Epilogue: Diamond

So...I didn't want to make promises I couldn't deliver. I knew we needed a full closure, but I didn't know if I was ready to give you that.  I knew Bodie and Marley's story was complete, but I  couldn't "see" the Epilogue that closed the whole series. Then @dbenton3 left a comment on the last chapter that spurned my heart  forward and let me know for sure...we aren't finished with this series without a scene that brings us back to where we began. That's when I saw the ending clearly. Obviously, it ends...with the one and only Little Sister...

Kat, Some Years Later

"THANK FUCK!" Trace raises his arms from the paved courtyard of our Modernist Bel Air mansion as the limo finally appears down the drive. Then he swoops around, pointing a finger at me, where I stand on an elevated, contemporary entrance. He bellows, "GET IN THE GODDAMN LIMO!!!!"

I shake my head at my rock star, who still yells when he gets excited.

Gina, following behind me, holding Alder and Birch's hands, looks surprised at the harshness of Trace's yell, but relaxes when she sees his grin. It clearly doesn't match his false aggression.

"It's an old joke," I tell my mother-in-law with a wink.

"Daddy! Grandpa Ross says you shouldn't yell! Or say bad words!"

Alder, older by six minutes, is our rule-follower.

"Grandpa Matt yells," Birch objects. "And Daddy probably learned all those bad words from him."

Ross laughs as he makes his way across the courtyard from the guest house—which he and Gina occupy on a semi-permanent basis—carrying two booster seats for the limo.

"Nope. Pretty sure your dad learned those bad words from me, boys. I didn't always follow the rules, but I do now, and it's better that way."

"Daddy doesn't think its better that way," Alder observes.

Despite a tight fitted suit that looks as good on him at thirty-two as it did at twenty-two, Trace takes the modern concrete steps three at a time and scoops Alder up.

"I follow the rules most times, and Grandpa Ross is right, it's usually better that way. Let's review the whole rule following situation. Who has to follow the rules?"

"Everybody. Boys and girls," Alder says, "And grandpa's and grandma's, and moms and dads..."

"Except when they are..." Trace prompts.

"Rockstars!" Birch yells, sticking out his tongue and making the Horns sign with both hands.

"My man," Trace fists bumps his younger son.

"You're leaving stuff out," Alder says sternly. "Mom says you have to put on your rock star—like Batman's suit. Then you get a free pass. But only while you are wearing your rock star..."

"My man," I grin at Alder, and now we fist bump.

Alder and Birch are three and half years old, and their conversational prowess never ceases to amaze me. I guess it's because we talk to them so much, explaining the complicated circumstances we live in. Or maybe it's just their daddy's penchant for four syllable words that elevates their powers of speech.

Trace sets Alder down beside his twin brother and squats in front of his sons. They aren't identical, but fraternal twins. Both blonde-- Trace was also blond at their age. Birch looks very much like a del Marco. His bad-assery is  doubled; he gets it from both parents, I guess. I can also see Trace in Alder, but there is a lot Ballard in our first-born.

"Alder's right. Even rockstars can't be rockstars all the time. Here's the deal. I have to put on my rock star tonight, because it's my job," Trace tells his sons. Then he grins up at me. "What do you say, Mama? Do you want to be a rockstar tonight, too?"

"I suppose I could be persuaded."

I feel a family memory coming on.I pull out my phone and hand it to Addy, the nanny coming with tonight. Addy knows the drill; she steps back to film.

"What about you boys? Tonight's a special night, so you get to choose. Do you want to be rock stars, or do you want to follow the rules tonight?"

"Heck no, I don't want no rules!" Birch yells, jumping up and down.

Alder considers, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his tiny suit pants. He really likes rules. "Well, I dunno. Birch gets mean when we stay up late. But I like those cocktails that Uncle Leed makes..."

"You mean his mocktails?" I prompt, trying not to laugh. I hope he means the mocktails Leed is always concocting for Ash. Although, I wouldn't absolutely put it past a distracted Leed to let the kids sip off his Purple Jesus.

"Yeah, his mocktails," Alder agrees.

"Dude, if you put on your rockstar, you can get wrecked on Leed's mocktails tonight..." Trace advises.

"Trace," Gina swats at him and he ducks her, giving her a devilish look.

"Let's get wrecked!" Birch yells, dropping down into an air guitar solo.

Alder sighs at Birch's antics. "You are out of control."

Trace rises, turning into my shoulder so Alder can't see him holding back laughter. "Kitty, please tell me how it is even possible we had your sister's kid?" he mutters in my ear.

"Well, you know what Leed says..."

"True."

"What does Leed say?" Gina asks, smoothing her little black dress.

"That their names decided their destiny. Ballard A," I point at Alder, "Ballard B," I sigh at Birch, who is making faces at Alder.

Leed says that because he is the one mostly responsible for our son's unusual names. Both of our sons' first names are Ballard. We use their middle names as their given names, of course.

We were planning to make Ballard their middle names, and their tree-inspired names their first names, but the whole time I was pregnant , Leed called them Ballard A and Ballard B. Just like he used to label Ashlynn and me. He had everyone—even my parents—calling them that by the time they were born.

It stuck. When we filed their birth certificates, it seemed absolutely natural to name them Ballard Alder and Ballard Birch.

It might seem a little weird, but we are celebrities and del Marcos. We were pretty much expected to do something weird with our kids' names.

Trace collects himself and claps his hands one time.

"Okay, so it's decided then? Birch is gonna party, Alder wants to drink milk with his dinner and go to bed while the other kids stay up late..."

"No," Alder says quickly. "No, I want a mocktail. And video games. Let's all be rockstars."

"Cool. Let's do it. Let's put on our rockstars." Trace grabs my hand and Alder grabs Birch's. "Roll the neck," Trace prompts. We all roll our heads around clockwise.

"Crack it." Trace whips his head, and the cracks are audible. I follow suit. Alder and Birch's little necks are too flexible to need a good crack, so they just jerk their heads in imitation.

"Tip it," Trace inspects his sons' chin-tips-in-training. He turns to me and we give each other the professional version.

"Now kiss your best fangirl..."

He kisses me closer to chaste than volcanic. There's just enough heat to tease of what will come when tonight's event is over, and the kids have surrendered their rock stars to slumber, and Trace and I continue our private party.

Alder is tugging expectantly on my hand. "My turn."

He wants his fangirl kiss, too.

I swoop him up and kiss his tiny puckered lips, my heart lurching at the loss of his baby smell, but then my sadness settles as he puts his arms around my neck. He's still my baby.

Trace has scooped Birch up with one arm. Ballard B cranes crazily away from Trace for his quick peck, but Trace keeps a protective hold against his wiggling, then relieves me of Alder, too. He hustles down the steps easily with both his sons. I always think he is the most sexy I have ever seen him when he carries around our boys like that.

Something happens down there at the bottom of the steps by the limo that causes my breath to catch. It's happened before, but it makes me breathless, every single time I see it.

Ross, having installed the booster seats, holds out his arms.Trace hands off Alder easily.

No hesitation. No qualms. Just trust as he gives over his softer son.

It's not new, but it never ceases to amaze me.

The breach between Trace and Ross is healed now. I don't know how, and I'm not sure a breach like that could ever or maybe should ever be healed between most parents and their abused children, but Ross is a different man sober, and Trace is an exceptional human being to be able to see him in that light. Trace was able not only to forgive, but start over with Ross.

When the twins were born, things tipped for them.

I thought it would be Matt that would be their closest paternal grandfather, but it didn't turn out that way. Matt's great with them, and they worship him, but Ross is the go-to granddad.

Somehow in the overwhelm of becoming a father to twins, Trace remembered more easily the ways Ross had been there for him as a little kid. I guess things were better all around in the very early years. Those memories began to balance against the drunken fights that mostly came as Trace grew a little older.

And so it became Ross to whom Trace went with his worries about being a father to twins. Ross who heard the confessions of exhaustion and frustration, and Ross that evaluated his own failures frankly, and tried to use the lessons to offer practical advice.

It was Ross that showed up with Gina to help us fire nannies that weren't meeting the need of twins and interview new ones, Ross who figured out my four thousand dollar breast pump was a piece of shit and bought a better one, Ross who realized Alder had a slight vision problem when he was just two.

Matt and Marianne are the most wonderful people I know. It's just that they have a fuckton of real family, Skid Marcs family, SCIC, Bandgrands, industry friends, projects, commitments. Their enthusiasm and love as grandparents is boundless, but their time is somewhat limited.

Both Trace and I have careers, and I didn't want my kids spending most of their time with nannies that come and go.

Ross's family wealth that cursed his youth with the ability to support a family while never forcing him to get himself together beyond a barely functional alcoholic finally became a blessing. In the last decade, he was able to sell off his interests in the multigenerational family businesses to other, younger family members, and retire early and comfortably.

He and Gina now split time focusing on their work with the halfway house he founded in Atlanta, and our Gallant family of six here in California. They have been there for us in ways that even my own parents haven't been, because of my mom's delicate health, and my dad's continued management of his business.

Right now, Gina is also watching Trace hand the boys off to Ross, who is installing them in their booster seats in the limo, and feeling the exact feelings of amazement I'm experiencing. She wraps her arm around me.

"Thank you, my sweet girl. For being his wife. And his healing."

It almost didn't happen. I thought for a minute there, we weren't going to make it.

"It was a near thing," I remind her with a wry smile.

"Water under the bridge," she whispers.

She can say that. She didn't live through the hell I did, between getting engaged and getting married. But I push all that away, because tonight, despite everything that happened, I have a role to play, too. Trace said we are rock stars, but we aren't.

Tonight, I am Little Sister once again.

No matter how much I hate playing that role in the press, I will always be Little Sister for Soundcrush, because their success was built upon that song, and I wouldn't take Soundcrush's success away for any amount of pain it caused me.

It's a short ride to Matt's estate, where the party is being held. I've probably walked a red carpet at Matt's place a couple dozen times over the years, but it's always a big deal.

As we exit the limo, I hastily retuck the boys' dress shirts and prepare them for the short media wall. Trace catches my hands and holds them apart, raking over me.

"How do you do it, Kitty? Look this gorgeous every single time?"

I look down at my electric blue lace sheath dress and nude Jimmy Choo's. "What, this ole thing?" I proclaim in my best Southern Belle. "Why it's nothing."

"Oh, it's something. And you're everything," he murmurs against my lips as he touches my face. He doesn't even mean to, but he sets off a firestorm of flashes. All the photographers train on us before we even move to the official "shooting gallery."

"Not again!" Adler says with heavy, dramatic dismay, because he dislikes a media wall as much as my shy sister used to.

We don't force him to be photographed, but he always politely complies, also just like Ashlynn. The photographers here—all from Matt's favorite press outlets—know well that Alder is the new reluctant del Marco, and thus his smile is the money shot like Street's once was. They call out to him, encouraging him. Trace and I break apart, dutifully shepherding them for the family shots.

As Ross and Gina and the Addy take the boys off the media wall for our two-shot, the press questions about tonight's event begin in earnest.

This month is the twelfth anniversary of Little Sister—the album and the single—going multi-platinum. That circumstance coincides with the official reason for the party tonight: Soundcrush's fourth album Spirit Rehab doing the same.

The name of the album was not just a nod to Bodie's drug rehab and his "rehabilitation" in prison. The deepest meaning was definitely Soundcrush's "rehab" from the dark and bitter experiences that created their last album, Fuck Charon.

The band's renewed enthusiasm and beautiful lives showed in the celebrant tracks of Spirit Rehab, and their fans showed up big time to vibe it. Over the first three months of last year's tour, Spirit Rehab outperformed Little Sister's initial first quarter release.

It's a big deal for Soundcrush, and a big deal for Colossal, who always throws a party for an artist when they achieve multi-platinum status.

Trace fields a lot of industry questions about the new album, and the tour, which just finished with a half a billion dollar gross, and about what's next for Soundcrush.

"A fucking vacation," he jokes.

It was a long damn tour with Lennon, Cash, Violet, Alder, and Birch on the bus.

I am asked about Little Sister and MdM Philanthropies. I give my standard scripted answers about being a muse, and more earnest answers to queries about my philanthropy.

Then a blogger with a fake press pass tries to ruin my night.

He thrusts the awful pictures that the world was never supposed to see in my face and asks shockingly invasive questions about them.

God knows, I should be prepared. It's nothing compared to how bad it was five years ago when the pictures first came to light. But I am never prepared, and it is always bad.

I feel the old familiar tightening in my chest, the frenzied flood in my head, and an undeniable urge to flee. Except that I couldn't possibly flee, because at the same time my brain urges me to dash, my body feels heavy as lead. Frozen. Trapped in shame.

That initial flash of fear always happens so fast it takes a moment for my heart to catch up and begin to pound. So hard I'm afraid people can hear it. All I can do is try not to gasp as hard as my heart is demanding.

The one saving grace? Trace.

He doesn't overreact like he became famous for five years ago. With his sons just feet away, he simply leans forward, grabs the photos from the guy before they are flashed in Alder and Birch's direction, and shoves them in his jacket. One quick nod by Trace to security is all it takes for the guy to be hustled away.

Ross and Gina, not sure what happened, but sensing the sudden tension, immediately usher the boys inside.

The rest of the press, though legitimate and vetted, now take up what they see as justified questions, because the seal has been broken, the past invoked.

Kat, what do you say to your critics that say you don't do enough to advocate against slut-shaming? Trace, what kind of anger-management techniques did you learn in your court-ordered therapy? Trace, Kat...what would you say to them if your children saw footage of the incident? Or have they?

I can say nothing. Not because I have nothing to say, but because I can't find my voice.

Of all the things that happen to me during a panic attack, this is the worst. Being unable to speak, losing my voice.

I'm an advocate for victims using their voices, and in this moment, I am silenced by a hack blogger that is really nothing more than a shit-stirrer of very old news.

Trace's hand slides around my waist, his support, his constancy, silent but comforting. He puts himself between me and the rope line of press, literally shielding me in his larger shadow as we walk in measured steps to the door.

He holds up a hand and says loudly. "Tonight is about Soundcrush, not our personal lives. Everyone of you knows how this plays now. We're fucking done here."

Once we are inside the door of Matt's mansion, I feel immediately better. I take a deep breath and focus on first Alder and Birch's faces, both smiling up at Matt as he greets them with fist bumps. I think about their rooms—the ultimate safe spaces in our new home—and I mentally work my way around our completely private compartments on the second floor of our house. Then I think about the private spaces on the floors above in this house.

Knowing they are there, helps me know that I don't need them. The next breath I take is not so deep. I smile at Trace.

He's watching me like he used to watch Ashlynn. I hate that, but I've learned to accept the caretaker part of him, and also accepted the fact that there was a time he had legitimate reasons to worry about me.

He touches my face. "You okay?"

"Fine."

"Want me to get Marley?"

"No, I just said I'm fine. If I weren't, I would tell you, and it's insulting for you to think otherwise."

His caretaker expression remains the same for a long moment, but eventually it relaxes into a smile. "Okay." He pulls me gently to him, kissing my temple.

"Thank you," I breathe a sigh of relief that he is not making it worse by trying to make it better.

Trace gives me a sad smile. "I am truly sorry. Still. Always."

He says this every time. It's not exactly his fault, what happened, but then again, the media fallout was a direct result of the biggest mistake he claims he ever made, so in a way...the trouble started with him and ended with me.

It doesn't matter. He doesn't have to keep saying sorry. I forgave him long ago for his part in the whole mess. It's not his fault the media won't let it go.

Our marriage and our family is loving and incredible and everything I ever hoped it would be, but our public life has turned on me.

Social media is no longer my friend. Publicity is sometimes embarrassing and anxiety-causing for me. That's just the way it is.

I kiss his cheek. "Your boss is on his way over. Go be a rock star." I slide away as Moran approaches.

Ashlynn is practically the first person I see as I make my way past the foyer. She and Marianne are chatting with MdM donors. One guy has his hand on his checkbook already.

I feel like bowing to those two Queens. Together, they can talk anyone out of ten percent of their fortune. I have to hustle hard to get people to care about my brand in the del Marco philanthropy...hidden domestic violence in America's middle class.

Solicitation is the easy part for Ash. Everyone's heart bleeds for a third world orphan, especially when a woman as gracious, beautiful and gently persuasive as Ashlynn advocates for them. A smile and a gentle anecdote from my sister about Luis and Lucy can practically get a new orphanage built.

I'm not complaining. It's not a competition, her charity and mine. No matter how many orphanages Sweet Child of Mine builds, they are always full. They never get emptied, no matter how hard Ashlynn works to build an adoption network. That is a hard reality of her philanthropy. I'm working to raise money to help mental health experts heal families, but the children she works for mostly never achieve families. I rarely meet the families in therapy in our programs, due to confidentiality issues. Ashlynn visits her orphans. She plays with them.

Our heart's work each has its own challenges.

I stride to Ashlynn and embrace my sister, my coworker, my best friend. It's hard to think about the times we've been estranged but I'm nearly positive, all those times are behind us now.

She's surprised by the emphatic hug.

"Hey!" She says, searching my face. "You okay?"

I nod serenely in front of the potential donor, sizing him up. Going with my instincts that he's a genuine human being, I tell the truth, and not some glamourized version. "Sorry we are late. The limo company sent a car without LATCH for the booster seats and Trace sent it back. He's adamant, about safety," I smile at the hottest director in Hollywood.

"Leed is the free spirit. Trace is the caretaker," Ash confesses with a little more drama than her natural style. Ah. Her confidential tone tells me we are pitching to a Soundcrush fan.

Alder and Birch zoom past us in search of Leed and mocktails. I lay a hand on his arm. "Those blurs are my sons. Watch this. Three, two, one..."

Trace, sensing the twins' escape, whips around from Moran. "Kitty! The kids!" He yells. Finding me after a frantic scan, and seeing me "working" he redirects to the nanny.

"Addy! You got them?" She nods with a smile even as she's hot on their heels.

"Every time," I tell the director. "We used to think Leed was the one with all the instinct, then Trace became a dad..."

"It's true," Marianne confirms. "Kat, meet Arlo Adams..."

I picked up on the right cues. The famous young film director gushes he is a big Soundcrush fan. And also a new dad. He completely vibes Trace as a young, cool, overprotective father. Something in his admiration for certain Soundcrush songs tells me he had a rough childhood, unspoken like Trace's. He makes a contribution to Loving Marcs equal to what he just pledged to Sweet Child of Mine.

I should probably work the crowd more, but that stupid blogger unsettled me, so instead I seek refuge in Mac, who is chatting with Gwen and Dev.

Mac is ignoring the several groups of industry insiders and managers, hovering around her, waiting for a chance to intervene in her personal conversation with a pitch of some sort.

Of all the Soundcrushers, Mac and Adam are the only ones that don't live in LA full-time. They are still in Nashville, at least half-time, wanting their kids to grow up with a strong sense of their Heartley heritage. When they are here in LA, it's always the best of times, and everyone wants of piece of them. Especially Mac.

Even Dev, who is very much in love with Bridge, gravitates to the orbit of his magnetic and seldom-seen friend.

I give Devlin Cavendish the once over, remembering the time when Adam got arrested for punching DevBlu in an LA club. It's not hard to remember him, or his hair, as Blu, but his circumstances have changed in the last couple of years.

He acknowledges my approach with a curt nod and a devilish wink, even as he continues to query Gwen about her horses and steeplechase events. Apparently she's planning to go pro, and she's in the market for a new thoroughbred. Darius is planning to buy the horse and she will jockey it.

"My father knows a lot about steeplechase and is friends with quite a few breeders," he says. "You and Darius should come over for an extended visit and get the English perspective. I quite mean that, don't think I'm just being polite," he nods at her, turning to me.

"Katheryn the Great," he smiles. I note that he, like all of SCIC, have made a great effort to banish the Little Sister nickname that once dripped off their tongues.

"Lord Bluemond," I tease. It's a joke, but then again it's maybe not so much a joke as a premature jab.

"Not if I can help it, by God," he sighs. "Have you seen my lady?"

"Not yet."

"I swear, every time we are here, she locks herself away with Rowan for the duration...and leaves me to deal with her bloody menfolk..."

"They are twins. They miss each other."

"Speaking of bonded pairs, how is your set?"

"Full of mischief."

"Take after their mother, then," he winks. "Excuse me." He's spotted Row dance by in the crowd and he's off like a shot, hoping to find Bridge in her wake.

Mac looks exceptionally bad ass tonight in a red pantsuit. Her fierce pantset matches her embrace. "I heard there was trouble on the wall. Do we need to crush press careers? Riley is right there..."

She points across the room, where Riley is talking animatedly with Bodie as four year old Violet swings from her father's arm, which she is using like a monkey bar. That kid has all her daddy's energy. I totally feel her tomboy heart.

I smile as she lands with a flourish, her vividly violet dress billowing out like a cloud, then settling as she comes to a standstill. She won't wear anything but shades of purple—a phase extended by the correlation with her name, I guess.

Before I can respond to Mac, nearly nine year old Lennon approaches with eleven year old Lane. She's pretty in pink and soft red hair, and he's equipped with all the standard del Marco attributes—devilish brows, charming smile, dangerous potential.

"Can we go down to the studio and play guitars?"

"The fact that you are asking me tells me you don't want to ask Lane's parents, because you know what answer you will get. But I know Matt's particular about his studio," she gives Lane a mom look. "So, no. You can go with all the other kids to the supervised party in the South Suites. That's where your brother is, and I'm sure there are fun things to do there..." Mac smiles her charming smile, but it doesn't really work on her daughter, who rolls her eyes.

"Told you," Lennon says to Lane and they stroll off toward the trophy hall that leads to the South Suites. "We should have asked my dad."

It's so funny that Lennon thinks her mom is the strict parent, when in reality Mac has to work really hard to parent as consistently as Adam. Then again, Mac doesn't mind laying the hammer down or looking like the bad cop when necessary, so it works for them.

I watch one of the weekend nannies that mostly works for Ashlynn but sometimes Marley as well, collect Violet. She's got Lyra and Lucy and even Ally del Marco in her wake. They disappear in the same direction as Len and Lane.

I love seeing all the kids together. When all of Soundcrush was having babies, I was so busy, it didn't seem like such a big deal to me. But now that they are all big kids with distinct personalities, it's amazing to me that there are ten Soundcrush kids plus Lane and Ally, who fold into SCIC.

That's enough for, like, two bands.

"Kat? The press wall? Are you ok? Was it bad? Is Trace—" Mac asks anxiously.

"I'm fine, he's fine, it was hardly anything this time," I shrug.

Mac relaxes. "Good, that's good."

I'm eager to change the subject. I turn to Gwen. "Where's your sexy man?"

"Talking shop with Alicia Keys, last I saw," she smiles.

I spin, scanning the room. "Oooooh, where? I love her, and I've never met her!"

"How is that possible? You know everyone," Mac laughs.

"I know, right?"

I wander off, get intercepted by several people for work-related reasons, and never find Darius or meet Alicia Keys. Finally, Leed saves me from shop talk, pulling me outside onto the back lawn, walking us toward side stage.

He's still long-haired, still yoga-taut, and still lionine. It's incredible how these rock stars are ageless. He's a father of four and recently edged over the thirty-five line, but somehow he's more attractive than he was all those years ago, the first time I met him.

He crosses his arms over his open velvet vest, and bare chest. "So, you know...we gotta put on a show tonight. I know being Little Sister is no fun for you anymore—"

I shake my head firmly. "Fuck that static. It is still fun, when I am your Little Sister," I shake his crossed arms loose. "You just make me look cool up there..."

He claps my hand, holding it gently. "You got it, Sis."

Suddenly I find myself with big hands massaging my shoulders, and I don't have to see the leather bracelets to recognize Adam's grounding presence behind me. When I turn, Marley is standing just behind him.

Ah, this is a planned intervention by Soundcrush's sensitivity crew, who have all heard there was an echo of the old troubles on tonight's media wall.

I turn to Adam with a genuine smile, hugging him so he can sense my calm matches his. "Preacher! So good to see you, I miss you guys!"

He laughs. "We were all sick of each other after nine months on tour..."

We were all on the road together, except for Ashlynn. She stayed home with her brood and alternated between taking Luis on college campus tours and bringing all four kids out to the concert tour.

"That was two months ago that I was tired of your face," I grin. "I rebound fast." There is double meaning in my words, as I raise eyebrows at them.

"You really do," Marley agrees.

"I'm okay," I tell her. "Really, it was nothing. Just a blogger with the same old pictures. It's not like it hasn't happened dozens of times..."

Marley smiles wide and claps Leed and Adam on the shoulders. "See boys? I told you. Kat is solid."

Ariadne, Trace, Moran, and Matt arrive at sidestage. Ariadne is checking with Andy making sure everything is a go, Trace, still apparently receiving direction from Moran, trails his fingers down my arm and squeezes my hand as he walks past.

"Good luck," I mouth. He gives me a lip twitch and a chin tip, his reserved way of blowing me a kiss.

Marley and I take our cue to find our reserved seats. We make our way to the VIP bar erected on a high platform over Matt's pool. Ashlynn is already there, handing us both champagne.

By now, I'm sure Ashlynn has heard what happened on the press wall, but unlike everyone else in SCIC, she doesn't hover over me. The circumstances that led to my poor relations with the press were difficult between the two of us, but Ashlynn and I had worked out harder things before. We got through it. Now, she respects my boundaries when it comes to the sensitive subject of my bad publicity.

I sip the champagne and let the bubbles dissipate the last of my anxiety. There is alway a little trouble in anyone's life. My life is so blessed that bad press is something I refuse to simmer in my soul. I can't always control my initial anxious reaction, but I can, and do, always work to let it go.

The DJ is doing his job of bringing the pre-show to a climax, and all the party-goers vibe the intensity. They wander outdoors to the stage. Finally, after a club remix of Skid Marc's most recent single—by recent I mean the single they put out for the Double Impact Tour seven years ago—the DJ introduces Matt as the party host.

Matt strolls onto the stage, shit-cool like always. As he begins to speak, his voice is noticeably gruffer. Ashlynn and I exchange a worried glance. It's worse than the last time I heard him hold a mic.

Matt will always be a legendary personality, a rock icon, and a welcome performer on any stage, but his body is beginning to betray him in the very way that is most meaningful to him—his singing voice.

He's thinking about surgery. Marianne is against it. Sixty-five year olds don't have elective surgery, she tells him.

He argues it's not elective. It's necessary.

Not sure how that is going to turn out.

After he makes the obligatory welcomes and jokes, he pauses. "You know, I was thinking about all the parties I've hosted here over the...what? Nearly thirty years we've lived in this house? There has been more of one type of party than any other.

"Birthdays. The first party we gave here was for Street's first birthday. He's thirty this year...so I added 'em all up—all the kids, all the birthdays—and I came up with a hundred and six. One hundred and six birthday parties. But you know what? I've never given my oldest son, Trace, a birthday party. And that's pretty fucking sad, considering I've known he's my son for about eleven years now."

The crowd laughs, but Adam steps out from the sidestage and grabs a backup mic, signaling for Andy to make it hot.

"I'd like to point out to everyone...that's not at all Matt's fault. Trace is so shady he won't let anybody give him a birthday party. Even Soundcrush has to sneak up on him."

The crowd rumbles in amusement again. Suddenly, another mic goes hot backstage and Trace's voice booms over the lawn. "You know what, Adam? You too, Old Man? Talk shit about my shadiness all you want, but the fact is...it's not my birthday. Nowhere near."

Leed steps out on the stage to a brief but intense cheer. He's already got his mic in hand. "See? Adam's right. The man's so shady, he hides if anyone even mentions birthday."

Ash and I laugh. It's so true. I've been trying to throw Trace a surprise birthday party for years, but he's got radar for days. He always spoils it.

Mac skips out on stage and gets the same kind of welcome as Leed. Matt extends an arm and she ducks under it, sharing his mic. "I'm all for embarrassing the fuck out of Trace whenever possible," she says sweetly, "but where are you going with this, Matt? Trace is telling the truth, it really isn't his birthday..."

"Well that's where you're wrong. It's the anniversary month of Soundcrush's first album going platinum. That makes it his rockstar birthday."

The cheer goes up and the crowd begins an almost spontaneous rendition of Happy Birthday, but Leed quiets it. "Hold up. We need Trace on stage for that, and there is only one man in this band that's a bigger bad-ass than Trace. Bodes!" Leed yells to the air. "Drag his shady ass out here!"

"I'm on it!" Bodie's voice booms.

He must be wearing his headset mic, because we hear a little scuffle and Trace laughing and growling, "Get the fuck off me, man!"

More laughter and rustling sounds and the two appear, Bodie's arms wrapped tight around a grinning Trace, who appears to be trying to shirk his drummer, but is apparently being pushed along by Bodie's bigger bulk and more determined will.

I smile, sure that Trace is only kidding in his resistance. I hadn't heard about this little skit, but Soundcrush and Matt riff so effortlessly of one another, I'm sure it was planned by Matt simply saying, "I'm gonna do a thing. Play along."

Bodie dumps Trace center stage, and Trace rights his leather jacket with an air of offense. He has a head mic. He holds his hands up to his dad.

"Okay, you got me, Old Man. It's my rock star birthday. But not just mine."

He points at Leed, then Mac, then throws his arms around Bodie and Adam, jostling them hard. "If it's my birthday, it's also all of yours. You're in this misery with me."

"I like it when people make a big deal over me," Leed notes.

"Me, too," Mac tosses her hair.

"We know," Trace, Adam, and Bodie deadpan together, for big laughs.

To my surprise, Street rolls out a wedding-sized cake onto the stage. Four tiers, each one lettered on the sides, so it can be read by the crowd. It's says:

Rock

On

Sound

Crush

"Soundcrush is one word," Ashlynn says, with a tiny frown.

"Breaking it up is the only way they could fit it on the cake and make it visible," I point out.

"Still...that's not their name. You'd think an LA bakery would come up with a better way to display their brand properly..."

"It's just a cake. We're going to eat it. No one's going to see it branded wrong for very long..."

"That's not the point..."

"No. The point is... patterns of sibling conflict are very hard to break," Marley cuts in, toasting us and finishing off her champagne.

Ashlynn swats at Marley. "Okay, you're right." She turns to me with a warm smile. "It doesn't matter."

"Brands do matter," I concede.

It's true. My brand mattered to me very much, before it became a source of anxiety instead of vanity.

Suddenly, sweet young voices begin to sing Happy Birthday.

Ashlynn, Marley and I gasp and turn in shock. While we have been arguing about icing, Row and Bridge have led all the Soundcrush kids to an upper balcony of the South Suites.They are all singing now, celebrating their rock star parents.

"Don't worry," Marianne says as she joins us, watching with pride. "It's all being professionally videographed."

"That's good! Thank you!" I hug her as I watch Alder and Lucy singing seriously, like they are part of a professional choir, and Lyra and Birch gesturing dramatically like Broadway stars. Violet is bouncing on her toes and bouncing her curls as she sings. Cash, shy guy that he is, is standing near Luis, who has a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Darius and Lennon have individual mics and are leading the vocals, lifting into harmony on the last line.

Happy Birthday Dear Rockstars, Happy Birthday to you!

I turn back to the stage to see said rock stars all with their phones out, snapping pictures of their offspring and grinning.

"Thanks, kids! That was fluking awesome! We love you!" Leed bellows.

Matt makes Trace blow out the candles—twelve, because that's how long they've been multi-platinum rock stars—while Angelo Moran walks on stage with five hot girls in skimpy dresses carrying two plaques each.

Matt introduces Moran as the "CEO of Colossal and the A&R Allfather that actually gave these rock stars life."

"I come bearing gifts," Angelo says, and he presents each Soundcrush member with their multi-platinum plaque for Spirit Rehab.

An award we were all expecting.

Angelo takes one of the second round of plaques in hand and studies it. "The next award, we've been keeping under wraps for a few weeks. It's incredibly special. With Spirit Rehab doing so well, we've seen a huge resurgence in all of Soundcrush's record sales. Little Sister—the single—has finally broken the barrier that very few songs ever achieve."

"Oh my god," I say, turning to Ashlynn. "They can't mean—"

"A Diamond Record is one that reaches ten million sales. It hardly ever happens anymore, in this streaming industry we have now. In fact, it's hardly happened ever, even before online streaming. There are less than forty Diamond Certified Songs in existence. Ever. Period. And now, Little Sister has joined that elite circle."

I'm watching my husband, stunned as Moran hands him the plaque.

He is perfectly focused on the Diamond record as applause erupt.

Each band member is now receiving a Diamond plaque, but the significance of Moran awarding it to Trace first is not lost on me or anyone in SCIC.

This is the only song on any of Soundcrush's albums that Trace wrote alone. The only Soundcrush song for which he bears the sole songwriting credit.

He wrote this song in pain and in love.

He wrote this song for me.

Trace's eyes meet mine, but I can hardly see his expression because mine are so filled with tears.

God.

Damn.

Bittersweet.

I have loved this song—for bringing Trace success. And hated this song—for reminding me of his absence. And loved this song—as it helped me to wield my celebrity for purpose. And hated it again—as it became my theme song for shame.

And now it's Diamond.

First in the Soundcrush Canon.

Foremost.

Forever.

Trace stares at me and knows all I feel. He feels it, too.

Trace's gaze is torn from mine as Matt shakes hands with him and Angelo speaks in his ear. He holds up a hand to quiet the crowd.

He and Leed look at the plaque together. Leed nods at Trace, who is always uncomfortable before a crowd without his guitar. He grips the plaque like a shield.

"Wow. This is a huge surprise. Thank you. Angelo. For helping to certify and award this incredible honor, given to us by our body of fans.

"There's a lot of complex feeling behind the song, and I think our fans recognize and appreciate that. We've always been proud of Little Sister as our flagship anthem..." he looks at me and smiles,

"The song is an old song now, and it's weathered alot, just like all of us have weathered a lot. There have been times, I have regretted the exposure of its muse. I guess...everyone that knows the song knows I wrote it for the girl who is now my beautiful wife, and the mother of my sons..." Trace smiles up at Alder and Birch, then back at me.

"If any musician tells you it's not easy being a rock star...honestly? They are full of shit."

The band chuckles and nod at one another.

Trace toes the ground. "We live for this. There is nothing better, no life that could make us happier."

Then he looks out directly to the crowd. At no one. At everyone.

"What's not easy, is lovin' a rock star. Katheryn Ballard knows that. She lives that. My wife is the strongest person I know, and she amazes me more every single day of our lives together. Kat," he looks at me, abruptly shaking his head, a small sound of dismay coming from his lips, because he's simply unable to bare his true depths in public.

He doesn't have to. I know how much he loves me. I've known every day, since the day he first made love to me. And I've known every day since our wedding day: the way we love each other is enough to get through anything.

"Kat," he begins again, hoisting the Diamond Record, one of the world's rarest, shining songs. "I love you. Everything I am, is because I have always loved you. This one's for you. Then. Now. Forever."

The band exchanges their plaques for instruments, and Little Sister begins. They extend the intro, as Leed leaps off the stage, swaggers out onto the pool bridge with the spotlight following him. He kisses Ashlynn sweetly and swiftly on the mouth, then takes my hand and kisses it.

"Come on, Little Sister. I have to sing you Trace's vicarious soul one more time," he winks.

He leads me to the stage and installs me on top of a giant monitor beside Trace. Unlike the many times Leed has sung this song to me in the past, tonight he keeps his distance. He stows his drama. His voice pours emotion, but it's Trace's restrained energy that is captured in the spotlight as he plays to me.

His amazing, talented hands are a complete blur to me. I only have eyes for his eyes, and he only has eyes for mine. I feel the power of the song not just through the monitor. I feel it amplified in his soul.

When the song ends, he throws his guitar around backwards and yanks me from the monitor, kissing me with more public passion than even on our wedding day.

He raises my wedding rings to look at them. "I told you my diamonds are forever..." he yells at me above the crowd noise, as he hands me the Diamond Little Sister plaque. "But now we've doubled down, Baby."

I admire the award. Then my eyes seek the true prize—my handsome husband.

My best friend. My partner-in-crime. My rockstar.

"Eternity squared? With you? I can do that time, Rockstar."

"That's right, KitKat." He pulls me close to him again.

"To the end. And beyond."

THE END

That's really it, Soundcrushers.  I honestly did my best for you, and for Trace and Kat, with this epilogue.

In 2021, I hope to write a del Marco spin-off series that begins with the tale of Kat and Trace's fire-walk to the altar, but in the interim I will have a new standalone Wattpad project...stay tuned...follow me for more info on my upcoming story: Books, Tattoos, & Other Inky Things...