Page 51 of If Only In Our Dreams

If I was being honest, I’d thought about it more times than I could count.

I wasn’t happy anymore.

I wasn’t allowed to make the music I wanted. It wasn’t part of my “brand.” I was sick and tired of the meaningless parties full of people I didn’t know or care about, of performing for crowds like I was a party trick my label got to throw out.

Even my last tour had been a shit show. Scalpers had bought out all the tickets, and I hadn’t found out until after it was over that the people who had attended had basically been robbed just to see me perform.

I’d grown since I was a punk-ass kid, fresh out of North Carolina, looking for the attention I’d never received.

I was tired.

I was so, so tired.

And though my sleep was still mostly whack, it was getting better. At least…it had been since I’d moved to Belleville and met Ben. Away from the stress of the city, from my label, from all the things that had caused my sleeplessness in the first place.

It felt like a fresh start.

My doctor had been on to something.

“It would be okay for you to quit, Robin,” Nancy said, her voice still gentle. “I mean, I’d miss you. You’re my favorite boss. But even I can see you’re slipping. And if you keep going down this path, you might fall too far to get back up again.”

It was on that cheerful note that a familiar voice interrupted me.

“Robin?”

“Gotta go,” I hung up quickly, swiveling to see my favorite human in the whole wide world standing behind me.

“There a reason you’re sitting on a pail of paint in the middle of the sidewalk?” Miles asked, eyes crinkling in amusement. He was massive as always, dressed in cow print, his dark hair sticking out beneath the hat he wore.

“Just…ruminating,” I told him, hopping up quickly before he could see how shaken I was by my chat with Nancy. I reached for the gallon of paint again, but Miles grabbed it before I could, hefting it easily with one arm—asshole—and slipping into step beside me.

“Ain’t like you to ruminate,” he countered.

I wanted to fight him for the bucket, because I wasn’t a weak-ass bitch who couldn’t carry my own shit. But he was also…gigantic. And I was tired. So I didn’t.

“Guess you don’t know me that well,” I shrugged a shoulder—then immediately regretted my words because hurt flashed across Miles’s face so quickly I nearly missed it.

“Guess I don’t,” he agreed, quieter than before.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” I blurted immediately, feeling small and miserable. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “You did. You didn’t mean tosayit, but you meant it.”

Tense and unhappy, I didn’t know how to shove the words back into my mouth. The problem with having a trashmouth is that sometimes garbage comes right out. Especially when you’re exhausted.

“That’s okay,” Miles lightened up, softening despite how much of an ass I’d just been—because he was sweet like that. The sugar to my sour. Most people would never believe that I’d had to pick up this ginormous angel of a man more times than I could count after he’d beat some kid’s teeth in for calling him names in school. “You don’t really know me either.”

He didn’t mean it in a mean way—his cheeky smile made that obvious—but still, I ached.

“I’ve been away a long time,” I sighed, and Miles nodded.

We’d hung out a lot this past week. Any time he was free, really—though again, I was doing my best not to overcrowd. The more time we spent together the easier it was to fall into the accent I’d had all my life, mirroring Miles’s own.

He sounded like home, the way nothing had for years.

“You have,” Miles agreed. “But you’re back now.” It was forgiveness, simple as that. “And that’s enough for me.”

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