Page 87 of If Not for My Baby
The way Tom idealizes song and music when it comes to me, compared to the way he speaks about his own career…they might as well be two different art forms altogether. I haven’t asked him about his meeting with Brad Engelmann the other night—it feels like a girlfriend question, which I very much am not—but it’s gnawed at me for days, and now feels as good a time as any to bring it up. “You never told me how your meeting with Brad went.”
“It was fine.” Tom eyes the guitar strings. “I told him I wasn’t going to do another contract with Sierra.”
I shoot up. “Are you serious?”
He nods and begins to strum once more, graceful and slow. A lullaby, it sounds like.
“Are you going to try working with a new label?”
He only shrugs, those broad shoulders lifting and falling easily. “I dunno.”
“How did Jen take it?”
Tom laughs a bit at that. “How do you think?”
The thought is so unpleasant I wince. “And yet I still count all four limbs?”
“I tried to ease the blow by cavin’ on theRolling Stonepiece.”
Clambering onto all fours, I crawl across the bed until I’m directly beside him. I snuggle under the covers and allow my feet to squeeze between his calves. “I’m sorry.”
Tom moves the guitar to the floor and lies down beside me. He smooths my hair back. “Don’t be. I’m glad I told her. I feel better than I have in ages.”
And when he looks at me like that, those mesmerizing green eyes steadfast on mine—I know he means it. Everything around us fades to dappled light. I no longer know what city we’re fleeing or which we’re barreling toward. I have no clue what kind of pain awaits me at the end of this tour and beyond. But here, in Tom’s bed, in his arms, the music flowing through us both, unencumbered by Cherry Grove or labels or any responsibilities altogether—here, we are free.
—
As the summer grows hotter and we make our way farther west, there’s no shortage of new ways for Tom and me to spend time together. Two weeks pass as quickly as a movie montage, and somehow also as unhurried as if time is slowing just for us. We try to keep PDA to a minimum, but between showers in his tiny en suite bathroom—he hunches like the behemoth he is, and I soap us both—and singing togethereach night before thousands, it’s a miracle the rest of the world is none the wiser.
And on nights like tonight, sitting around the front lounge with the band, on our way from Kansas City to Shreveport, I’m grateful to have carved out my own place within this group that exists when Tom is enjoying his much-needed introvert time.
“My turn,” Indy declares, slumped in the lounger. “Loverby Taylor Swift—”
“Nope,” Grayson interrupts, beer in hand. “You’re done.”
“What?! Why?” I can see heat coloring the tips of her ears. Guys who make people feel bad about the things they love are the dregs of society, I swear.
“Leave Freckles alone,” Wren says alongside her trusty toothpick. “Taylor can write a mean bridge and has a vocal range you’d kill for.”
Indy dips her chin in appreciation. “Thank you.”
“Bullshit,” Grayson says to Wren. “You’ve never listened to Taylor Swift. I’d bet every dollar I have.”
“You’d be broke, pretty boy.”
“As I was saying,” Indy continues, “Loverby Taylor Swift, Beyoncé’sLemonade, and that one Moby album my parents played on repeat.”
“My parents, too,” Pete says. “They loved that bald motherfucker.”
Indy nods. “It’s nostalgic and would help me remember them when I’m lonely.”
Grayson offers an approving lift of his shoulders as if he’s deemed her other two choices worthy. I try to hide mygrimace—Grayson isn’t the grand pooh-bah of desert-island-album decency. “What about you?” I ask.
“Easy.” Grayson leans back and kicks his feet up onto the table. “Pink Floyd’sDark Side of the Moon;OK Computerby Radiohead; and Paul Simon,Graceland.”
My irritation only grows—those are excellent choices. A little boy-heavy, but I’m annoyed I didn’t think of Paul Simon myself. I wish he’d said Nickelback.
“Sure you critters know my picks: Ramones, Patti Smith, Joni Mitchell.” Wren tips her head my direction. “You’re up, blondie.”
