27. 27
I’m ignoring Miles’ apologies by staring at the texts on my phone. My sister is done being quiet.
Eryn: I’m not mad.
Eryn: Okay, I’m a little mad. But mostly because I still haven’t heard about any of whatever it is that’s going on from YOU.
“It’s my sister,” I say to Miles as he pulls up in front of his new studio.
He nods, zips his apologetic lips, and gives me quiet and time.
Me: I’m sorry, E. I haven’t had a second to call. It’s been crazy here. And I want to talk. I do. I’ll call soon. I promise!
Against my better judgment, I ask:
Me: How did Mom take the news?
Eryn: Oh, you know. How does Cruella feel about her stolen dogs escaping?
I slap a hand over my mouth—it’s the most ruthless thing my sister has ever said concerning our mother. Eryn knows how difficult the woman is. And yet she never seems to have issues with her. It helps that my mother’s life goals for Eryn aligned with Eryn’s own goals. Still, my sister is very much aware of how our mother treats me and while she is one hundred percent against it, she’s also nineteen and trying to maintain a civil and somewhat good relationship with the woman.
I don’t blame her. I never have. I love my little Eryn, who will always seem little in my eyes. How can she not? When I moved out, Eryn was barely eleven.
My phone pings with another text.
Eryn: You know—her life is unfair, and the world is out to get her. But now her daughter is too, so the world is falling to pieces.
Me: That bad?
Eryn: I could lie to you… but what good would it do? Besides, I’ve told her again and again that you must have had your reasons. You aren’t unkind by nature and there has to be a reason for this.
Eryn: There is. Right?
I steal a glance at Miles, who’s patiently scrolling through his phone, waiting for me to finish my conversation before going into the building he’s only waited—oh, I don’t know—forever for!
Me: There is.
Though I can’t exactly tell her the true reason.
Eryn: And that fabulous reason would be?????
I swallow. “My sister wants to know why I got married without her.”
“And you gave me a hard time about Alice,” he says. But he’s smiling. There’s no I-told you-so in that grin.
“Well, none of you can say no to her.”
He breathes out a heavy breath. “It’s a problem. I know.” He studies me, then his eyes drop to my cell. “So, what are you going to tell her?”
“I don’t know.” My brow furrows. “This is harder than I thought it would be. How about you’re dying, and we decided we couldn’t wait another second.”
“I’m dying? That’s the best you got, Jones?”
I clamp down on my bottom lip and stare at my sister’s name, her “awaiting message” bubble. “Or your grandma was dying, and we had to hold the ceremony before the Good Lord took her.”
He blinks, long and slow, his head doing that mini shake it does from time to time. “Could we possibly come up with something that isn’t death-related?”
My lips purse, and my heart pounds while I ponder that question. “I don’t think so.”
Miles coughs out a laugh. “Delaney, come on. We told my family—my very close-knit family—that we just couldn’t wait. And with all of your”—another head bobble—“celebrity stuff, it seemed right.”
“It seemed right.”
“Didn’t it?” he asks.
The green in his eyes seems to spark. It did seem right. Very right. ”Yes. It did.”
I turn back to my phone and type.
Me: E, all I can say is it was the right thing to do. But I am sorry my baby sister wasn’t by my side.
Eryn: I guess that’ll have to do. For now.
I reread her message one more time before stuffing my phone into my bag. “Come on,” I say to Miles. “You’ve waited long enough.”
With the key in hand, we walk up to Miles’ new building.
“So, a party?” I sigh. It’s fine. I’m still working on writing songs, and Ash is getting copyright approval on a few covers to remake. Recording will come much later. It’s not like I need to leave Coeur d’Alene this minute. But a party? Neither of us wanted that. It’s easier to focus on that truth than disappointing my sister. “You know it’ll just be a big show. And I think a show is easier for me than you.”
Miles clears his throat. “It’ll just be my family.”
Right. If my mother were planning a celebration, it would be with everyone she’d ever met. I shut my eyes and stand in front of the glass door. Miles’ family is not my own. If I’ve learned anything this week, it’s that.
“And your family, if you want?”
“Mine?” I scoff. “Um, no thank you. Nope. They aren’t invited.”
“Not even your sister?”
The key is in the lock, but he waits for my answer.
I exhale a strained, deranged laugh. “No. Not even Eryn.” I mimic Miles’ head shake and say, “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be difficult. The whole thing just caught me off guard.”
“Same,” he says, hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry.”
“No more sorries. Let’s go inside. Yeah?”
He nods, unlocks the door, and pushes his way into the building.
Honestly, it doesn’t look like much to me. But then, the bass guitar Dad won me when I was a kid didn’t look like much to my mother. But it was everything to me.
The floors are cement, and the paint is peeling, but the windows are wide and tall, letting the light shine in. The ceiling is covered in wooden columns—that, with some work, could be decent looking. But right now, it looks abandoned.
“What’s your plan?” I say, looking about the wide-open space. At least Lars’ things are gone.
While I see a ton of work, Miles is all smiles. He glances over at me, seeing the unimpressed look on my face. “I know it isn’t pretty. But it will be. And look at those windows. And that curbside entrance. Walt will have no issue getting through that door.” He walks farther in, and I wonder for a second if Miles Bailey is real.
Just like me, he’s invested. His work is his life. It means so much. Not many people know Miles Bailey the artist, though the man is skilled. I know exactly where that songbird watercolor is going in my L.A. apartment. Still, he’s happy. This place, Walt being able to be here—it makes him happy. It’s worth fighting with Lars. It’s worth the manual labor of readying the place. And it’s worth being married to me for a year.
My throat constricts. I swallow past the lump forming with Miles’ pure goodness. “What do you need to do to get it ready?” I ask.
“Well, I’ll need more than two weeks,” he says, referring to the timeline I gave Walt, “but Walt could probably visit next week.” He rubs his hands together, circling the space and peering all around once more. “I need to stain the beams.” His eyes dart up to the ceiling. “Polish the floor. Paint. I’d love to add a wall—“ He walks farther in, beaming like a kid on Christmas day, motioning with his hands. “—here. You know, for my own personal workspace. And then, of course, it all needs to be up to code for me to hold classes here. My brothers should be able to help me. We’ve all been renovating Owen’s house, picking up construction skills along the way.” His eyes take in every nook and cranny. “It’ll take time but I’ll be able to more than double my current class size. I’ve always wanted to offer different classes for different artistic styles, rather than the one style, three-person class I have now. And there’s so much I could do with my children’s classes—you know, for Alice and friends. She’d love that.”
“You know, it’s a good thing you don’t plan to have children,” I tease. “You’re so incredibly whipped by that niece. I can’t imagine you with an actual daughter.” Though the thought makes me grin. Any girl would be lucky to call Miles Bailey her dad.
“I never said that,” he says with a sheepish grin, glancing at me and then back around to the space in front of us. “You’re the one that said you didn’t want to have kids.”
“Right. We’re both all about work and—”
“And I want kids one day.” He shrugs. “I’m not looking for my lifelong partner right now, Laney. But one day I will. And one day, I’ll have a kid or two.”
My insides scramble like eggs in a blender. Of course Miles would want kids. Why did I assume that just because they aren’t on my radar they wouldn’t be on his? I bite my inner cheek and walk farther into the building. With my stomach gnawing away from the inside out, I change the subject. “Paint, stain, a wall, and up to code.”
“It’s more than it sounds like.”
“I’m sure,” I say, making a mental note of all he’s said. Hopefully, that’s all he really wants because I’m making another call today. Money does not make you happy—my grandmother always told me that. Don’t let it change you. Don’t let it rule you.Don’t let it dictate your joy.
She was right. But money does get things done. And technically this building is still in my name. I promised Walt he’d have his studio in two weeks. I’m going to do my best to keep that promise.
Besides, this surprise is going to bring the sweetest smile to my husband’s face.