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“For baby stuff,” Peyton says. “At least I want to look at furniture. Get an idea of what’s out there and what we might like.”
“As long as I don’t have to try anything on, and some dude doesn’t ask me which way I hang. I hate that.”
Peyton laughs as I help her into the SUV. “That’s always a favorite question of mine.”
“Of course it is.” I shut the door and run around to the other side. As soon as I’m behind the driver’s seat, I say, “Okay, mama, where are we going?”
“Beverly Hills.”
Another groan, but I keep this one in check and let my ass pucker all the way to the store.
19
PEYTON
Someday, I’m going to look back on this adventure with Noah and ask myself, “Self, what the fuck were you thinking?” when it came to this damn road trip to Portland. It’s not that I’m seven weeks pregnant and miserable. I know those days are coming and I have months to prepare for them. It’s that we’re driving with a puppy. A puppy who is still potty training and can’t exactly ring the bell on the door when she wants to go out.
Noah’s oblivious to her needs as he drives I-5. He’s in the zone, thinking about Organized Team Activities. I tried to tell him he didn’t need to be there, but under the circumstances, he wants to show the organization he’s a leader. I question the latter because I swear if he could stick his head out the window like Stevie Nicks, he would. As is, we’re stopping every two hours to take her potty, but then I worry she’s not drinking enough water. And she’s restless. Whining because she’s cooped up in the car. I try to hold her, but that only lasts for a few minutes before she’s moving to the back. When we got on the road, I had her strapped in. I found a cute dog seat and, being the responsible pet owner I am, bought it. Along with the suggested harness and a blanket. The latter wasn’t needed, but it was sitting there on the app, so I figured why the hell not?
Stevie Nicks hates it.
Noah says it’s because she wants to be with us, which I would agree with if she wasn’t in the back trying to chew on things she shouldn’t and acting all innocent when I scold her. And I’m the only one who can because Noah’s driving, which makes me the bad guy.
“Why didn’t we fly?”
“Because we thought it would hurt her ears,” Noah says.
“Other dogs fly. Why did you talk me out of flying?”
He laughs. He didn’t talk me out of anything. This was my grand idea.
“I’m crawling in the back with her.”
Noah signals to shift lanes and then slows down.
“What are you doing?”
“Slowing down so . . .” he says, nothing else. He doesn’t need to. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, the car accident is always at the front of his mind. I try not to think about it even though I live with the pain of what it has caused me.
I get into the back, much to Stevie Nicks’ happiness. She crawls on my lap, kissing my face and hands, while I try to buckle my seatbelt. I hate being in the backseat and will probably end up closing my eyes. Maybe I can get her to lie on me and fall asleep.
“You good back there?”
“Yes.” Probably not. I go through her puppy bag and find a bone for her to chew on. Everything with her is about redirection, rewarding her with a positive toy instead of scolding her.
“Bone,” I say, echoing the command Noah’s put on the buttons he’s training her with. She gives me her paw and I reiterate my command. She finally takes it and melds into my side until she’s slid down the seat. With one leg over mine, she uses my thigh as leverage to hold her bone in place. The jabbing or pinching hurts, but I ignore it. She’s content and not chewing on the seatbelts, so I’ll deal.
I’m tempted to ask my husband how much longer, but I know the answer. I’ve done trips like this before, going from city to city, state to state, in a decked-out tour bus. When the kids went on tour, each family had their own bus. Noah always stayed on the main bus with his parents, while Quinn, Elle, and I ended up in some rental. Ours still had bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen and eating area, but it wasn’t the cool kid’s bus. Sometimes, I’d ride in Noah’s bus during the day, but I never slept on it. Once the wives and kids went back to Beaumont, the band ditched the rental and went back to their custom tour bus.
I miss those days. They were carefree and fun. As kids, we had no worries as long as we followed the rules. Sometimes, we’d have a babysitter, but it was always someone from the record label, sent out at Liam or my dad’s request, so they could take their ladies out.
One year, Noah didn’t go on tour with us because he had football camp. That summer, he stayed with Nick, and everything changed. When we came home, Noah had grown. He was no longer a kid, but on his way to becoming a man, while I was still the pesky little kid who followed him around.
He never said that to me, but I suspected it’s what he thought. When Noah started dating, I cried myself to sleep every night for . . . I don’t know how long. Months on end. Elle was tired of hearing me sniffle and would complain to our mom. I never told her why, despite her begging for an answer. At eleven years old, I hated everyone, especially the girls Noah brought home. I would antagonize, torment, and act like a spoiled brat to and in front of them. It didn’t matter how much trouble I got into. They were the enemy, and I didn’t want him with any of them.
His high school reunion is going to be fun.
I lean forward, resting my head on the back of Noah’s seat, and slide my hand between the seat and the door, to where I can touch him. He places his hand on mine and instantly everything seems right in the world.
