Page 151 of Before Now

“Fuck,” I say. “You are terrible for mascara.”

“That’s why we’re not married, you know?” Miles steps between Sage and the open door, his head cocked at me. “You weren’t here, and we both wanted you to be a part of it.” He tosses me his phone, camera already recording, and he winks. “And now you are.”

I smile, aiming it at them before Sage catches up. Then her eyes bulge when Miles drops to a knee, right there on the threshold. I ease the shot out, sure to have the right angle as he reveals a box from his coat’s inside pocket.

That’s all the farther he gets before she tackles him. He looks prepared, though, keeping his balance, and she ends up sitting on his bent leg, opening the box herself and squealing at me like I’m the one proposing.

But he swipes the ring. “At least let me do some of it.”

I text myself the video, and after they leave, I curl up on the couch. Relieved. Drained. Happy. Although, I could be happier. I message Foster a picture of the three of us together.

And then he calls. The lighting is abysmal, his face only lit by the screen. “Damn, sending them there could have backfired on me so fucking hard. But you’re smiling. I love your smile.”

I am smiling. He’s backstage, listening to the crowd.

“Thank you,” I tell him, “for the best gift you could ever give me.”

He scrunches his face. “I really wish you wouldn’t have said that.”

“Why?”

“Because now I need to figure out what’s better than best so I can give that to you too.”

43

FOSTER

I feellike she’s mine again after Roman and Sage visit her. I won’t stop reminding Remi or myself of it, but the dread nudging at my consciousness has lost the war.

Now I need to surrender to something of my own.

Despite the impromptu interviews between Dev, Felix, and me, I finally cave to the softball interview I’ve avoided since the start of the doc. Unfortunately, that means one-on-one time with the puppy Remi abandoned for me to take care of.

I agree to record after the concert, so Xander has time to set up while we’re onstage. Our vibes might never be fantastic, but I’m tolerating him better as the days go on. He watches us like Remi would as if he were channeling her. No skirts and Remi legs I imagine locked around my head, so not as fun to look at.

When I dip into a shadow by the stage tonight, I stare at my screen for a solid minute, mental gymnastics engaged. It’s my mom’s birthday. She hasn’t responded to the voice note I sent her weeks ago, but I force myself to call her anyway. Her voicemail picks up, so I resort to another text.

Happy birthday, Mama.

I relax with my duty done and close my eyes, absorbing the sound of the crowd, but a message breaks my calm.

Do not try contacting us again.

For a number of heartbeats, I just stare at the message from my mom, but by the time I scoff and shake my head, something has twisted inside me in a way it hasn’t until now.

This time when I call, it goes straight to voicemail. I know. I know right then she—orhe—blocked me.

And that twisting escalates until it snaps.

I pocket my phone and track down Christian outside the dressing room. “The label wants to schedule the documentary to release with our album?”

“Around then. Why?”

With a shrug, I snag the door handle. “I can’t be curious?”

Curious about how long I’ll have between what I’m about to do and the results.

“Adams…” he warns, but I’m already in the room.

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