56. 56
Ilet myself cry for a solid ten minutes before pulling up my big girl pants and moving on. That’s what Claire Jones taught me to do—put on a smile and move on. And when it comes to my mother, sadly, I think that’s exactly what I have to do.
Miles’ hand hasn’t left mine since we drove away, and now here we sit side by side on a plane back to Coeur d’Alene. It feels like a good place to call home.
The plane hasn’t moved yet—people are still boarding—when my phone in my pocket buzzes.
Ash.
I might murder her later for confirming to my mother about my unique relationship with Miles.
“Sony’s heard the recordings,” she says before I can even say hello. “They’re all in, Lane. You just need to sign on the dotted line.”
I pull in a small gasp. “Sony.”
“Yes. They want you in L.A. for the next six months. They’ve already got plans for an entire album and a tour. A LaneJonas tour.”
I swallow.
Sony.
A tour.
L.A.
Miles swaps from watching me to watching out the window, giving me privacy. But I know he’s heard at least what I’ve said. Sony. It’s the big league. Even bigger than The Judys ever saw.
“What about the indie label Afternoon Records?”
“You haven’t signed with them yet,” Ash says. “Of course, they’re all in too. But what can they offer you compared to freaking Sony, girl?”
My brows knit together and my heart pounds in my chest. “That’s a good question.”
“What’s a good question?”
“What is the indie label offering?” I ask.
She sighs in my ear. To Ash, this is an unneeded conversation.
People are taking their seats, and soon I’ll be asked to hang up and put my device on airplane mode.
“They are offering a fraction of what Sony is. No guaranteed tour, no home base. You will get input on decisions. But, Lane, Sony never gets it wrong—ever. You’ll have an album and creative leeway with the indie label. That’s what they’re offering. An album with a fraction of the pay, a fraction of the benefits, and a fraction of the listeners. This is a no-brainer, Lane.”
I blink over at Miles, who looks out the window wistfully.
Love—when she’d given every practical reason we wouldn’t make it, he gave the only one that matters.
Love.
“I like my indie label,” I tell Ash.
“Lane, you’re kidding. You aren’t serious. This is—”
”Listen, I”m on a plane and we”re about to take off. I can”t talk anymore. I”ll call you when we land.” I hang up on my manager. I don”t let her say anymore.
My mother dangled Enrique.
The Judys dangled steady success.
And now, Ash dangles Sony—with all of my folk dreams in reach.
But is any of that what I want now?
I pull in a breath and shut my eyes, leaning my head back against the headrest of this coach seat.
I want to sing what I want to sing, play what I want to play.
And Miles.
I want Miles. Sure, the world says the odds are against us, but for Miles—I’ll take those odds.
“Hey,” I say, as if I’ve just remembered something I need to tell him.
He turns, his bright hazel eyes peering down at me.
“I love you too,” I say, though I know he didn’t actually say it. It was implied, right?
His lips turn up in a grin, and his eyes drop to my mouth just before claiming my lips for his own. He kisses me far longer than he should in such a confined, public place. But I don’t mind.
When the man behind us clears his throat, he breaks away, putting a centimeter of space between us. He pecks me once more, teasing me, leaving me wanting for more.
“I love you, Laney,” he whispers against my lips.
“I thought you might.”
“I have something else to tell you too,” I say, making the decision as I speak.
He puts another inch of space between us, giving me room, and letting me talk.
“I’m sticking with my indie label.”
“But Sony—”
Yeah, he knows what Sony means too. He’s a smart man. “But Sony can’t give me everything I want.”
“And the indie label can?”
I smile, my eyes roving over his face. “I think it can.” I tilt my head. “I’ve got my new stage name too.”
“New? But why?”
“Yes, new. Lane Jonas was a Judy, a rocker. I can’t go by that anymore.”
“You aren’t a rocker anymore?” His eyes narrow playfully on me.
“Of course I am. Always. But I’m also a bass-playing, banjo-destroying, folk-singing girl. And as such, I’m going by… Delaney Bailey.” I swallow. This feels like telling him he’s stuck with me forever and ever and ever and—ever.
His mouth falls open, surprise written all over his face. “Yeah?”
“If that’s okay with you.”
“Delaney Bailey. I’m pretty sure I can get used to that,” he says, his sweet lips parting to a grin. He leans down, teasing me with another peck.
It’s okay. I tease him the whole flight back.