Chapter 11: Waste No Time

*Joe's POV*

It had been two months. Two months of nothing but stress from my brothers and our team, constant meetings and rehearsals with tour coming up in less than a week. The worst, and also exciting, part of it all was figuring out the setlist.

The timing between releasing our new album and our tour was severely close together. Was it smart to include songs fans wouldn't know in time for the first few shows? It was meant to promote the new album, considering the name of the tour would be the same as the album title. It was a risky move.

"I'm okay with letting that one go," Nick spoke up, him being the one mainly in charge of the setlist. It had always been like that, which was ironic when really thinking about it. He was the youngest brother, but the one that mostly called the shots.

Sometimes, I fought back. Other times, I couldn't care. I knew Nick had a logically creative mindset that knew exactly how to make the shows perfect without any help or feedback.

"Joe," Nick tossed a pen at me from across the room, lightly hitting my leg as I sat there on the couch stoic, "Did you hear me?"

"Yeah," I picked the pen up from the ground where it had fallen, "You're good with letting the song go into retirement."

"Which song?" he challenged, leaning the palm of his hand on one of the stools to hold his weight as he chose to keep standing.

He got me there, "One of our old hits."

"Wrong," he kept his eye on me, watching me tap the pen in a consistent rhythm on the top of my thigh, "I'm talking about 'Walls'."

"Oh, fuck no," I furrowed my eyebrows, my drumming coming to an abrupt stop, "We're not taking my favorite to perform off the setlist. We're keeping yours and Kev's. Why can't mine stay too?"

"Because I knew you weren't listening," he walked in front of me, putting the palm of his hand out in front of him, "We need you to be present right now, Joe."

I let the pen go into his hand before slouching into the couch, "Yeah, okay. I'm listening now."

Nick continued to ramble on, listing off numerous songs that were typed up on the pieces of paper in his hand. A line was drawn across each song we agreed to ditch this tour, the reality of being able to play every single fan-favorite in a specific span of time unattainable. "Walls" stayed on the setlist, per my one and only request.

My left ass cheek vibrated continuously, disrupting my direct focus I already had a hard time engaging in. I slid my phone out of my back pocket, glancing at the screen to a random number I didn't recognize or had saved in my contacts. After letting it go to voicemail, I set my phone on 'Do Not Disturb' so it wouldn't be a distraction and carefully tossed it in my tote bag.

This was probably the most I'd been productive in terms of configuring the tour, each city's setlist changing slightly to give the fans that attended multiple shows some variety and engagement. By the time we were finished for the day, my brain felt fried. I did my part. Proudly.

It wasn't just me that expressed gratitude, Nick walking up to me with a content grin. He squeezed my shoulder, quietly saying, "We couldn't do this without you. I'm sorry if it felt like I took control. It's just frustrating when you're in your own world during these moments when you're needed."

"No, I get it," I replied, reaching down to grab ahold of the handles of my tote bag and resting it on my shoulder, "I know I haven't been as present as I should be lately."

His head tilted with a raised eyebrow, "Everything okay?"

My gaze left Nick, moving to the left to nothing in particular, "Uh, define 'okay'."

"Should I be worried?" he rephrased, hushing lower so no other ears could hear him.

Meeting his brown eyes again, I shook my head. Out of everyone in this world, Nick was the one soul that knew the ins and outs of me, even details that siblings probably wouldn't usually share with the other.

"You wanna come back to my place?" he offered, concern of letting me be alone very much existent despite my debatable assurance, "Malti would love to spend some time with her uncle."

Using his daughter was his superior bait to get me to literally do anything. She was his world just as much as she was mine. I couldn't say no when it came down to any of my nieces or my two daughters.

"I'd love nothing more than to have a tea party with all her stuffed animals and play dolls," I smiled, reaching my hand in my tote bag to blindly find my phone.

"Awesome," a small pep sparked in his voice as he started to walk backwards, "Let me go grab my stuff, and then we'll head out."

I sat back down on the couch, saying my goodbyes to everyone that passed by to leave the room. Once I felt the hard rectangular object, my fingers grasped around it to pull out into my social world. My back sat up straight when I turned my phone back into 'Focus', all my notifications blowing up one-by-one.

Twelve missed calls from the same mysterious number. No voicemail. No text messages. Just those missed calls, a few minutes in between most of them. Towards the end, more time had extended amidst them.

I stepped aside in an empty corner of the room, the furthest away from those that still were chatting while gathering their belongings or making spontaneous plans with one another for the rest of the day. Clicking one of the many missed calls from that specific number, I held my phone up to my ear.

It rang five times before going to a generic voicemail, not giving me any insight on who was the owner of said number. I concluded it to be a fan that held no boundaries, most likely resulting into me changing my number once again.

Just as I was about to walk back to grab my tote bag, my phone vibrated in my hand the same way it did in my back pocket. The number took over my screen for a moment, stunning me before my curiosity finally caught up.

"Hello?" I answered quietly, expecting deafening screams any second.

"Joe?" a familiar voice replied with a sniffle, "It's Natalia. I don't know if you remember me, or even if I have the right number. I assumed with the contact name. The egg and all—"

"Yes, yes," I stuttered with a racing heart, walking back into the empty corner for some privacy, "To both. I was worried for a bit. Our stalking game kinda came to a stop."

There was no banter on her end. Or any sound as a reply for that matter. It was pure silence, eating at my uneasy gut.

"Natalia?" I gulped, glancing up at Nick across the room still in conversation with Chase, one of our music directors for our tour, "Are you still there?"

Unmuting her end, a whimpered sob stifled out of her mouth, "Are you busy?"

A tea party and roleplaying with dolls had to wait for another day, "No. No, I'm not busy. I just finished up some boring tour stuff. What's going on?"

Hearing how small her strength had become broke my heart, only ever witnessing a confident force to be reckoned with, "A lot? It's just, I don't know what to do. I'm surprised you called back."

"Twelve calls are pretty hard to ignore," I replied in a light manner to hopefully hear some form of a laugh or smile in her reply but was deemed unsuccessful.

"I'm sorry," her pitch heightened as another small sob escaped, "I didn't know who else to call. I'm sorry. You probably hate me thinking I ghosted you—"

"I don't," I cut her off, in no means for it to be rude, "Hate you, I mean. What's wrong?"

"Um," she hesitated, "Can you come get me? Like, now? You're still in New York, right?"

Two months of Natalia absent in my life, my mind even starting to forget her. Yet the minute the universe brought her back, it was as if no time had been wasted.

I watched Nick walk towards me, adjusting his black crossbody bag, "Send me your address. I'll be there shortly."

Nick caught the end of our conversation, as expected with the minimal personal space I had, "Who are you ditching me for?"

Scratching my scruff in a nervous tick, I rushed on grabbing my tote bag as I felt my phone vibrate only once, Natalia sending her address in a text message, "You remember that woman I told you about a few months ago?"

"Joe, you tell me about a different woman every few days," he retorted, following me closely behind, "That's not really giving me much to work with."

We walked out the room together, me holding the door for him, "The one that I made breakfast for."

That would've given him the answer right away. There was no other woman I cooked for, not since after my divorce.

"Ah, the one that asked for a 'platonic' sleepover," he scoffed, "What'd she want? Sex?"

If it was anyone else from past sexual encounters, my response would've been different, "No. Just a friend."