Page 94 of Voice to Raise
I snickered. “You’re notthatmuch older than me.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re closer in age to Malik than to me.”
“Not by much.”
“Pfft.” She pointed to the bread. “Finish with that.”
“Yes, Mama.”
The first couple weeks after the band left, I moped around the house. Aside from work, I had nothing to occupy my time. Mama kept inviting me over. I kept making excuses. I wanted to feel sorry for myself. I’d finally met the man of my dreams—the love of my life—and he’d abandoned me.
Which was total bullshit.
He’d been presented with the opportunity of a lifetime and had left me installed in his mansion with everything my heart might desire, to pursue his lifelong dream.
I didn’t have the right to feel sorry for myself.
Which Mama reiterated in spades the Saturday she arrived on my doorstep, battered down the barricades—imaginary, not real—and demanded admittance.
We’d become fast friends. And every Friday night from that week on, I was expected at the Murthi household for dinner.
Abrianna commented, about three months into the arrangement, that she saw more of me than she usually saw of Creed—and he lived there.
I’d wondered if I was supposed to be offended, but she quickly clarified that shelikedhaving me around—much better mannered than her brother. Also, she considered me a better conversationalist. Okay, I took that compliment with grace.
The Murthis were more like my parents than my own were by the end of the seven months. Never was I more grateful for people—both that they had invited me in, but also that Malik had them in his life. That even if something happened, and I wasn’t around anymore, that he’d be cared for.
“Stop moping!” Mama barked in a voice she rarely used.
“Sorry.” I met her gaze.
“He still wants you. Every other week he asks if you’re still living here. If you’re still happy. If you still want him.”
I frowned. “I tell him those things all the time.” Well, when communication was permitted. This Keriakos dude might be a fantastic producer, but he was also a little on the quirky side. Everything was strictly controlled for the band. When they could call, when they could write, when they could hear from us.
Pauletta regularly assured me things were going well. She refused to share the footage Lydia shot, but promised it wasgood shit.
Whatever that meant.
“You, my child, need to let go of some of your vigilance. Did they not text fifteen minutes ago to say they’d landed?”
“Well…yes.”
“Did they not say they had to taxi the plane to the airport, disembark, and go through customs?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Hey!”
My gaze snapped to Mama’s.
She wagged her finger at me.
Shame heated my cheeks. “Yes, Mama, they said all that.”
“And did they not say the limo is there waiting for them?”
“Yes…?”
