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We’re not okay.

SHOTGUN

The seat on my right is reserved

From now until forever

There ain’t nobody else I want ridin’ shotgun

Just me, my girl, and the open road

THIRTY-SIX

TATE

Vanessa: You’re not answering your phone. Howard called me. The label wants you back and working by August 18. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but my hands are tied. It’s just another year. I’m sorry.

Howard: I take it Vanessa has told you by now. We need you and the second album. No excuses. No more vacationing. See you in nine days. I’ll send a car.

Time was running out quicker than I’m prepared for, like sand slipping through my fingers.

I was being dragged back to my soul-sucking, thankless reality, and yet again, I didn’t want to leave.

I left the first time because I had no choice. I’d given Vance Records two years of my life and my wife didn’t want me around.

Now, it’s different. Because now we weren’t two strangers passing in the corridor of this big stupid house. I was getting glimpses of the old us; the us I was desperately trying to revive.

Their texts came through after Talia’s mom called, dragging me from the Talia-infused haze, slashing through my happiness and the moment we shared. Fucking her like a feral animal wasn’t on the agenda, and while it was rough and claiming, there were no traces of regret from either of us.

I felt sick.

It was too soon to say goodbye. It meant I was gone for our anniversary, and she hadn’t let me kiss her yet.

We’d fucked, and yes, it re-altered my brain chemistry. But a kiss? A kiss was different. It was something you came home to, said goodnight with, and sealed the start of an eternity together.

Three weeks.

That’s all we have left, and in that time I have to convince Talia we’d survive another year apart. It’s selfish of me to ask for her to put her life on hold again, but I’m also too selfish to let her go.

I stare at the ceiling, frozen in a state of denial. My fingers drift over the leather strap on my wrist.

Time is of the essence.

Bacon sizzled and toast—

“Ah, shit!” The smoke alarm screeched at me. The toast is burned.

Coughing and wafting my hand through the air, Talia darts into the kitchen. “What are you cremating?”

I pluck two blackened slices of toast from the toaster and drop them on the counter. “Breakfast. Or I was trying.”

I’m usually a great chef, but this morning my mind is elsewhere. When I first proposed to date Talia, I panicked. Dinner was the first thing that sprung to mind, and looking back, I knew it was a mistake. Then the paintball. Basically, I don’t know how to date my wife.

Today was Sunday, and after the texts from Vanessa and Howard soured my mood last night, I was determined to have a productive day.

Talia pokes at the charred remains. “The bacon smells good. Why don’t we make your mom’s breakfast burritos? There’s some hot sauce in the pantry.”

I smile. It’s those types of nuances that give me hope we’re headed in the right direction. “Good idea. I’ll start on the eggs.”