This is my alt-rock NA serialised story — the book my younger self needed, written by my older self who finally knows what to do with all the bruises.
New here? Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, and 18.
Or you can go to the chapter index.
Dev
I stepped off the plane in Auckland with jet lag in my bones and four idiots trailing behind me.
No car waiting.
No publicist in designer sunglasses.
No airport montage playing over a fan-made playlist of my own sad songs.
Just air that smelled like salt and cut grass.
Her neighbourhood.
Christ. I’d really said that, hadn’t I?
Mateo hauled his guitar case like it was a baby he didn’t trust anyone else to hold. Connor was already complaining about the humidity messing with his hair. Owen wore sunglasses the size of small windshields despite the overcast. Simon filmed everything for the band’s socials, narrating like a budget Attenborough.
We were a mess. Loud. Carry-on heavy.
I thumbed my phone awake on muscle memory.
Nothing from Pike.
Fine. I wasn’t checking for that.
(I was absolutely checking for that.)
Two Ubers and a lot of arguing later, we rolled into Grey Lynn in convoy, windows down, someone else’s fish and chips drifting in from the street.
The rental was a weatherboard villa with peeling paint and a sagging porch, five bedrooms and a deck out the back. A hot tub hissed quietly like it resented being included.
Perfect.
I almost snapped a photo of the porch light — good colour, good mood — and went to send it to Pike with some line about reference material. I caught myself and shoved the phone back in my pocket.
Later.
Spawn of Mum 🍷
Dev:
Landed. Don’t tell Mum I nearly throttled Connor at Heathrow.
Claire:
Too late 😂 she’s already got a bottle of wine open “just in case.”
Liam:
Send proof you’re alive. Preferably without pie on your shirt this time.
Dev:
Haven’t had pie yet. Will work on it.
Claire:
Try not to make headlines for five minutes, yeah?
Dev:
No promises. Love you lot 🖤
Liam:
So you’re in NZ just to… do the whole album again? 💀
Claire:
Translation: “label hated it the first time, didn’t they?”
Dev:
Piss off. It’s called ✨artistic process✨
Liam:
It’s called “couldn’t get it right the first time” 😂
Claire:
Imagine flying to the literal end of the earth for a redo button. Iconic.
Dev:
Imagine me muting this chat.
Liam:
Do it. Coward.
I smiled despite myself and put the phone down.
It was stupid how quiet it was here. Stupid — and exactly what I needed.
Except it wasn’t quiet, not really. Not in the part of my head still replaying her voice note on a loop.
Too thirsty 🙄.
I shook it off before anyone could clock the grin.
I knew where she worked, obviously.
Between Jasper and Gray, their Insta was practically a live feed. Some pub called Margot’s, not far from the harbour.
I was absolutely going to be a regular. Already decided.
But I didn’t go straight there.
Didn’t want to make it A Thing.
Didn’t want to walk in like a love song with a guitar strapped to my back.
Instead, I ducked into a corner dairy. Six-pack. Rice crackers. That cursed Kiwi onion dip that looked like depression in a tub.
The guy behind the counter squinted at me.
“Hey, are you that guy from the thing?”
“Only on Tuesdays.”
He laughed. Called me bro.
Outside, I typed you’ll hate this dip but it’s very album-core and watched the cursor blink until my brain got embarrassed on my behalf.
Deleted. Kept walking.
Back at the villa, gold slid out of the sky and left blue behind.
Mateo tuned up on the deck. Connor sprawled on the couch doomscrolling. Owen and Simon debated setlists over beers.
I sat on the railing with my guitar and let the city hum under my fingers.
She was down there somewhere.
Probably hauling kegs.
Arguing with someone about the jukebox.
Sketching something unhinged on the back of a receipt just to mess with them.
And under all of it — the message I couldn’t stop replaying.
bet it’d look better in person.
Was it a dare? A piss-take? Something else?
Through a screen, I knew my lines. I could push, play, throw heat and let her throw it back.
Face to face?
No idea what I was walking into.
I’d made it her neighbourhood.
Now I just had to work out if she actually wanted me in it… or if I’d flown to the end of the earth to make a dick of myself.
One pint at Margot’s and I’d know.
Probably.
My phone buzzed while I was half-listening to Connor argue with Owen about whether humidity was “real” or just something people blamed when their hair misbehaved.
I didn’t even look.
Dev:
Jet lag’s a bastard.
Sent.
I stared at the screen for half a second too long.
Wrong chat. Fuck.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately — not from my family, but the other thread I’d left open.
Sadie:
Jet lag?
Just that. No emoji. No accusation. One word, neatly placed like a thumb pressed to a bruise.
I recovered fast.
Dev:
Hungover.
Same symptoms. Different regret.
Three dots.
Sadie:
Jesus.
You’re such a rockstar wanker you can’t tell the difference between flying too much and drinking too much.
I smiled despite myself.
Dev:
Occupational hazard.
That should’ve been the end of it. Reset. Normal service resumed.
Instead, I felt the familiar pull — the urge to poke the line and see if it sparked.
Dev:
You sound like you’re enjoying that image a little too much.
I sent it and waited. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t follow it up.
Left the door exactly where it was and let her decide whether to walk through.
She did.
Sadie:
Maybe I am.
What are you going to do about it?
There it was.
Just enough. A toe over the line.
I leaned back against the railing, city humming under my feet, and smiled.
Dev:
Plenty.
If you were closer.
And there it was — the retreat.
Sadie:
Easy to say when you can flirt and log off.
Distance doing what it always did for her. Letting her flirt because she believed it couldn’t follow her home.
I chose my words carefully.
Dev:
Is that what you’re counting on.
A pause. Longer this time.
Sadie:
I don’t count on anything.
Sure you do, sweetheart, I thought. Just not on me.
Dev: Funny.
Feels like you’re counting on me not being able to do anything about that tone.
Nothing.
Then:
Sadie:
Careful.
Confidence is cheap when there’s no follow-through.
Ah.
There it was.
She thought this was theoretical.
My phone buzzed again.
Spawn of Mum 🍷
Claire:
Why do I get the sense you’re flirting instead of sleeping.
Liam:
I swear to god, Dev.
I typed back with my thumb, still smiling.
Dev:
Relax. I’m being very normal.
Claire:
That has literally never been true.
I muted the chat before they could spiral.
I didn’t tell her where I was. Didn’t tell her how close the air already felt, or how easy it would be to stop pretending.
Some things deserved to land in person.
I put the phone face down on the railing and let the anticipation sit where it was — hot, contained, and waiting.
She thought she was safe behind a screen and a hemisphere.
She was wrong.
Later tonight would be soon enough.
"She thought she was safe behind a screen and a hemisphere." Ooooh... she has no idea. 😆