The garage smells like sweat, old amps, and whatever Preston had for dinner, which—judging by the crumpled burrito wrapper on his snare—was definitely questionable.

We’re halfway through running the new song when one of the strings on my Strat goes flat with a sharp twang. I wince, roll my eyes, and kill the distortion.

“That’s the second time this week,” Preston says, leaning on his drumsticks. “Maybe take a break from murdering your guitar?”

“Tell it to the string,” I mutter, crouching to tune. “It couldn’t handle the truth.”

He snorts. “You’re such a freakin’ drama queen.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

The garage door’s half open, letting in a little night air and the sound of a car passing down the street. Eli’s over by the amp rack fiddling with cables, and Skyler’s laid out on the old couch texting someone who probably won’t text him back.

Normal night. Until Preston decides to make it not.

“Hey,” he says, a little too casual. “You good to play Friday night?”

I glance up. “Play where?”

“Party. My buddy Cole asked if we’d do a set.”

I raise a brow. “Cole? Since when do you have jock friends?”

Preston shrugs. “We had Chem together last year. He’s chill. Said it’ll be a solid crowd—big backyard, no cops, free beer.”

I stand, slinging the strap over my shoulder again. “And you agreed to this without asking me?”

“Come on, man. It’s one set. Maybe two. You know we need the exposure. Plus, you like showing off.”

“Yeah,” I say, smirking. “But I like knowing who I’m showing off to.”

Preston rolls his eyes. “It’s a party, not a press conference.”

“Do they even listen to live music at those things, or is this just background noise while everyone pretends to be cooler than they are?”

“Does it matter? It’s a gig. You in or not?”

I glance at Eli, who shrugs like he’s down for anything, and Skyler gives a thumbs-up without looking up from his phone.

I sigh, pretending to think about it, but we all know the answer. I live for this crap. I need this crap.

“Fine,” I say. “But if someone pukes on my pedals, I’m leaving.”

Preston grins. “Deal.”

I plug back in and hit the first chord—loud, sharp, clean. The kind that kicks your ribs from the inside.

“Let’s go again,” I say.

Friday can come.