Coachella – Week One Sunday

BOOK THREE — CHAPTER 6

COACHELLA — WEEKEND ONE, DAY THREE

Sunday, April 12, 2026

Indio, California

I woke up sometime in the middle of the night because someone was trying to get into my bed. At first, I didn’t know what was happening.

I felt the mattress shift.

Then the blanket moved.

Then a familiar voice whispered:

“Dad?”

I opened one eye.

The tent was almost completely dark.

“Grayson?”

“Yeah.”

I lifted my head enough to look at him.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Three-something.”

“Why are you awake?”

He stood beside my bed, shirtless, hair messed up from trying—and apparently failing—to sleep.

Then I heard it.

Sean.

Snoring.

Not normal snoring.

Not a little breathing noise.

This sounded like somebody was trying to start heavy machinery on the other side of the tent.

I stared into the darkness.

Grayson whispered:

“Do you hear that?”

I listened.

Another one.

Long.

Loud.

Then silence.

Then somehow louder.

I covered my mouth to keep from laughing.

Grayson didn’t.

He looked furious.

“I’ve been listening to that for two nights.”

“You shared a room with him growing up.”

“Not recently.”

Sean snored again.

Grayson looked over his shoulder.

“I already pushed him.”

“You what?”

“Not hard.”

I started laughing.

“Dad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No.”

He stood there another second.

Then he looked at the empty space beside me.

“Can I sleep here?”

That woke me up a little more.

“You’re asking permission?”

“I didn’t want to just climb into your bed.”

“You were already halfway there.”

“Fair.”

I moved over.

“Come on.”

Grayson climbed in.

The bed was big enough.

That was one advantage of whatever ridiculous premium arrangement we’d ended up with for the weekend.

He settled beside me and pulled some of the blanket over himself.

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything.

Sean snored again.

Grayson groaned.

“Oh my God.”

I laughed quietly.

“Better over here?”

“Much.”

“Glad I could provide emergency accommodations.”

“You barely snore.”

I turned my head.

“I snore?”

“Sometimes.”

“Nobody told me.”

“Because yours isn’t trying to tear down the tent.”

Another sound came from Sean’s bed.

Grayson pointed into the darkness.

“That. That is why I’m here.”

“Understood.”

He shifted closer.

Then, quieter:

“And I kinda wanted to be with you.”

That changed something.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

I looked at him.

He was thirty years old.

He didn’t need permission to be close to his father.

He didn’t need an excuse either.

But apparently he’d brought one anyway.

Sean snored.

I smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here, buddy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Grayson settled down beside me.

His head rested near my shoulder.

And suddenly, without warning, I remembered another version of him.

Smaller.

Much smaller.

Grayson had never been particularly good at falling asleep.

When he was little, bedtime could become an entire production.

Water.

Bathroom.

Another glass of water.

Something under the bed.

Something outside the window.

One more question.

One more story.

One more reason he absolutely could not close his eyes yet.

As he got older, the reasons changed.

Music.

Podcasts.

Something playing quietly in the background.

Anything that gave his brain somewhere to go until sleep finally caught up with him.

But when he was little, there had been one method that worked better than everything else.

Me.

I’d lie beside him.

He’d curl up against me.

And I’d slowly rub his back until the constant movement stopped.

Eventually his breathing would change.

His body would get heavier.

Then I’d wait.

Five minutes.

Sometimes ten.

Long enough to make sure he was really asleep.

Then I’d carefully move his arm, get out of his bed, and sneak toward the door.

Most nights, he never knew I’d left.

Until morning.

I hadn’t thought about those nights in years.

Apparently my hand remembered them before my brain did.

Because without deciding to, I started slowly rubbing Grayson’s back.

Up.

Down.

Slowly.

The same rhythm.

Grayson went still.

Then he whispered:

“Dad?”

“Hmm?”

“You used to do that.”

My hand stopped.

“Do what?”

“That.”

I started again.

“This?”

“Yeah.”

There was a smile in his voice.

“When I couldn’t sleep.”

I smiled too.

“You remember that?”

“Kind of.”

“You were terrible at sleeping.”

“I still am.”

“I noticed.”

He laughed quietly.

Then we went silent again.

My hand continued moving across his back.

Slow.

Steady.

The same way it had when he was ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Before he got old enough to decide he didn’t need Dad lying beside him anymore.

“You know,” I whispered, “this used to be the only thing that worked.”

“What?”

“This. I’d lie down with you, rub your back, and eventually you’d finally give up.”

“Give up?”

“On fighting sleep.”

“I wasn’t fighting it.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I had things to do.”

“You were ten.”

“I was busy.”

I laughed.

“Sure.”

Grayson shifted closer.

For a little while, I could hear Sean snoring from the other bed.

But Grayson didn’t complain anymore.

His breathing had already begun slowing.

And I knew that breathing.

I remembered it.

I knew exactly what came next.

“Close your eyes, buddy,” I whispered.

“They’re closed.”

“Good.”

Another few passes across his back.

Then, without thinking about how old he was, I said the same thing I’d said years ago.

“Daddy’s here.”

Grayson’s eyes opened.

I felt it immediately.

There was silence.

Then:

“Dad.”

“What?”

“I’m thirty.”

I tried not to laugh.

“And?”

“Did you seriously just say ‘Daddy’s here’?”

“Apparently.”

He started laughing into the pillow.

“Go to sleep.”

“I’m trying.”

“You were doing better before you started talking.”

“You started it.”

“Grayson.”

“Okay. Okay.”

He settled again.

I kept rubbing his back.

A minute passed.

Maybe two.

Then he quietly said:

“I don’t mind.”

I looked down at him.

“What?”

“The Daddy thing.”

There was another pause.

“Just don’t say it in front of anybody.”

I smiled.

“Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks.”

“Now go to sleep.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes later, his breathing changed.

There it was.

Thirty years old.

And apparently I still knew exactly how to put my son to sleep.

I smiled in the darkness.

My hand slowed.

Then stopped.

Grayson didn’t move.

Sean was still snoring across the tent.

And somehow, despite that, I fell asleep too.

When I opened my eyes again, pale desert light was beginning to push through the canvas.

I checked the time.

6:42 AM.

Grayson was still beside me.

Sound asleep.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

There was something strangely familiar about waking up beside my oldest son.

Not because we’d done this recently.

We hadn’t.

Because somewhere in my head, the thirty-year-old man sleeping beside me briefly overlapped with the little boy I’d spent years putting to bed.

Same Grayson.

Different life.

I looked across the tent.

Sean was still asleep.

And, mercifully, no longer snoring.

I closed my eyes again.

We had nowhere to be yet.

So I stayed.

Sunday started slowly.

Very slowly.

By the time all three of us were actually awake, nobody seemed interested in pretending we had another Friday in us.

Sean sat up and rubbed his face.

Grayson looked over at him from my bed.

“You.”

Sean squinted.

“What?”

“You snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

Sean looked at me.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

He frowned.

“I don’t think I do.”

Grayson sat up.

“You drove me out of my own bed.”

Sean finally noticed where his brother was.

“Why are you in Dad’s bed?”

“Because you sound like construction equipment.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

Sean looked at me again.

I nodded.

“You absolutely do.”

Sean stared at both of us.

“You guys are dramatic.”

Grayson grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.

Sean caught it.

And for the first time since Friday night, all three of us were laughing at the same thing.

That felt good.

There were no alarms.

No frantic schedule checks.

No desperate attempt to reach a stage before somebody started.

Sunday was our last day.

And we were tired.

My back hurt.

My feet hurt.

Grayson was moving slower than he had Saturday.

Even Sean looked like the festival had finally collected its payment.

We showered.

We changed.

We found breakfast.

And somewhere along the way, we silently agreed on the plan.

Do less.

A lot less.

There were performances happening all over the grounds.

We didn’t need all of them.

We had already gotten Sabrina.

Grayson and I had gotten Addison, Sombr, and PinkPantheress.

Sean had lost Anyma.

Nothing we did Sunday was going to change that.

So Sunday didn’t need to be about replacing anything.

It could just be Sunday.

When we walked back into the festival grounds, everything felt different.

Not worse.

Older.

Like Coachella itself was tired.

People moved slower.

Sunburn had started appearing everywhere.

Somebody was asleep on the grass before we’d even been inside twenty minutes.

Festival wristbands looked dirtier.

Shoes were covered in dust.

People carried merchandise bags like trophies.

The Ferris wheel was still there.

The stages were still enormous.

Music was still coming from every direction.

But the frantic energy from Friday was gone.

Everyone knew where they were now.

Everyone knew what this place was.

And everyone knew it was almost over.

We wandered.

That was the best word for it.

No mission.

No sprinting between stages.

No one checking the time every thirty seconds.

We stopped for food.

We listened to pieces of performances.

Sometimes we stayed for a while.

Sometimes we didn’t.

At one point, Grayson and I walked past the Ferris wheel.

He looked at me.

I pointed at him.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to go again.”

“No.”

He smiled.

“Worth asking.”

Sean walked a few steps ahead of us.

Quiet again.

Not angry exactly.

Not happy either.

Just tired.

Maybe still disappointed.

Maybe ready to go home.

Honestly, so was I.

Eventually we reached the merchandise area.

Sean had apparently been thinking about this part.

He knew exactly what he wanted.

A hoodie.

A poster.

Something physical that proved the weekend had happened.

Grayson grabbed a hat and a shirt.

I stood there looking at the merchandise longer than I intended.

Sean noticed.

“You’re getting something.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“You need a shirt.”

“I own shirts.”

“A Coachella shirt.”

“I don’t know if I need evidence that I willingly did this.”

Grayson looked over.

“You rode the Ferris wheel.”

“Against my will.”

“You loved it.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

Sean smiled.

For a second, he looked more like himself again.

I finally picked a simple festival shirt.

Grayson stared at it.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re a festival dad.”

“I am not a festival dad.”

“You bought the shirt.”

“That proves nothing.”

Sean nodded solemnly.

“It proves everything.”

I regretted raising both of them.

We carried our bags away from the merchandise tent.

Then Grayson stopped.

“One more thing.”

I looked at him.

“What?”

“The picture.”

Sean turned around.

“What picture?”

“The three of us.”

I immediately understood.

A family photo.

Not for the company.

Not for advertising.

Not for some carefully constructed Dark Evil image.

Us.

Just us.

Sean looked around.

“Where?”

We walked for a while until we found a spot that felt right.

Nothing too staged.

Nothing that swallowed us.

Festival art behind us.

Palm trees.

People moving through the background.

And the Ferris wheel visible farther away.

Sean found someone nearby who already had a camera in her hand and asked if she’d mind taking a few pictures.

She agreed.

We handed her a phone.

Then the three of us stood together.

At first, awkwardly.

Because apparently after everything we’d been through, figuring out where to put your arms in a family photo was the thing capable of defeating us.

“Closer,” the woman said.

Grayson moved toward me.

Sean did too.

I put an arm around each of them.

“There,” she said. “That’s better.”

She took the first picture.

Then another.

Then one while Sean was saying something I couldn’t hear.

Another while Grayson laughed.

Another while I was looking at them instead of the camera.

“Got it,” she said.

Sean took the phone back.

“Thank you.”

We stepped aside.

And immediately the three of us crowded around the screen.

Some were bad.

One had my eyes half closed.

One caught Sean moving.

One had Grayson looking somewhere completely different.

Then we found it.

The three of us.

Close together.

My arms around both of my sons.

Grayson smiling.

Sean smiling.

Me actually smiling instead of performing one for a camera.

Behind us, Coachella.

The Ferris wheel.

Palm trees.

Desert.

I stared at it.

Grayson looked at me.

“That one.”

“Yeah.”

Sean nodded.

“That one.”

I held out my phone.

“Send it to me.”

Sean looked up.

“Really?”

“Why is that surprising?”

“You hate pictures.”

“I hate bad pictures.”

Grayson laughed.

Sean sent it.

A second later, it appeared on my phone.

I opened it again.

There we were.

Not Chairman.

Not Vice Chairman.

Not Corporate Executive Officer.

Not Dark Evil.

Not whatever people thought we were when they saw our names attached to a company.

A father and his two sons.

I saved it.

“This one stays ours,” I said.

Sean looked at me.

“No company account?”

“No.”

Grayson nodded.

“Good.”

I put my phone away.

“At least for now, I want something that doesn’t belong to anybody else.”

Neither of them argued.

We stayed longer than I’d expected.

Not because there was something we desperately needed to see.

Because leaving made the weekend real.

Once we walked out, Weekend One was over.

Eventually, though, the sun started dropping.

The air changed.

Lights became brighter.

And the three of us began making our way toward the exit.

Sean looked back.

I saw him do it.

He stopped for just a second.

Then continued walking.

“You good?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

A few more steps.

Then:

“I wish Friday had ended differently.”

There it was.

“I know.”

“I keep thinking about it.”

“I know.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

“But I’m glad we came.”

Grayson looked over.

“Yeah?”

Sean nodded.

“Yeah.”

He looked around one more time.

“Sabrina was worth it.”

Then he glanced at Grayson.

“You two apparently had the greatest Saturday in human history.”

“We did,” Grayson said.

“We absolutely did not,” I said.

“You loved Addison.”

“I said she was good.”

“You loved Sombr.”

“I already liked Sombr.”

“You loved PinkPantheress.”

“I liked PinkPantheress before this trip.”

“You loved the Ferris wheel.”

I pointed at him.

“Enough.”

Sean laughed.

And I realized I hadn’t heard that sound enough this weekend.

Not since Friday.

I hoped going home would help.

Back to Virginia.

Back to something familiar.

Back to our normal lives.

Whatever normal meant for us.

When we returned to camp, packing started almost immediately.

Merchandise folded.

The poster protected.

Chargers found under beds.

Clothes shoved back into bags.

Dust shaken from shoes.

Grayson found something of his under Sean’s bed and accused him of stealing it.

Sean accused Grayson of putting it there.

Neither argument made any sense.

I let them handle it.

Eventually, the tent looked less like somewhere we lived and more like somewhere we’d temporarily passed through.

I sat on the edge of my bed.

The same bed Grayson had climbed into hours earlier.

He noticed me looking at it.

“Don’t.”

I smiled.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking.”

Apparently I’d heard that somewhere before.

Sean looked between us.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Grayson said quickly.

I smiled wider.

Sean narrowed his eyes.

“You guys are weird.”

“Go pack,” Grayson said.

Sean walked away shaking his head.

I looked at Grayson.

He looked at me.

Then we both started laughing.

Our secret was safe.

Later, when the tent was quiet again, I looked at the family photo one more time.

Three people.

One weekend.

A lot more complicated than the picture could ever show.

But the picture wasn’t lying.

That moment had happened.

Grayson really had been smiling.

Sean really had been smiling.

So had I.

A photograph didn’t have to explain everything around it to be true.

Sometimes it only had to preserve one second.

I saved another copy.

Then I put my phone down.

Weekend One hadn’t ended with the giant finale Sean had imagined.

There had been no miracle.

No replacement for Anyma.

No perfect ending.

Instead, we’d gotten a slow Sunday.

Merchandise.

Dust.

Bad jokes.

A family photograph.

And one final walk through the desert together.

Maybe that was enough.

Tomorrow, we were going home.

And if somebody had told me right then that I’d voluntarily consider coming back to this place anytime soon, I would’ve laughed in their face.

As far as I was concerned, Coachella was over.

And my own bed in Virginia had never sounded better.