47. 47
Istand outside the studio and stare up at the large plexiglass sign. Delaney must have ordered and paid to have it put up. “Hey, I was just going to text you,” I say, phone to my ear.
“You were?” she says, and there’s something in her voice that’s off.
“Yeah.” I squint in the sunshine, reading the sign one more time. “The studio has a new addition.”
She gasps. “The sign came?”
“Yeah. It’s up and it isn’t the name I chose.”
She’s quiet on the other end as I reread for the millionth time—Miles Bailey Creations Studio.
“Buuuut,” she draws out. “Does it look amazing and you realize I was right all along?”
“I’ve never seen my name that big before.”
“And it looks good, doesn’t it?” Her voice squeaks at the end of that sentence.
“I’m sending you a picture,” I say. Five seconds later, I hit send.
“Crack bananas! It’s even better than I imagined. Miles!” There’s a squeal on the other end of the line. “Tell me you love it. Do you love it? I love it!”
“Well—”
“Has Lucy seen it? What about Coco? Coco is going to love it.” She’s giddy over a sign with my name on it. She almost sounds normal; maybe she was just tired before.
I could kiss her. I would kiss her if she weren’t twelve hundred miles away.
“I just barely saw it. So no, no one else has seen it yet. I heard the pounding, came outside, promptly got out of the way, and ta-da—sign.”
“And then you called me?” she says, and her tone tells me it was exactly the right thing to do. I wasn’t strategizing, though; it was instinct.
“And then I called you,” I say.
“And you love it?”
“And—” I peer up at the sign. Seeing my name so huge might take some getting used to, but I don’t hate it. “I might love it.”
Delaney shrieks on the other end of the phone, a deep sigh falling from her lips. ”Thanks, Miles.”
“Thanks? Ah—Laney, I’m supposed to be thanking you.”
”Oh, sure. Go for it.”
My chest rumbles with a laugh. “Thank you,” I say, meaning it. “How’s L.A.?”
“Oh. Umm. Fine.” With that one word, her tone has changed. I hadn’t imagined it before. “We’ve got one song recorded, and we should have the other two by the end of the week. It’s just a demo to send to the actual recording studio.”
I sit on a bench outside the studio and crane my neck to peer over my building, top to bottom. “Does that mean you’ll be coming back or—”
“I mean, I can. Or—”
“Or if you have other things to do, that’s understandable.” I stand and push through my entrance door, returning to the privacy of my studio to pace. I don’t want to be an obligation. She’s done a lot for me. I don’t want her thinking she has to do more. Or that she has to be somewhere she doesn’t want to be. I know she has her own place in L.A.
“I always have stuff to do. And you could use a break—”
“A break?” Man, this is confusing. I’m guessing most guys don’t have to wonder if their wives will ever come home. We started this relationship backwards, and sometimes I don’t know which direction is forward.
“Sure. You don’t always have to entertain me.” She’s stumbling over her words just as much as I am.
I pull in a breath. The world may not understand our arrangement, but Delaney and I do. We can be honest with each other. Right?
“Laney,” I say, swallowing down the trepidation trying to keep my mouth shut. “I don’t need a break from you. Anytime you’re ready to come back, you’ll be welcome.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say into the phone. “I also understand that your job and lifestyle may need some attention there. That’s okay too.”
“But,” she says, pausing, I’m certain, for dramatic effect, “you miss me.”
I clear my throat. She’s good. “Yes, Delaney, I miss you.”
“Good. I miss you too, Miles.”