PROLOGUE
JON
TwoYears Earlier
“You’re not aselfish man, Jon,” Bethinsisted as she pressed her back to the wall. Watching as I buttoned my shirtin front of the frameless, floor-length mirror in our bedroom. “You do what youcan.”
The heated glare I shotat her could’ve sent the room into flames. “Oh, no?” I retortedcondescendingly. “Then whatdoyoucall it?”
Her lips pursed as hergaze quickly went from anger to scrutinous. Almost as though she didn’trecognize the man in front of her. To be honest, she’d been looking at me likethat for a while. As though she was married to a stranger.
“You’re hard-working withyour heart set on something.That’swhat I call it. You’re heading towardsomething.One day, you’re going to—”
“Going towhat, Beth?” I snapped, slicing herwords with my verbal knife. “I’ve been doing this for years. Working in mybrother’sshi—”
“The kids can hear you,” she hissed, lowering her voice to a harshwhisper.
Rolling my eyes, Itucked the shirt into my jeans. “I’ve been working in my brother’slousyclub for the past ten years. I’vebeen sending my demos to recording studios all over the country for the pastfifteen. So, at what point,Beth, should I acknowledge that thispipedream isn’t ever happening? Huh? At what point am I supposed to accept thatI’m just not meant to do this?”
“You never know whenit’s going to happen,Jon,” she reasoned,crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I mean, you hear about it all thetime, right? Sometimes people get discovered on … on YouTube, or um, Instagram,and they get crazy famous overnight. And—”
“And sometimes itdoesn’t happen at all,” I finished her sentence, earning myself a glare fromher brown eyes. They showed disappointment, anger and sadness, all blendedtogether. All to make me feel like the worst human being on the planet. “Aren’tyou tired of this? Aren’t you sick of waiting for something to happen? BecauseI am, Beth. I am so, so sick and tired, of watching you workthreejobs just to keep our heads abovewater.Ishould be the one providingfor this family instead of playing a stupid piano every singlefreakin’ night.Me.So, to return to the beginning of this conversation, yes, Iama selfish man.”
Determined to have thefinal word, I snatched my backpack of chord charts and sheet music from the bedand moved around her into the kitchen to make my customary before-show dinnerof a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Because that’s all we could afford,especially since having Annabel six months ago. I thought two kids had beenrough on our very limited income, but three? Three seemed to be the strawbreaking our proverbial camel’s back.
It drove me crazy tothink that our beautiful, third baby girl could be the catalyst to destroy oursmall and poor, but otherwise happy, life. But there was no denying that Bethand I hadn’t gone a single day without fighting since bringing her home, andit’d only gotten worse since Beth went back to work.
I wasn’t blind and Icertainly was not oblivious to the severity of her exhaustion. I knew thatworking three jobs and caring for three girls under the age of four was wearingher down and beating her up. It wasn’t supposed to be this way and never forthis long. Through college, through the early years of our marriage? Fine. Butnow? With a growing family still living in the same shabby apartment we startedrenting when we first moved in together? No. That was unacceptable.
It was shameful. It wasselfish.
“Don’t you dare,” Bethcame from behind me, stomping her feet into the kitchen. She walked around toface me, poking a finger into the center of my chest. “Don’t you dare act likeI didn’t know what I was getting into when I married you. Don’t youdareact like I didn’t make achoice. Wechosethistogether, Jon,and I willnotput up with you givingup.I’veput up with too much for youto justgive up.”
She stood there,waiting for my reply, but I kept my lips sealed as I assembled myunappetizing-looking sandwich. I stayed silent, deciding what exactly I wasgoing to say to her before I then let my frustration fuel my exit, and shecontinued to wait.
As I threw thecellophane-wrappedPB&J into my oldJansport,I looked to her with one question: “Beth, are you happy?”
Stunned, she tightenedher arms around herself. “How can you ask me that?”
“It’s a simple yes orno question,” I replied, softening my tone.
“It’s not, though.” Hereyes wouldn’t meet mine, and there was more truth in that than in any of thewords she was saying. “There are things I’d change, sure. I mean,nobodyis completely satisfied in theirlives, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you—”
“That’s not what Iasked,” I interrupted gently. “I asked if you’rehappy.”
She stepped forward andflattened her palm to my chest, right over my heart. “I wouldn’t trade you forthe world.”
I was about to tell herthat she still hadn’t answered the question. I was about to ask why she couldn’tjust give me a straightyesorno. But before I could say anything, shelifted on her toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of my mouth and said,“You’regonnabe late.”
I nodded begrudgingly.“Godforbid.”
“I have a headache,”she told me in a voice that all at once sounded defeated and faint. “I’llprobably be asleep by the time you get home. So, tell me you love me and tellme goodnight.”
I returned her kiss, pressingmy lips to hers, in some desperate need to remind myself of why I needed to tellmy brother that I had to quit. Because while I loved the piano, I loved my wifeand kids so,somuch more.
“Get some rest,” Isaid, touching my forehead to hers. “I love you forever, Beth. Goodnight.”
CHAPTER ONE
