I can't stop thinking about what Theron did.
So I play guitar until my fingers bleed.
Every time his words echo in my head—"I got her drunk, I pushed the situation, she didn't want it"—I press harder into the strings. Every time I see his face, cold and unfamiliar as he made himself into a monster to protect me, I strum faster. Louder. Until the music drowns out the guilt.
He lied. Destroyed his own reputation. Offered himself up as the villain in a story where he was the hero all along.
And I let him.
The guitar becomes my escape. My penance. My way of not thinking about the man who loved me enough to become something he's not.
Weeks of obsessive practice have turned fumbling fingers into something almost graceful. The calluses on my fingertips are permanent now—proof of hours spent avoiding my own thoughts, one chord progression at a time.
I start writing songs. Scribbled lyrics in a notebook he gave me. Songs about guilt and gratitude. About people who love you more than you deserve. About not knowing how to carry the weight of someone else's sacrifice.
I don't show them to anyone. They're too raw. Too honest.
Theron finds my notebook one morning.
I walk into the kitchen and freeze. He's sitting at the table, pages spread before him, reading with an expression I can't decipher.
"Those are private."
I lunge for the notebook, but he holds it out of reach, standing so I can't grab it.
"These are good, Raven. Like, actually good."
"They're nothing. Just—messing around."
"Bullshit." He presses the notebook into my hands. "There's an open mic night at the bar in town. Fridays. You should play."
The suggestion hits me like ice water. "Absolutely not."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not a performer. Not anymore. Not like that."
"You were never a performer." His honey eyes are serious for once. "You were an actress reading other people's words. This is different. This is you."
I shake my head, panic rising in my chest. "I can't. I'm not good enough, I'm not ready— I’m–"
"Terrified."
Weston's voice comes from the doorway. I turn to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression.
"You're terrified," he says. "That's different from not being ready."
"Stay out of this."
"He's right." Weston pushes off the doorframe, moves closer. "I've heard you practicing. You have something, Raven. Something real."
"You're both insane."
"Maybe." Theron grins. "But we're also right. One song. That's all. If you hate it, you never have to do it again."
"And if I freeze? If I forget the words? If I humiliate myself in front of the entire town?"
"Then we'll still be proud of you for trying." Weston's voice is quiet. Certain. "And we'll drive you home and never mention it again."
I look between them—the golden brother with his encouraging smile, the wounded one with his steady gaze. Both believing in me. Both seeing something I'm not sure exists.
"One song," I finally say. "One song. And if it's terrible, we will never speak of this again."
Friday arrives too fast.
I spend the day nauseous—from nerves, from pregnancy, from the sheer terror of what I'm about to do. Food won't stay down. My hands won't stop shaking. Every time I close my eyes, I imagine a hundred ways this could go wrong.
Weston drives. Theron rides shotgun, twisting around to offer reassurances I barely hear.
The bar is small and weathered. Neon signs flicker in the windows. Pickup trucks crowd the dirt parking lot. Inside, it smells like beer and sawdust and something fried. A tiny stage in the corner holds a single microphone and a wooden stool.
"I can't do this."
My feet won't move past the entrance.
"I changed my mind. Take me home."
"Too late." Theron takes one arm, Weston the other. They guide me to a table near the front, press a glass of water into my trembling hands.
"You've got this," Theron murmurs. "Remember—one song. That's all."
I watch two other performers go first. A grizzled man with a harmonica who plays something mournful and beautiful. A teenage girl with braces and a surprisingly powerful voice. The crowd is kind, clapping politely, offering encouraging whoops.
Then the host calls my name.
"Next up, we've got a newcomer. Give it up for Raven!"
My legs carry me to the stage on autopilot. Elena's guitar—my guitar now, Weston said I could keep it—feels heavy in my hands. I adjust the microphone. Look out at the crowd.
Strangers' faces blur together. Too many eyes. Too much expectation.
Except two.
Weston and Theron, sitting side by side, watching me with identical expressions of pride and hope. Theron gives me a thumbs up. Weston nods once—small, but meaningful.
I take a breath. Place my fingers on the frets.
And begin.
The song is called "Running Home." I wrote it three weeks ago, sitting on the porch at midnight, trying to put words to everything I've felt since that desperate night I fled my father's house.
It's about cages that look like mansions. About freedom that smells like hay. About finding yourself in the last place you expected to look.
My voice shakes on the first line. I hear the tremor, feel the fear clawing at my throat, almost stop.
But I keep going.
And somewhere around the chorus, something shifts. The shaking stops. The fear fades. The crowd disappears.
There's only the music—the words pouring out of me, the melody I crafted from nothing, the truth I've been too scared to speak until now. Twenty-one years of silence finally breaking open.
When the last chord fades, silence hangs for a heartbeat.
Then applause erupts. Real, genuine applause. Whoops and whistles from strangers who don't know my story, don't care about my famous father, are just responding to something honest.
I did it. I actually did it.
I look at Weston. His storm-blue eyes are bright. Proud. He's not clapping—that's not his style—but the expression on his face says more than applause ever could.
I look at Theron. He's beaming, clapping harder than anyone, mouthing something I can't hear over the noise. Probably something ridiculous. Probably perfect.
I walk off stage on shaking legs, and both brothers are there to catch me.
"That was incredible." Theron pulls me into a hug, lifting me off my feet. "You were incredible."
The words hit me harder than the applause. Tears spring to my eyes—happy tears, overwhelmed tears, the kind that comes when something you've wanted your whole life finally becomes real.
Weston doesn't hug. Just takes my hand when Theron sets me down. Squeezes once.
"Thank you. Both of you. For making me do this."
"We didn't make you do anything." Weston's thumb traces circles on my palm. "We just reminded you who you are."
I look between them. These two men who've somehow become my whole world. Who believed in me when I couldn't believe in myself. Who pushed me to do the one thing I was most terrified of.
And I realize with sudden, devastating clarity: this is who I was always meant to be.
Not an actress reading scripts someone else wrote. Not a puppet dancing for her father's approval. Not a scared girl running from a life she never chose.
A musician. A mother. A woman brave enough to be heard.
The crowd is still clapping. Someone shouts for an encore. Theron is already talking about next week, about building a setlist, about venues in Austin that book new artists.
Weston just holds my hand. Steady. Present. Exactly where he promised to be.
Now I just have to figure out which brother I want standing beside me when the music stops.
But that's a problem for another night.
Tonight, I'm just going to feel this. The applause. The pride. The terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that I finally found my voice.
And it sounds exactly like me.