The shower roared steadily around them as they moved together, unhurried and intertwined, the morning stretching out in that suspended, quiet way that only happened when nothing else mattered.

The glass fogged over completely, leaving them wrapped in their own small world—nothing beyond it pulling at them yet.

His lips traced along her collarbone, then up her neck, slow and intentional. She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath her hand, grounding herself in it.

His thumb moved in familiar circles at her hip as her fingers slid down his back, leaving faint, fleeting marks. Their breaths fell uneven, soft, drawing quiet smiles neither of them quite let surface.

Everything narrowed again—to the rhythm, to the closeness, to the steady, shared motion of it.

When it finally crested, it wasn’t sharp or chaotic—it was deep, consuming, the kind that stole the breath from her lungs before she realized it was happening. Her grip tightened against him, nails pressing into his shoulders as the moment rolled through her, slow and heavy.

Jon felt it immediately—the shift, the way she held onto him without thinking. His hand tightened at her hip, steadying, grounding. He didn’t rush. He stayed right there with her, letting it unfold completely, his breath rough against her skin.

“Jon—” she managed, barely.

That was enough.

He followed with a low, restrained exhale against her shoulder, his forehead dropping there as his composure gave just a fraction. His grip flexed once before easing, tension draining out of him in a way that felt deeper than just the moment.

For a few seconds, neither of them moved.

Just the sound of the water. Their breathing. The steady, shared quiet.

A faint shiver ran through her as his hand brushed lightly along her side.

Then—

A sharp bark.

Followed immediately by Lily’s squeals—bright, insistent, impossible to ignore.

Ari laughed softly into his shoulder. “We should probably dry off.”

“Give me thirty seconds,” he groaned, tightening his hold like he could bargain for the time.

“You’ve got about ten before she stages a full protest.”

She stayed where she was, fingers curled loosely at his nape, thumb tracing slow, absent circles. He rested his forehead briefly against her temple, lingering just a second longer, as if fixing the moment in place before everything else rushed back in.

There would be towels. Breakfast. A baby demanding attention.
A dog pacing impatiently in the hallway.

But for now, in the quiet space between one part of their life and the next, they stayed exactly where they were—arms wrapped, breaths mingling—holding onto it just a little longer.

Reluctantly, they separated, the cool air biting at damp skin. Ari reached for a towel, twisting her hair up as she caught his reflection in the fogged mirror.

He wasn’t subtle about it.

He never had been.

That look—familiar, steady, never old—still managed to send a small skip through her pulse.

She handed him a towel, their fingers brushing in that easy, practiced way. Jon scrubbed at his hair, water trailing down his jaw.

Her eyes dipped briefly, catching the path of a single drop sliding down his stomach.

“Ready for the circus?” she asked.

He grinned, slinging the towel around his neck. “Only if you’re the ringmaster.”

She rolled her eyes—but the smile came anyway.

 

Thirty-Six

 

A Song That Knew Its Way Home

 

March 10, 2011

 

Ari had insisted on staying the extra night in Chicago. Jon wasn’t really crazy about the idea, but when she played the “pregnancy tired” and “too late for Lily” cards after load-out, he conceded.

 

Of course, neither of those things was true. Ari just knew he wouldn’t push back when it came to the health of his babies—her included.

 

So they enjoyed another night in a cushy hotel that looked like all the others except for the name engraved over the front door. At least she was well rested now that they were strapped in for the flight to Montreal.

 

And the surprise brewing there was almost ready, too. It would be by the time they arrived, and the thought of it had her smirking until the jet’s engines roared with a vibration she felt more than heard.

 

Ari hated this part: the split second where the earth still felt close enough to grab while the metal bird she was nestled inside raced to leave it behind. She didn’t look at Jon as her fingers curled tighter around the armrest.

 

He noticed anyway and slid his hand over hers like always.

 

“You good?” he murmured, voice still rough from last night’s show.

 

“Peachy,” she lied.

 

He huffed out a laugh and started to sing, low and easy, just for her—never the same song twice, but always for her.

 

“You’re such a dork.”

 

“Mm,” he hummed, not pausing.

 

As the wheels lifted, her grip tightened for a moment, then relaxed as his thumb brushed her skin. By the time the clouds swallowed Chicago whole, she leaned into him and let the rasp of his voice lull her to sleep.

 

Two hours later, Vicky announced their descent as Montreal spread below, the river cutting clean through the city. She planned it this way—daylight so the loft would glow, so the moment would breathe instead of being lost in midnight exhaustion. Jon squeezed her hand as the plane dipped, and she caught a glimpse of the familiar streets below.

 

After landing and a short ride from the airport, the car eased into the driveway. Meatball’s tail thumped against the back seat at the familiarity of home. Ari gently unbuckled Lily’s infant carrier, cradling her carefully so she wouldn’t stir.

 

“Stay here,” she said softly, giving Jon a look that brokered no argument. He raised a brow, his hand brushing hers.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I said so.” She opened the loft door. “I need to put Lily down first, then I’ll come get you.”

 

Jon laughed. “You and your surprises.”

 

“Just do it,” she said, disappearing inside.

 

Afternoon light drifted through the high windows, the muted gray-blue of a March sky softening everything it touched. Dust motes hung in the glow. Ari set Lily down carefully in her pack-and-play, then turned back to the wall and its newest addition. She’d been waiting weeks for this moment. Sure, she’d seen photos, but nothing did it justice.

 

“Keep your eyes closed,” she said, half-laughing, half-nervous.

 

He obeyed, one brow lifted in suspicion. The wood floor creaked under his boots as she guided him just short of the wall.

 

“Okay,” she whispered in his ear. “Now.”

 

He opened his eyes.

 

The brick wall, once bare, had come to life. Custom shelves climbed floor to ceiling, open-backed so the old brick showed through. Rows of vinyl stood spines out, neatly organized yet alive with memory, worn edges and faded letters marking decades of sounds she’d grown up with. Between the album clusters, 45s broke the symmetry in cheerful disorder, gleaming in the soft hidden light under the wood trim.

 

At the center stood a vintage jukebox, trimmed in chrome. Its glass dome glowed faintly blue beneath the old neon Wurlitzer lettering.

 

He stepped closer, fingers brushing the edges of the small metal labels she’d created—engraved precisely, yet in her own handwriting, every curve and loop hers, each a tiny tribute to memory:

 

Salvatore V. Moretti

Dad’s Favorite

1984 – First Gig

 

Jon couldn’t stop smiling, thinking how perfectly she’d preserved every memory.

 

A warmth spread through her chest as she watched him absorb every detail. His eyes lingered on the 1984 – First Giglabel a moment longer, a faint smile tugging at his lips, like he could picture her sleeping on that trunk. No words were needed. His quiet reverence said it all, and Ari felt the familiar tug of pride and affection she’d come to trust in him.

 

“I found them when we were packing up the house in California.”

 

“So, this is why you had a search party out for Lucky.”

 

“We had a short window to get this done, and we were playing phone tag.”

 

“And look, he got it done.”

 

“He did. So, what do you think?”

 

“It’s beautiful.”

 

“Did you know Sal would play these on full blast when he was between jobs?”

 

Jon smiled. “Gee, like someone else I know.”

 

Ari rolled her eyes. “Selling the house, I knew I wanted a part of him here.”

 

She let herself imagine him here, and what he would think of the display.

 

“Go on,” she said. “Play something.”

 

He didn’t answer. He just stood there a moment longer than necessary, shoulders settling, the choice already made. He obviously knew exactly which one it had to be. The mechanical arm whirred to life, a faint crackle filling the loft before the first notes swelled and a familiar voice filled the loft—Sinatra, clear and steady.

 

“And now, the end is near….”

 

She froze for a heartbeat, then smiled, blinking fast through the sudden sting in her chest. Jon didn’t need words. He knew. He knew how every note was an anthem she’d shared with Sal.

 

He pulled her close, his palm warm at her back, solid and familiar. They swayed instinctively to Sinatra’s measured rhythm. Her cheek pressed against his chest, his jaw grazing her temple. Every note carried memory—road trips, backstage chaos, laughter only they understood.

 

The jukebox’s soft blue glow flickered across her father’s records like a silent witness.

 

As the chorus rose — “I did it my way” — he held her tight, honoring past and present in the same heartbeat. The loft was silent except for Sinatra and their breathing. She let herself feel the steadiness of Jon, grounding her in the now.

 

When the song faded, she didn’t pull away. Some things didn’t end. They stayed—steady as a song that knew its way home.

 

Jon huffed softly. “I’m remembering Sal... and this song.”

 

Ari smiled. “Like how he’d blast it before and after every show. Or on the tour bus in the early years.”

 

“Every damn tour,” Jon said. “Soundchecks barely over, crew half-awake, and there he was—a cigarette hanging from his lips, coffee in one hand, cables in the other—belting it out like Madison Square Garden was listening.”

 

“God, he was terrible,” she said.

 

“Oh, confidently terrible,” Jon said. “Wrong notes, wrong timing. Zero shame.”

 

“He earned every ounce of that confidence,” she whispered, brushing the label with his name on it.

 

“He was proud of the name he built,” Jon added. “And protective as hell once you showed up.”

 

She arched a brow. “You saying he didn’t like you?”

 

“Oh, he liked me,” Jon snorted. “Right up until I started looking at you like you were more than just the crew.”

 

A laugh escaped her. “So, from day one.”

 

“Basically.”

 

She leaned in closer. “He warned me long before you came along that all musicians were trouble.”

 

“From a roadie, the irony was impressive.”

 

“He wanted me tough. To know my worth. And to never take shit from anyone just because I was a girl.”

 

Jon’s arm tightened around her. “He did a hell of a job.”

 

Ari traced a finger across his chest, teasing. “Remember who the boss is.”

 

“Like you’d ever let me.”

 

She laughed, tilting her head. “Oh, I won’t. You’ve got a lifetime contract.”

 

He kissed her. “I’d sign a thousand more.”

 

Slipping from his embrace, she went to the jukebox, her fingers drumming lightly against the dome. She spotted the one she wanted and pressed its number with practiced ease. Soft notes of Elvis’s “The Wonder of You” floated through the loft—warm, familiar, carrying quiet devotion. Jon’s gaze followed her, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips.

 

“Dance with me,” she said, holding out her hand, a teasing glint lighting her eyes.

 

“Always,” he replied, stepping closer, sliding his hand into hers and pulling her flush against him.

 

They swayed, relaxed, letting the music curl around them. Jon’s voice, low and almost a whisper at first, drifted to her as it had countless nights over the years.

 

“You know,” he said, teasing, “I should start charging you for all the times I’ve sung this to you.”

 

Ari smirked, tipping her chin. “Worth every penny.”

 

He chuckled, fingers brushing along her cheek. “Then I guess I’m getting a bargain.”

 

“Keep talking like that,” she warned playfully, “and I might start picking every song on the jukebox from now on.”

 

“Please do,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got a lifetime subscription to your personal playlist.”

 

He leaned down slightly, voice raspy, continuing the song. “And when you smile the world is brighter…”

 

“Shhh,” she laughed. “You’ll wake Lily.”

 

“I guess I’ll never know the reason why…”

 

“I ask myself that every day,” she replied, laughing, her fingers tangling through his hair as the music wrapped around them.

 

They stayed in each other’s arms as the last notes faded into the soft hum of the loft. Outside, dusk settled, casting long shadows across the room.

 

Jon rested his forehead lightly against hers. “I could stay here forever,” he whispered.

 

Ari smiled, fingers still tangled in his hair. “Me too.”

 

In the quiet, the loft held them—memory, music, and love intertwined, steady as a heartbeat—and just as enduring, the space itself a tribute to everything she loved and had lost.

Thirty-Five

 

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.