Page 89 of If Not for My Baby
Molly unleashes a serpentine grin and I beam right back at her. She is the coolest person on this tour by a mile. She leans into Pete once more and I slip my phone out to snap a pic—Indy and I have taken to sending her cutesy shots of the two of them just to see her blush. My lock screen informs me it’s past three a.m. As if lying in wait until I realized the late hour, a monster yawn overtakes me and I bury my face into Tom’s side. “Oh no,” I say through my yawn. “I’m fading.”
Tom stands with a stretch and extends a hand for me to take. When I do, Pete releases a low whistle that sends the group into fits of surreptitious laughter.
“Animals, the lot of ye,” Tom mutters, wrapping his arm around me.
In his suite I strip Tom’s Trinity sweats off and let them pool at my feet before climbing into the double bed. Then I spread my legs and twist until I’m comfy. Another unexpected benefit of being outed—sleeping in bed next to Tom each night. Goodbye, tiny coffin, you will not be missed.
“Thanks for joining us,” I say when Tom slips in beside me.
His bare chest smells like his simple bar soap; that foggy, post-rain scent I’m helplessly addicted to. He pulls me in close under the covers. My eyes are already fluttering shut from his lulling warmth and comfortable sheets.
“It wasn’t too terrible.”
My hands curl around his arm, and I watch the hairs there rise with my touch. I press my mouth to the side of his wrist and Tom hums.
“They’re so funny,” I say into his skin.
I’m going to miss them all terribly.But I don’t share that part because we don’t talk about how the tour is ending in eleven days. Or, we haven’t, and I don’t plan on being the first one to bring it up.
“I’d forgotten what it was like. To spend time with the band like that.”
Something about his tone makes my chest ache. Maybe the self-imposed isolation had done more harm than he’d realized. But the man holding me against his chest is different somehow from the one who called our friendscolleaguesa mere month ago.
“I think it means a lot to them, too.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs after a beat.
When I peer up, his eyes are as wintry green as ever. “What for?”
He brushes his lips over the crown of my head as he says, “For bringing me back.”
Twenty-Nine
Even though my mom calledto tell me she wasfinallycoming out of her flare-up, I told her not to push herself tonight to make the show. Mike and Everly both couldn’t get out of work, but I didn’t even mind. Bowing to a sold-out crowd in Austin is a check off a bucket list I didn’t know I had. Even without my friends or family there, somewhere among that whooping, dazzled audience were likely folks I know. Kids I went to elementary school with. Happy Tortilla regulars. Guys who dated and then screwed over my mom—I smiled extra brightly for them.
I’m thrumming with a different kind of energy when we leave the venue and Pete informs us we’re going to Dime a Dozen, a divey spot well-known by local musicians and celebs looking to keep a low profile. I’ve missed Texas more than I realized. The drive over Lady Bird Lake this afternoon stole the breath from my lungs—the multicolored boats like rainbow sprinkles atop a swath of wide blue sorbet. The scent ofleather and wild sage in the balmy evening air. I’m electrified by the familiarity as we stand before Jen in the front lounge.
“Two last things and then you’re all free,” Jen tells us. Molly and Wren are already a bit buzzed. Pete’s playing Kendrick Lamar on the speakers. The whole bus is itching to barrel out those doors and into the bar.
“I know it’s been a long few weeks, but we only have three shows left, so let’s make sure to give them our all, okay? There’s no curfew in these final cities, so we’re adding ‘Under a Silver Sun’ to the set list in between ‘Meadowlark’ and ‘Consume My Heart Away.’ ”
“The fans are going to be so stoked,” Indy tells Tom. “They’ve been requesting it on every one of your platforms.”
“Good, yeah,” he replies. “That’ll be really nice.”
I quirk a brow at him. He sounds genuinely happy to be adding a song to the set list.
“Tom,” Jen continues, “we’re going to have you take thatRolling Stonepiece in LA before the Bowl. It’ll be a warm room, just a handful of musicians talking about process and life on the road.”
Grayson pales across the room. “What?”
“Sure,” Tom says easily. “Sounds right.”
“Great. Now you’re all free. Have f—”
“Are you kidding?” Grayson slams his beer down on the kitchenette counter. “What the fuck, Jen?”
“C’mere to me lad,” Conor warns. “Don’t make an eejit of yerself.”
