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“Not stupid at all.” She kissed my cheek. “Important.” She peered at me. “Do you feel better?”
I smiled. “I do.”
“Now, sit with an old woman and give me every single detail.”
I settled next to her on the swing, and we rocked until I had to go to the venue.
Cam had been right. The weight of those years had held me back, held me down. But I didn’t have to carry them. I could acknowledge them and set them aside. They weren’t solely my responsibility. I rose from the swing, feeling taller. Stronger. Determined.
I loved Aya, and she loved me.
We’d had a fight—a terrible one—but we’d fix it.
My shoulders relaxed, and I breathed more fully than I’d been able to before. A new melody began to play. Once I settled in the back of the SUV, I closed my eyes and listened. Yes…it was lovely. Like Aya.
All about her, really. About the life I wanted with her.
29
Nash
The show that night was a disaster—not that the fans would know, thanks to Hugh’s continued ability to put out fires and our roadie’s ingenuity when the pyrotechnics failed. But it wasn’t the show I’d planned on, and my head started throbbing halfway through the set.
Still, the crowd roared its approval after I finished the last song with a flourish of my guitar.
The next night had better logistics, but I wasn’t feeling it. I had bigger fish to fry. I missed hearing Aya’s voice—but she still wasn’t taking my calls. I missed my kittens. One more week and we’d be back in Austin. I could hold out that long. I hoped.
Bridger segued into one of the love songs, and my mind drifted toward Aya again. I pictured her in a wedding dress. My breath hitched, but I managed to continue singing. Then, I thought of her with a child on her hip. A girl with big, violet eyes, a mop of sandy-brown hair and dimples.
Fuck, I liked that idea.
I liked it so much, I missed my cue for the verse. But I recovered by putting my hand to my ear and waving for the crowd to sing louder.
“That’s great energy, Charleston,” I yelled. “Let’s see what else you got.”
I barreled into the lyrics, trying to give the fans the show they deserved. The band even played three extra songs, trying to make up for my inattention earlier.
But that image of our kid wouldn’t leave my mind. And I liked it.
A lot.
Our daughter would hang out with Ike, who’d protect her from everything bad in this world. And Cam’s boy would teach her to climb trees and whoop as she jumped into the creek.
The more I thought about Aya and me having a kid, the more excited I became. Also, the more I realized I owed her an apology for shutting her down without even considering the option. I’d acted like an ass.
When I bowed my way offstage after the second encore, chest heaving, and face dripping with sweat, I was exhausted, even as elation skipped over my skin. But the exhaustion won out, and by the time Brandon muscled me through the crowd toward the waiting SUV, my feet dragged.
I dropped my head against the cool pane of the back seat window, not caring who saw me, definitely not caring what they said.
I pressed my cheek harder against the glass and hummed the “Biko” melody. I’d thought I was past this song. Fucking Peter Gabriel. He was not going to mess with the good juju I’d managed to create earlier.
Brandon brought the vehicle to a halt. I peeled open an eye.
“Ready to head up?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m exhausted.”
“Touring requires lots of late nights.”
