Page 8 of Second to None

Yeah. I’d always been a people pleaser, building my own confidence on other people’s approval. “I still do,” I said. “Too much, probably.”

“But you’re more comfortable now with who you are. You don’t twist yourself out of shape.”

“I, um.” This wasn’t something I’d really told anyone other than Mason just last night, who’d reacted in typical Mason fashion—with a pat on the back, an‘awesome, man,’and asking how he could help. “I’m going to come out. Not sure yet when or how, but… not gonna wait another five years, that’s for sure.”

“Goodfor you.” By Jace’s standards, this came close to exuberance. I felt a smile pull at my lips.

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Feels good to be yourself rather than some person you feel you should be. Take it from someone who knows.”

“That’s…” I cleared my throat. “Kinda deep. Guess it also means you’re not up for a reunion, huh?”

“No, I am.” He paused. “If it’s all of us. And, like you said: pre-recorded, no audience.”

Fuckyes. I sucked in a harsh breath, my smile breaking through. “How about my backyard?”

“That works.” His voice was warm. “So. You gonna call Levi?”

“Thanks, man. Straight for the jugular.”

“Not an answer.”

Well, might as well be honest here. Jace had stolen my socks too, after all. And my boxers. “I’m too scared he’ll say no if it’s me doing the asking. Mason’s gonna call him.”

“All right. That’s fair.”

This was… God, it was happening, wasn’t it?IfLevi said yes. He’d loved the band, loved performing, all of us together on massive stages—for a while, at least. Until we’d all been so tired that catching half an hour of uninterrupted sleep felt like the world’s biggest luxury.

But he’d say yes.

Right?

CHAPTER3

Levi

Macclesfield, Tuesday, July 22nd

Bedtime in the Blake household equalled a business negotiation. Emily would make a great lawyer one day. Or a used-car saleswoman; I didn’t want her to feel boxed in.

“One more chapter.”

“It’s half past eight, Emmy.”

“One more page.”

“It’s still half past eight.”

“Please?”

“What’s in it for me, love?”

“I’ll...” She sat up in her four-poster bed that she’d painted blue like the sky, blondehair falling in a messy tumble over her shoulders. “I’ll get up tomorrow without uttering so much as a single complaint.”

It was a close echo of what I often told her—‘the day you get up without uttering so much as a single complaint, I’ll know hell’s about to freeze over.’Proof that kids truly were sponges. I wasn’t one of those parents who used “Blooming heck” or “Fiddlesticks” as a placeholder for strong language, but I tried to tone it down at least a bit around her. Restraint didn’t come naturally to me.

“What did I tell you about making impossible promises?”

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