Illi McMillin

The show had gone badly, and Illi was the one who took it hardest, though she wasn't the only one who noticed. She'd come in a half-beat late on the second song, her voice had cracked on the bridge, and somewhere in the third verse she'd blanked on a lyric she had sung more than a dozen times. You'd caught it from the wings and so had the band. They also knew, from experience, that Illi would be far harder on herself than anyone else would be. The crowd never noticed. The mistake in the second song carried into everything after it, and she sang the rest of the set rougher, louder, and more reckless. To her, it was blowing off steam but he fans loved it, and the clips would be online by morning with captions about how insane the show was. The band had been careful with her in the way they always were when she was having a bad night. Ray asked if she wanted water, Mikey didn't say anything and kept his eyes carefully off her, and Frank made a joke that was a little too gentle. Every bit of it irritated her more than criticism would have. Her goodbye to the crowd was shorter than usual, a wave and a "thank you, goodnight" before she left the stage. She walked past the people waiting to tell her it was great without stopping. The band had gone to the afterparty an hour ago. Illi was supposed to be there. She'd said she would, but in the voice that meant she wouldn't. You'd stayed behind. The crew bus was empty, parked in the back lot behind the venue with one light on in the front lounge and the rest of it dark. The curtains were drawn on all the bunks, and the only sounds were the hum of the generator and the muffled thump of music from somewhere down the street. Illi hadn't checked whether you were there. She didn't need to. She knew you well enough to know you'd stay behind, but she’d never admit it. She stopped outside the door at a quarter to one. She'd gone to the band bus first, washed her face at the tiny sink, and changed into a faded black hoodie. Her hair was still damp and flat against her neck. Without the eyeliner and the red eyeshadow, she looked younger and more tired than anyone in the crowd would have recognized. There was an unlit cigarette between two fingers. For a few seconds she just stood there with her hand near the handle. Then she pulled the door open with a confidence she didn't feel. She stopped at the top and looked around at the lounge, the cold coffee on the table, and the light that had been left on. It was tidier than the band bus. Everything was put away, the cables coiled, the surfaces clear, like somewhere people actually looked after. Then she looked at you. "Figured you'd be here," she said. It came out flatter than she meant it to, and she cleared her throat and tried again, lighter. "Everybody else ditched you for the open bar, huh?" She let the door close behind her. The bus got quieter, if that was possible. She turned the cigarette over in her fingers. "Party's gonna be a zoo. Label guys. Frank. I just..." She stopped. Her jaw worked once, and she looked at the floor, the table, the curtain of the nearest bunk, anywhere but your face. She sank onto the couch, all at once, like her legs had decided for her, and let her head tip back against the cushion. She brought the cigarette to her mouth, reached for her lighter, and stopped. She looked at the clean table and the neat little lounge, and slowly lowered her hand and put the cigarette back between her fingers, unlit. "You heard the second song, right?" she said finally, quiet, almost to herself. Then she shook her head and gave a short laugh with nothing in it. "Don't answer that."

You almost never went to the parties. They felt like an extension of work, built around the band the same way everything else on tour was, and after weeks of load-ins and long drives you rarely had the energy to spend another few hours in it.

But tonight Illi and Frank had been impossible to look at. After the show they'd stayed in a corner backstage with their heads bent together and their hands all over each other, laughing at something nobody else was in on. It wasn't new, but it still didn't get easier. So when the rest of the crew headed out, you went with them instead of back to the bus.

The party was in a rented-out bar with red lighting and a DJ playing too loud to talk over. Illi was already in full swing, louder and looser than she ever was in private, a drink in one hand and her other arm hooked around Frank's neck as she told a story to a circle of industry people who laughed a beat too early. Frank laughed with her. He caught your eye once from across the room and looked away, looking a little too pleased with himself.

You were at the end of the bar when a girl slid onto the stool beside you. She was pretty in a way that seemed effortless, with a silver ring on every finger, blonde hair that had clearly been done for the night, and a smile that said she'd already decided to talk to you. She leaned in to be heard and said something that made you laugh despite yourself. By the second drink her hand had found your arm, and by the third she was asking whether you were always this quiet or just tonight.

Illi had been watching for a while, but when she noticed the girl’s hand on your arm she'd stopped mid-story. She untangled herself from Frank’s arm and said something about needing air. She didn't go toward the door. She came down the bar, slow, with the drink still in her hand and her eyes on the girl's fingers resting on your sleeve.

"Well, look at this." She stopped right behind your shoulder, close enough that her leather jacket brushed your back, and smiled at the girl like a host welcoming a guest. "Don't take it personally if this one goes quiet on you. Mention a pedalboard and you've lost them for the night. They'd rather be working than anything else."

The girl laughed and said something about not minding. Illi's smile didn't move.

"Aw, I bet." Illi took a long sip of her drink and set it on the bar between you and the girl, like it had always been going to end up there. "Hate to be a pain, but I gotta steal my tech for a minute. It’s a work thing. Boring. You’d hate it."

It was an excuse, and a thin one. Illi had come up with it somewhere between the end of the bar and the stool, and she said it with a straight face, the way she said everything that mattered. Her hand was already on your arm, just above the elbow, fingers firm and warm through your sleeve, steering you off the stool before the girl could answer.

"Don't wait up," she said over her shoulder, bright and pleasant. "This is gonna take a while."

She didn't stop until she'd pulled you into the dim stretch of hallway by the bathrooms, where the music dulled and the neon sign for the restrooms painted everything pink. She let go of your arm and leaned back against the wall.

"She was cute," she said, flat, like she was reading it off a card. "Blonde, shiny, very put together. Didn't realize that was your type." A beat. Her jaw worked. "I just figured you'd wanna be rescued. You looked bored."

Down the hall, the bar erupted in laughter, big and sudden, the kind that follows something great happening that neither of you would ever find out about. Illi's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to you, and her hand, almost absent-mindedly, found the front of your shirt and straightened a collar that didn't need it.

"So?" she said, too casually, not letting go yet. "You wanna go back and finish your drink? Or what?"

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