Signed in Blood

Writing the rest of both albums came easier after that night. The fallout with Scott and the tension with Courtney, that was the missing spark.

Courtney stopped coming to EoT sessions but still wanted every demo from my solo album. I thought she’d cut ties after what happened. Instead, she spent more nights with Skye and me than at home.

I tried to bring it up, but she always sidestepped. Scott didn’t talk about it either, until the night before we started recording.

“So, Courtney’s been crashing with Skye and me a lot lately. Something going on at home?”

“Yeah… something like that,” he muttered. “Dad’s not doing great. Mom’s holding it together by a thread. We both have a foot out the door.” He paused, weighing how much to say. “Maybe she’s looking for somewhere she belongs. Or maybe she’s trying to soak in her last memories with you two before you’re gone. Probably both.”

“You okay?”

“Not really. I’m trying, but… I’m starting to wonder what the point of any of it is. I’m living my dream, and it’s everything I thought I wanted. So why doesn’t it feel like it?”

“I get it,” I said quietly.

He was worse off than I’d guessed, still holding on, but barely.

“You’ll be back on the road soon,” I told him. “Without me there, you might find what you’re looking for.”

He forced a laugh. “Justin’s less likely to cause trouble. He’s like me. This is his last shot.”

It said everything. He and Courtney had never mended the rift, and now it was just a wound neither would name.

“I’ll try to catch a show,” I said. “Maybe even play Promises or Wicked Dream with you guys again.”

Wicked Dream was the song Skye and I wrote about that night with Courtney. Intricate vocals, me taking lead in parts, our regret braided into the melody.

Scott shook his head. “I hate that it’s going to be the first single. Justin won’t nail the solo. You hit something Gary Moore would’ve been proud of.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That one’s… loaded.”

When I tracked the solos, I asked Courtney to be there. If I was going to record Wicked Dream and Promises, I needed to look it all in the eye.

Recording wasn’t the sprint it had been on the first album. My scratch tracks flew by. Reese was locked in; Kenny drifted, letting Scott and me steer. But the solos were different. No nerves this time. No imposter syndrome. Just stepping into the headspace the songs came from, however unhealthy.

I started with Wicked Dream. Through the glass, Courtney and Skye watched. That made it easier…and harder. I adjusted my phrasing mid-take, chasing something true as memories surfaced: Courtney drowning fear in pleasure, Skye’s eerie smile lit in the dark.

The Firebird had never sounded so haunted. When I finished the last take, I hated myself which meant it was perfect.

Even Kenny, checked out for most of the process, was grinning, telling Scott how impressed he was.

I went straight into Promises, switching to my Les Paul. This one needed to feel like a piece of me I’d already let go. Halfway through the take, I decided I’d give the guitar to Courtney when the album was done. Start the next era fresh, without this version of me.

The solo wasn’t better than Wicked Dream, but it lived in a different light. The modal shifts felt more hopeful. The notes hung in the air, carrying everything I couldn’t say. Not an apology to Courtney, but an acknowledgment. A thread of the wholesome, platonic love we’d once shared, sewn into the pauses.

When I finished, I looked up. Through the glass, Courtney smiled, but her eyes were wet.

Despite everything, I could still reach her.

It didn’t take long to finish the rest of the leads. Outside of the Courtney songs, it wasn’t a guitar-driven album. Scott’s parts carried the emotional weight by design.

She stepped out, keys in hand, as Scott came in to start his tracks. I followed without thinking. I just didn’t want this to end with a whisper.

***

“Court, hold on a second!” I called across the parking lot.

She stopped, but didn’t turn right away, like she was deciding if it was worth the effort.

“Yes, Wes?”

“Thanks… for coming out tonight,” I said, still not sure what I meant.

“No problem. I wanted to see you play for EoT one last time. See this era to the end.” Her voice carried no malice, but no warmth either.

“What’s next for you after we graduate in the spring?” I asked, even though it was still months away.

“I’m going to college in Pennsylvania. Business degree. And then… I’m going to try to never come back home.” She gave me an empty smile.

“I get that. There’s not much left here for any of us.”

“What about you and Skye?”

“I’ve been talking to Stan. Thinking about setting up in Nashville, no baggage there yet. When it works out, Skye will join me on tour so we’re not apart for too long.”

“That sounds right for you two,” she said, trying to sound sincere. “I hope you can enjoy it.”

“Yeah.”

A pause stretched between us. Too much to say, too little worth saying.

“I guess I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Yeah… sounds good.”

She turned away first. I watched her go for a moment before heading back inside.

***

Before Christmas, both albums were mastered and ready. I was biased, but mine was better. I’d brought in guests, Caleb, Jim, Tony Black, Jack Slye, and each one elevated certain songs without dulling the emotional edge.

The session drummer and bassist I hired were killers. Working with a real producer made everything click. The polish would’ve offended the old me, but here, the clarity made the raw parts cut deeper.

Stan and Jason were already circling promo ideas like vultures. Out of eleven tracks, they said seven or eight could be singles. R&R set Wicked Dream for March 14th, and my debut, Signed in Blood, for May 16th. If Promises charted like Chasing Ghosts, EoT’s 8,000-seat spring tour was locked.

I had more on the line: three singles dropping before my album (Kill Your Darlings, Sirens, My Only Void), all leading to me opening a summer stadium tour for the biggest pop star in the country.

When I asked Stan how he pulled that off, he shrugged. My contract, he said, made me “the most value-engineered support act” they could find.

The week Wicked Dream dropped, the PR about my departure went public. Fans were split. Skeptical about Justin Warner, curious about the title-track duet with Scott. I dodged the usual “why’d you leave?” questions with “creative differences,” and Jason made sure interviewers knew not to push unless they wanted to be blacklisted from R&R acts.

I kept my head above water until the week of Signed in Blood’s release, when they booked me for a joint interview with Ariel Sanchez, my tour’s headliner.

John, the interviewer, grinned at her. “Ariel, your new album’s been at the top since March. How does that momentum carry to the road?”

“It’s exciting,” she said. “My fans have connected with this record in a way that feels different.”

“And when you added Wes Reau to the tour, what was the reaction?”

“At first, some hesitation,” she admitted. “Most didn’t know him by name until they realized he was from Embers of Twilight. Then the first two singles hit, and his name started to stick.”

I nodded. “I’m lucky Ariel’s new record leans darker lyrically. It gives her fans a bridge to my stuff.”

John glanced at me. “You’ve kept a low profile in interviews, even in EoT. What’s behind the darkness in your music, and the split from the band?”

With Ariel there, dodging outright wasn’t an option.

“I write what I know,” I said. “I’ve had to confront a lot of ugliness early on, internally and in the world around me. That shapes what I make.”

He waited. Ariel waited.

“As for EoT, ‘creative differences’ covers most of it. Wicked Dream wasn’t easy to make. Leaving was about where we are in our lives. R&R helped make it as painless as possible.”

Ariel smiled, the kind that says she’s heard this dance before.

When the interview wrapped, John thanked us and stepped out. Ariel waved her entourage off.

“That was some tidy deflection,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said, not sure if it was a compliment.

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure about you on this tour, even with how little we’re paying you. But your solo stuff… it’s more accessible than Embers.”

“It’s definitely more accessible,” I sighed. “I just hope it’s better,”

She gave me a devilish smirk, “Why second guess that. Veteran tip: There’s no time for doubt.”

“Thanks,” my voice was still shaky.

“I guess that makes sense.”

“When you’re playing these songs in stadiums for my fans, you won’t survive if you don’t believe in yourself.”

She let that hang before adding, “Your material is good, and with my fans, you benefit from having a female co-writer. The female gaze is all over your lyrics.”

“Interesting,” I said without thinking. “I never considered Skye’s writing from that angle.”

“Well, why would you?”

“I guess you have a point.”

There was a longer spell of silence this time.

“Don’t hesitate to talk to me on tour. No matter how successful you are, life on the road gets boring.”

Those were her last words as she disappeared with her agent.

The pressure in the room dissipated after she left. Despite my many misadventures in the industry, this was my first overlap with a super star in their prime. I didn’t know if I could trust anything that she said. I didn’t know how to process that we had a one-on-one conversation.

I was two weeks away from my live debut as a solo artist, three weeks away from graduating from high school, and four weeks away from that tour. The weight of my future was suffocating.

***

Prom and graduation were strange.

Maggie skipped prom because Kenny was on tour. Courtney stayed home without saying why, which left Skye and me to go together.

We ended up at dinner with the last scraps of our old friend group. Julia, the only one still around from freshman year, and her new boyfriend, a grounded junior who made her laugh in ways I never had. Watching them together, I realized how much she deserved something good after everything that had fallen apart.

After prom, Skye and I drove to the beach. Going straight home felt anticlimactic.

“Well, one more week,” she said, tracing shapes in the sand. “Graduation on Friday. Move to Nashville Tuesday. Then you’re off to Atlanta for tour by the next Friday.”

“Yeah… sorry you can’t join until July,” I said, my voice heavier than I intended.

“It’s fine. R&R’s got me booked solid for the first two months anyway,” she laughed, then added quietly, “I’m just trying to avoid facing my own reality.”

“So… you’re scared too?”

“Of course. Wicked Dream was our first number two. Kill Your Darlings was our first number one. It didn’t feel this intense before.”

We let the waves fill the silence.

“I’ve always run from difficult things. I hate disappointing people, and now my whole life revolves around them.”

Her honesty caught me. I’d done the same thing for years, kept moving the goal posts, hoping to outrun the version of myself I was supposed to be. But now there was no way back, only forward.

“It’s terrifying,” I said. “Being alone and exposed all the time. Not being able to fade into the background anymore.”

Her hand found my leg. She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t have to.

***

Graduation passed in a blur. For one day, I liked being anonymous, just another black gown in a sea of five hundred.

In the parking lot afterward, parents wove through the crowd with flowers and cameras. Skye, Maggie, and Courtney were pulled into their family’s orbit, swallowed by hugs and flashbulbs, while I hovered at the edge like an uninvited guest.

Mrs. Largent gave me a quick “Congrats” and a hug, more for Skye’s sake than mine. The Parrises spotted me, lifted a hand in a vague wave, then turned back to their conversation.

Courtney leaned in, whispering, “You were like a second son to them. I hate this.”

So did I. Apathy really was the opposite of love.

I smiled anyway. I was proud of my friends, proud of the years we’d survived together. But I’d made peace with leaving long ago. Now it just felt pathetic, clutching at the last flicker of youth like it might burn longer if I held on tighter.

I slipped away without saying goodbye. Skye might have noticed, might have called after me, but the engine was already turning over, and I was already gone.

The road carried me out of town, past places I’d known my whole life. A cemetery in Plaistow drew me in. I’d passed it a hundred times but never stepped inside. The gate stood open, like it had been expecting me.

Inside, the air was still and heavy, cut grass and damp stone. Names etched in granite stared back, each one a headline to a story I’d never know.

One stone stopped me: 1988–2006. My age.

I sat cross-legged in front of it. “Hey, kid. Sorry you only made it to eighteen. I hope you had more fun getting there than I did.” The Monster hissed open. “I’ll let you know how the rest turn out, so you can decide if you actually missed anything.”

The sun bled down the sky, turning gold to rust, then to black. Shadows stretched long, reaching for me. The air cooled, but I stayed, speaking to someone who’d never answer, because it felt like the only conversation I had left in me.

When the darkness took the last of the light, I got in the car and drove with the headlights off for a few seconds, just to feel what it might be like to disappear.

By the time I reached Haverhill, the Merrimack lay ahead like an open mouth. I parked and killed my phone. The water was black glass, its current unseen but insistent.

I stepped onto the low stone wall, toes hanging over the edge. The wind pressed against my back like a hand. If I jumped, the headlines would write themselves: wasted potential, tragic genius, what could have been. Skye would be the siren left behind, singing about me for the rest of her life.

Families passed a few feet behind, talking about their summers, their small plans, their safe futures. No one looked my way. No one cared if I stayed or went.

I closed my eyes. The river whispered below, beautiful and certain.

I leaned forward.

And then I stepped back. Not tonight. Not before I knew what the best days of my life felt like.