When I enter, I find a new supply bag already waiting for me, despite my encounter with the woman ending only about twenty minutes ago. I grab it and toss it to the side, hearing pill bottles rattle as I try to tune out my neighbors loudly arguing next door.

I get approximately four solid minutes of sprawling out on my bed like a starfish and staring at the worn cat poster on the ceiling before my phone dings.

I frown, only now realizing I left it at home this whole time. I search around for where the sound came from, eventually finding the device on the floor, under my nightstand. I grab it and check the notification, mostly because it's rarely good but usually time sensitive when someone texts me.

You coming? Show starts in twenty.

Shit. Junior.

I swear under my breath, tossing the phone on the bed and rooting through my disorganized closet, half full of clothes that either aren't clean or are riddled with permanent stains. I make a mental note to take it all to the laundromat when I get time, eventually finding a black graphic t-shirt that smells decent. I decide to just keep my ripped jeans. They're in good enough condition. My sweat and mud-stained hoodie is not.

After getting dressed, I check my reflection in the mirror. I lightly run over the smeared makeup with my fingers, feeling something in my chest tighten. I don't need to scrub at her residual black lipstick all over my mouth to know it won't come off. Not until I go at it with a toothbrush, at least.

Glitter decorates certain areas of my skin. Everywhere she touched me. Clinging, something only a shower will take care of.

I grab my eyeliner and run over what I already have to darken it, noticing the circles under my eyes beginning to show. Then I grab my keys and remember my phone this time, before hurrying out the door.

I speed the whole way there, though that has nothing to do with being late, it's just how I drive on normal roads when Winter's not in the car. I reach the concert venue within fifteen minutes, locking my car and pushing past all the people in my way, who seem too drunk to care. It appears to be some sort of Halloween party, which means I'm singing Halloween songs.

I don't usually like holiday songs, but Halloween is the best I'll get in that department. At least they're interesting. I probably could have mentally prepared myself for all this if I ever read our band group chat.

As soon as I'm backstage, I'm being confronted by our bassist and drummer.

"Are you crazy? We're on in less than five. Des, you can't keep doing this." Macy berates, frowning at me. Out of everyone, she tends to go the hardest on me when it comes to attendance. I hardly even show up to practices, but they won't get rid of me since I'm the lead singer. The face of the band.

That's also why I can't leave, though.

I raise my hands up in surrender as my only response, having no excuse to give them aside from negligence, which they won't accept. Also, arguing with Macy gets me nowhere.

"It's fine," Junior reassures me when she gets distracted a minute later, and we both follow her behind the curtain so we can start getting everything ready. Not before we do our stupid handshake he insists on, though, which we created in eighth grade, if that's any gauge on how outdated and ridiculous it is. Still, he insists, and my lack of energy seems to only spur him on.

Junior's already got his guitar strapped on, tuning it like it's a ritual, chewing on a piece of gum that smells like peppermint. He's been chewing the same gum religiously for as long as I've known him. He's in full costume—somewhere between cowboy and vampire, a bloody sheriff badge pinned to his ripped plaid. He probably doesn't even know. I don't care to ask, and I doubt anyone else does, either.

I'm just glad he's not mad at me for not dressing up.

"You really weren't gonna check the group chat?" he asks, not even mad, just confused. He still thinks I'm in this for the long run. He still thinks I have faith I'll be anything else. He's also used to it.

"I assumed we were doing a show," I say, because I did, tugging the mic from its stand and checking the cord. "It's October."

Junior snorts. "October thirty-first, Des. We're the opening act for a costume contest."

Wait. It's actually Halloween? How'd I miss that? I don't know why it still surprises me when I miss holidays—the only times I celebrate anything are if Winter makes me. Like Christmas. And Easter. She and her dad are somewhat religious, after all. Which is at least part of the reason he disapproves of me so much. And probably part of the reason she was born at all.

I shrug. "Same thing."

Our other bassist, Ry, is mumbling to himself in the corner, stringing up his bass with a vengeance. He's usually in a bad mood, though. It's basically his default. Beside him, Macy keeps hitting the same snare beat over and over with enough force to give everyone a migraine. She's dressed like a skeleton. Ry's got bat wings duct taped to his bare back. I didn't even notice until now.

We're a mess. But it works, it brings in just enough money to be worth it—at least for me—and it has for the past five years.

The band used to have a name, but we don't really use it anymore. We're just those kids from Ridgewell High with the washed up, half decent lead singer. No one ever remembers the name anyway, just the eyeliner and my distinct voice. I have no opinion on my talent, but most seem to think I could've made it if I tried.

If he didn't get sick. If she didn't spiral.

Now I just show up. Sing with the only passion I have left anymore. Leave with my check.

Junior throws an arm around my shoulder and pulls me toward the curtain just as the host finishes whatever spiel he's been giving the crowd.

"You good?" he asks me.

I nod.

"You smell like perfume," he adds, wrinkling his nose.

"Don't worry about it."

He drops it, but gives me this sly look. Like he thinks he knows something. Like he just caught me.

He didn't. He thinks it's Winter, just like everyone else.

Well... aside from Winter.

The lights come up and we walk out. The crowd is already wasted, half of them in masks and body paint, all of them loud. Someone screams my name, and I don't recognize their voice.

I step up to the mic, drag the cord taut, and close my eyes for just a second. Enough to pull myself together. Enough to lock away whatever's still crawling under my skin from earlier.

Then, barely putting any effort into my attempt at a Transylvanian accent, I start to sing.

"I was working in the lab, late one night..."

The crowd howls. Phones go up.

The bass kicks in. The drums follow. It keeps going, and I already feel exhausted.

What a long day. I just want to rot and decompose in my bed more than anything. Or maybe Winter's. Yeah, that sounds good. I already know—I'll need balance after this. Stability. Warmth. Comfort in the only real way I can get it.

I'll need Winter.