22. 22
This place is dead quiet. Eerily quiet. I can’t decide if it’s calming or maddening.
Miles walks me up the stairs to his apartment, an arm around my waist, though no one is around to see us. I’m grateful for the support. Those times on tour, when we had loony fans trying to get a little too close, we also had bodyguards. We never had anyone get closer than allowed, or if they did, at least we saw them coming, like cameramen and reporters out in public.
This was my rental. My bathroom. This was hidden breaking and entering. If there hadn’t been a guy across the street, Miles and I would have said goodbye at the door.
I shudder and hug myself closer to his side, to this man who, in all sense, should be a stranger. But he doesn’t feel like one. I trust him.
We cross the threshold of Miles’ tiny apartment. The smallness feels like safety. No one could hide in here—not without being seen.
“Go sit down. I’ll get you some tea.”
I don’t argue because Miles’ kitchen is legit inside his living room, which is inside of his bedroom. He can’t escape me. He must think I’m ridiculous. People are around me, taking photos all the time.
“He was in the house,” I say in defense of myself. “I’ve just never had one in the house before. I’m used to the crowds and the cameras. I promise. I—”
“Delaney, do you think I’m judging you for being afraid of an intruder? Believe me, I am not. Any sane person would have been afraid.” He sets a red teapot on one of the two electric burners in his kitchen. “I was afraid.”
He was? Why does that make me feel better? I rub my hands together, creating warmth where his fingers once cradled mine.
“Please tell me this isn’t the norm for your life.”
I swallow, feeling better by the second. Miles Bailey doesn’t judge—if anything, he validates. “It’s not,” I say. “Cameras and paparazzi, but we only ever needed bodyguards on tour.”
“So tonight was different?”
“Very,” I say, releasing all the air in my lungs.
“That makes me feel better.”
Another minute passes and Miles brings me a hot cup of chamomile tea and a small bowl of candy. ”Gummy bears?” I say, looking up from the bowl. When did he have time to buy me gummy bears? Haven”t I taken up all of his time the last couple of days?
“Just in case,” he says, his arms at his sides.
“Oh, no.” I blink, taking in the red-and-purple blotch forming in front of my very eyes. “Your hand.”
“Oh.” He stretches out each of his fingers—it doesn’t help how they look. “It’s fine.”
“Miles,” I say, and my voice cracks. He’s an artist. His hands are his livelihood. “You’re hurt. You hit that guy and now you’re hurt.”
“It’s just a bruise.” He attempts to shove his hand into his pocket, but I can see that the action pains him. He leaves it awkwardly dangling at his side.
“It’s not. Let me get some ice.” I start to stand, but Miles sets a hand on my shoulder, pausing my undertaking.
“I’ll get the ice. You drink your tea.” His uninjured hand gives a little shove to my half-standing body, pushing me back to the couch.
I sip my tea, stir in my seat, and watch him single-handed as he fills a plastic bag with ice cubes and wanders back over to me.
“Sit down,” I tell him. “Please.”
He does, and I reach for his hand. His knuckles are split and bleeding with an ugly bruise blooming. I breathe out a sigh. ”I”m so sorry.”
“None of this,” he says, nodding to his hand, “is your fault.”
But it sure feels like it is.
Gently, I take his hand in mine, cradle it in my left while my right moves the ice back in place. “What a crazy night,” I mutter, my nerves hypersensitive to his soft fingers and the feel of his skin on mine.
“Rock star Lane Jonas hasn’t had a crazier night?”
“I didn’t say that. Still—pretty crazy.”
“Yeah.” He blows out a breath and slips his hand from mine. With his other, he snatches the bag of ice and adjusts it back on his hand, hugging it close to his abdomen.
Picking up my mug, I gulp down the rest of my tea.
“I’ll take that.” Miles stands, retrieving my cup. A second later, he’s back, holding a hand out to me. “You’re tired. But I can’t give you a bed to sleep in unless you get up.”
“Oh.” I glance down at the pull-out couch. “Right.” I set my hand in his uninjured one and let him pull me up. My chest bumps his in this small space. The contact sets my heart racing. I scoop a strand of my long hair behind one ear and step to the side, out of the way.
But Miles doesn’t start disassembling the couch. He moves over to the tall dresser in the corner of the room and opens the top drawer.
“Here,” he says, holding out a button-up pajama top. There are tiny Christmas trees scattered over the light blue. “I only wore it once. Mom bought us all matching pj’s a couple years ago. The bottoms,” he says, glancing down toward my hips, “would fall right off of you. But at least it’s something other than your jeans.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
“You can change in the bathroom or the studio. Both have a door that locks.”
I blink up at my incredibly moral husband. “I appreciate it. I’m not exactly worried about those doors locking.” I run my teeth over my bottom lip. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He gives a curt nod, his mouth in a tight line.
I disappear into the tiny space that Miles calls a bathroom. A twelve-by-twelve-inch mirror sits above the smallest sink I’ve ever seen. Seriously, who knew they made them this small? I can just see my face in this thing—how does he ever get ready with that? A toilet squeezes between the sink and stall shower. It’s tiny but clean and smells of the outdoorsy pine scent that I breathe in every time I’m near Miles.
I’m not sure what possesses me, but I dig into my purse and pull out my liquid eyeliner. I stand on my tiptoes until I am certain I’m almost the same height as Miles. I look at myself in this mirror, imagining Miles looking into the small glass. With the wand of my liner, I draw a handlebar mustache onto the glass, right where I’m certain Miles’ lips would appear.
I smirk, imagining Miles looking into his mirror tonight. It”s a lame prank—I should probably wash it off. But I don”t. The thought of Miles looking in this mirror and seeing a mustache on himself keeps my head calm and sane at this moment.
I strip off my jeans and shirt, wishing I had a brush to comb out my long hair and a toothbrush to freshen up. But I left everything back at the rental. I needed to leave.
Tomorrow I’ll find a new place and hire someone to grab all my things. But tonight, I am brushless and emotional. I’m not sure what it is about being completely terrified that makes me want to vandalize Miles’ bathroom… but then, I think the mustache will make him laugh.
Will my bra on his door handle and my jeans on his floor make him laugh? I cringe before snatching my things and rolling them into a ball to go out with me.
I exit the room in his nightshirt. The ends hit my thighs, and while I’m not a shy or overly modest person, I feel exposed in this moment.
Miles has a bed all made up for me—and with the tiny bit of space left on the kitchen linoleum, he’s laid out a blanket and pillow for himself.
I’m not even sure there’s five feet of space in there—for my six-foot-something husband.
I swallow. “Miles. You cannot sleep there.”
He meets my eyes, not even glancing down at my bare thighs—this man is an angel. I swear he is. “There’s nowhere else. My studio is full and—”
“No, you can sleep right next to your wife.” I tilt my head and offer him an apologetic smile. “I’ll take the right side beneath the sheets. You can take the left on top. We’ll have a good foot of space between us, and I promise not to spoon you.”
He breathes out a laugh. “I guess. If you promise.”
“I do.”
He snatches the pillow and blanket from the kitchen floor and walks back over to the pull-out bed. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Miles lays his things down, then heads into the bathroom himself.
I settle beneath the sheets on this thin mattress and listen… waiting to hear the moment he sees the mustache in the mirror.
But… nothing.
Maybe I drew it too low and it looked like a chinstache.
I’m up on one elbow, watching the bathroom door and barely breathing so that I can hear the minute Miles sees it… But the door to the bathroom opens without a chuckle or a yelp or anything from Miles.
Huh. How thoroughly unfortunate.
Maybe I read his sense of humor wrong. I was so sure he’d find that funny.
I fall onto my back and pull the sheet up to my nose. I am innocent. I didn’t convince you to marry me, force you to lie to your mother, and then vandalize your home… that was another Judy.
I keep my eyes on the ceiling. Silent.
Maybe he didn’t see it.
Maybe the man doesn’t look in the mirror when he brushes his teeth.
Maybe I’ll hear that quiet, masculine laughter in the morning.
I feel Miles sit on the bed. He adjusts his pillow in half, then lays down overtop all of the blankets on this bed. He’s making certain there is more than a sheet between the two of us. I’m unsure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, and I can tell that he’s looking at me.
I roll onto my side toward him. “No, I—” A snort escapes my nose and lips. I clamp my mouth closed and move a bent arm beneath my head for support.
Even in the dimness of this moonlit room, I can’t miss the handlebar mustache Miles Bailey has drawn on his face.
“Anything?” he says, displaying the largest smile I’ve yet to see his lips produce.
A bubble of giggles sneaks through my clamped lips. “Nu-uh. I’m good.” I purse my lips to the side, reining back my grin. “You got a little—” I circle a finger in front of my face.
“Aw. You’re impressed with my ability to grow facial hair so quickly. I get it. It is impressive.”
I can’t control my smile anymore. “So impressive.” I stare at the artistic work of that mustache—it’s a thousand times better than my own. “Where’d you get the—”
He turns to face me, his curly brown hair flopping to the side in the process. “I’m an artist. I always have a marker in my pocket.”
I cram my eyes closed and giggle again. “You should stitch that on a pillow. And seriously consider growing a mustache.”
“Oh, I am—now.”
I sigh, calm and content for the first time since we left the Airbnb. “Am I screwing up your life?” I ask. I don’t even mean to, but it’s a question I’ve been trying very hard to avoid.
“Because you drew on my mirror? Was that permanent marker or something?” This time Miles is the one to laugh, low and quiet, but joyful nonetheless.
“No, not permanent marker. That mirror is a joke, by the way. Replace it as fast as humanly possible.” I swallow and hold his eyes once more. “You know, because I conned you into marrying me and being a part of my craziness for the next year.”
“You didn’t con anyone, Delaney.”
My head goes back to the moment he called me Laney. Just like Grandma. Just another reason I feel like I can trust Miles Bailey. All I can do is stare at the man across from me. He should be a stranger, but instead, he”s my husband.
“We made a deal. You bought me a building. Even if I could have afforded it, I never could have talked Lars into it.”
“Yeah, he did seem pretty annoyed when he realized it was for you.”
Miles laughs. “I’m sure he did.”
“That building is really worth being stuck with me?”
His eyes narrow, breaking our contact. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t consider myself too stuck. But yeah, that building is worth a little drama. Tomorrow, if you have time, I’ll take you with me when I tell Walt—you’ll see.”
“It’s a deal.” It’s not like I have an actual job to get back to… just a semi-thought-out plan that I can work the day after tomorrow.
The moon must rise because it’s not streaming through the window like before. The light in the room has dimmed, but my eyes are adjusting along with it. I can still see Miles. He’s awake. He’s watching me back.
“You don’t mind putting off your personal life?” I ask.
“Are you trying to talk me out of all you talked me into? Too bad, Laney. It’s a done deal. We’re married.”
My chest warms with the nickname. “No—just learning a little more about my husband.”
“What about you? You don’t mind putting off any personal romantic connections for a while?”
I smirk a little. “I really don’t.”
“Because…” he starts, waiting for me to finish.
“Because my job is my life right now. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to find love. But I was literally gifted twenty of the most attractive, talented bachelors in the country, and none of them stole my heart.” I don’t talk about the show lightly. But Miles is a safe place; he’s a friend. However new he might be. He won’t make me relive or suffer through anything just for gossip’s sake.
“I get that.” His forehead wrinkles. “Okay—not the twenty attractive bachelors part. But the work part. It’s hard to split your focus.”
“Exactly. I only did the show because after I left The Judys, Ash thought it would help my image. And who doesn’t want to fall in love? At least, that’s what Ash said. Surely one of those guys would have been a right fit had it been the right time.”
“And they didn’t hurt you?”
I scoff. I can’t help it. It’s just so far from my truth. “No, Miles, they didn’t hurt me.” I sigh, thinking of Patrick and his lies. “Okay, maybe scratched, but not scarred. The thing is, I just don’t want it yet. Why does the world think that every twenty-seven-year-old needs to be planning a wedding? There isn’t one prime age to fall in love. Why can’t I get married and fall in love at forty?”
“Forty?” His turn to scoff. “So, kids? They’re not in your future? Or maybe they are. I don’t know.”
I blow out a breath. “Kids... I don’t dislike children. The only one I was ever around was my sister. I was eight when Eryn was born. And then ten years later, I was gone. I escaped the clutches of Claire Jones as quickly as I could. Every time I think about kids, I think about my mother. Would becoming a mother turn me into her? Because I really, really don’t want to be like my mother.” But then Miles’ mother is quite the opposite of mine. I’d turn into Lucy Bailey any day.
“I don’t think there’s one recipe for becoming a parent. I think you get to decide. I don’t think you’d be like your mom. Because you don’t want to be. And for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a great mom.”
That makes me grin—and I don”t even know why. ”Do you? Because you”ve known me so long.”
“Long enough to marry you.”
My chest rumbles with a giggle. “That’s true.”
Miles lays flat on his back, his gray T-shirt melting into the color of his comforter. He stares at the ceiling, and when he closes his eyes, I think he’s done talking and ready to sleep.
But then he says, “Why The Judys? The name. That always confused me.”
“Miles Bailey, are you a fan?”
His eyes open, and he glances my way while staying on his back. He takes up a lot of space in this bed—there isn”t the foot of space between us I thought there”d be. I”m guessing this isn”t even a queen. I”m so used to my king at home and when on the road—but then I”m not a large person, so how much space do I need? Somehow, I don”t feel crowded with Miles next to me.
“Honestly?” he says, referring to my question.
”Of course,” I tell him. I don”t care if he”s not a fan. Okay… maybe I care a little. He is my husband, after all, pretend or not.
“I was a fan of your first album. I haven’t listened to much since.” He scowls as if he might be in trouble.
“The first one is my favorite too.” I sang more on the first album. We all did. Then Serena became our permanent lead. I played bass guitar, Astrid played acoustic, and Dawn has always played the drums. I sigh. “The Judys. That’s my grandma’s name. I was kind of running away from my mother when I met up with Serena and Astrid. Dawn came later. My grandma has always been a sanctuary for me. She was proud of me, no matter what. When I put out that first album, she beamed with pride. Rock was so far from her genre of music and yet she knew every word to every one of my songs.” Goosebumps bloom over my arms and neck with the memory. “She told me I could do it when others told me I couldn’t.” I swallow past the lump forming there. I haven’t seen Grandma in a year—the same amount of time I’ve been avoiding my mother. But then, Gram lives in the house behind Mom’s. I can’t see Grandma without seeing Mom. “Anyway,” I say, remembering why he asked. “I adore my grandma. Astrid had an Aunt Judy that she loved—though spelled with an “i”—and Serena’s mom, who died when she was little, was also a Judy. It felt too ironic. Too right. So we went with it. Later we found Dawn, who had zero Judy’s in her life, but she was committed to the band and the name.”
“Is that common knowledge?”
While I’ve fallen over onto my back, Miles is turned, watching me again.
“Aw, Serena mentioned it in one of our very first interviews. But the story didn’t circulate. My grandma knows why. That’s the only thing I cared about.” And now, I’ve abandoned The Judys—more like I moved on and they didn’t want to move with me. How does Gram feel about that? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to her since it happened. The thought of ever disappointing her makes me sick—I shudder at the thought.
“What?”
Oh, that’s right. I’m not alone.
“What is it?” Miles asks again.
I press my lips in on one another. “I—I just haven’t talked to her since I left the band.”
“From what you’ve said, she’d be proud of you for following your dream.”
He isn’t wrong. It’s easy to believe when Miles Bailey says it.
In fact, I’m calling Grandma Judy tomorrow.
“Night, Miles.”
“Goodnight, Delaney.”