Epilogue
TINSLEY
7 MONTHS LATER
“Tinsley, baby, it’s not going up.”
“It has to,” I cry. “Get Mikey and John—maybe they can force it up.”
“No, no, no, no,” Briar cuts in. “There will be no, ‘forcing it up.’ Do you not remember the Crisco incident?”
I look up at the ceiling and dramatically pout for a second before pulling the zipper back down and letting the stunning white gown the designer was paying me to wear crumple. I step over it in my heels and go to an armchair in the hotel suite where I collapse in a heap like the gown.
Hand on my lower stomach that was supposed to be sucked in by the highly practical and equally unsexy shapewear, I glance up at my husband and accuse, “This is your fault. I should not be showing yet.”
“How is this my fault?” he laughs, coming to kneel between my legs. Archer rests his large hand on my lower belly, covering and holding the small, almost bloat-like protrusion where our baby is just starting to make his or herself known to the world. “You’re the one who was late for your shot. Briar manages your schedule; I say we blame her.”
“I could work with that.” I smile, rubbing my hand over his.
“This is so not fair!” Briar complains. “ She’s the one who kept rescheduling the appointment.” I start to make my rebuttal but she shouts, “Oh my God! You’re supposed to perform! Your dress, shit. It’s already there. Does it fit?”
“It did this morning during the dress rehearsal.”
“Yeah, and two days ago at your final fitting that still zipped up. Damn Hayes men and their giant babies.”
“I have Sonya,” Mikey says triumphantly, a hand at her lower back as he guides her into the room. “Her mother was a seamstress in Russia.”
“I helped growing up. I’m not an expert, but if there’s room to let out the seams, I can do it quickly.”
Archer’s hands come up to hover at my already made up cheeks and gets as close as he can with his lips to my forehead and praises, “Thank God,” standing up.
He looks incredible in the black button down he’s wearing tucked into midnight blue jeans that are starched like their life depends on it. On a hanger in the corner of the suite is an immaculately tailored black suit jacket with a one of a kind Premier Stetson, the brand gifted him for tonight hanging above it.
“Okay, sweet girl,” Sonya says, producing a small sewing kit from her purse. “Let’s get this on you and conceal those babies from the world for just a bit longer.”
“ Baby ,” Archer and I both correct. “Baby, as in one,” I reiterate. “Only one.”
“We’ll see,” she shrugs with a mischievous smile. Patting Mikey on the chest, she hums, “I think you and John would look good holding the babies.” Before he can sputter out a response she commands, “Shoo,” ushering him and Archer out of the room. “Okay ladies, let’s do this.”
* * *
“And the winner is…” I’m gripping Archer’s hand in my lap, smiling for the camera I know is trained on me while my heart races at a thousand beats per minute.
Summer Haze was nominated in five categories—the most I’ve ever been a part of in a single year—and so far tonight, I’ve taken four. However, Album Of the Year is the big one. It’s a crowning achievement for any artist. I’ve won it only one other time and this year, I want it more than ever.
Seconds tick through molasses, and the arena is at a hush as we wait for the envelope to open. I swear when the seal pops, I can hear it and the sound of thick, luxurious cardstock sliding free.
“You’ve got this, Shortcake,” Archer breathes beside me, his leg jiggling along my thigh.
“What if?—”
Around me, everyone in attendance erupts with applause and people are reaching over the seats to pat my shoulder and shake my hand. “Destined To Fall” is playing over the soundsystem, and I’m frozen.
“Tinsley, you won!” Archer shouts, beaming at me as he helps me stand up. “You won!”
“What?”
I’m like a deer in the headlights. The moment is surreal and I can’t seem to move.
“You won!” he repeats, pulling me to him and kissing me.
“I won?”
“You won.”
“Oh my God!” I cry, throwing myself at him and kissing him again.
It’s quick and sweet but still a few people around us whistle, making my husband blush up to his ears. I place my hand on his warm cheek and smile, “Thank you, Superman.”
“This was all you, Shortcake,” he easily dismisses, threading my arm through his to lead me over to the stairs where Ty is waiting for me to accept our award.
On stage, my hand is shaking as I accept the temporary award, my other fighting the urge to rest over my concealed bump. When I get up to the podium, my throat is so clogged with emotion, I can’t entirely smooth out and control my accent.
“Oh my gosh, I’m uh… I’m a little stunned, y’all,” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Are you sure you read that right?” The artist who presented the award turns the card around and there in elegant calligraphy is Summer Haze and my name. “Well alright then.”
I take a breath, doing my best to not let it hit the microphone before speaking.
“When I was eighteen years old, I spent my summer in a small town in Tennessee that sits on the most beautiful lake I’ve ever seen. My first day there, I met a boy in a coffee shop and it was… everything,” I smile. “ He was everything to me. He was my first kiss, my first love, my inspiration—or as Briar came to call him, my muse. Every moment with him had music playing in my head and lyrics pouring from my heart. Being with him was life changing in more ways than one, because that was the summer I wrote Summer Haze. And that boy is now my husband, Archer Hayes, without whom none of this would have been possible.
“So this,” I say raising the award, “is for you, Superman. Thank you for being reckless. I love you.”