Drawing back, I brush my thumbs along her cheeks. “I think I can get his address. Let me make some phone calls.”
I can’t say it won’t take me time to believe I’m truly worthy of either of them, but I’m going to do my best moving forward to make sure they know exactly how I feel about them.
thirty-one
Beau
Months ago, if someone had told me I’d be struggling to make a PB&J sandwich in my kitchen with no job and a tumor in my head, I would have thought they were on drugs.
But here I am, contemplating my mortality at thirty-one years old, wearing a hoodie with holes in it and worn sweats, smearing Smuckers on thefifthpiece of bread I’ve pulled out of the bag and turned into crumbled bits.
Fuck wheat bread, am I right?I could build an empire out of my ruined sandwiches.
Dropping the knife onto the concrete counter, I let my head droop with a heavy sigh. I’m hungry, moody, and more than a little tired. I woke up with the sun, expecting to be surrounded by warmth, inked skin, and citrus scent.
Did I make a mistake leaving?
My heart says yes, throbbing in union with the abnormal growth of tissue eager to break free from my skull like some alien movie.
Ever since I boarded the plane to come home, I’ve been trying to convince myself I’m playing the hero by saving Liam and Stasi from the disaster that’s about to become my life.
Except, no one asked me to pick up the sword.
I bring the heels of my hands to my eyes and press, like I can vanquish the pain in my head. It’s got nothing on the fear of what I stand to lose with this tumor.
What if I never play music again? And if I’m done with music, what do I have left in this world?
The doorbell rings, interrupting my morning huddle on hopelessness. Frustration snaps through me like hot lightning. I told my dad not to come around until my appointment tomorrow with the new neurosurgeon. He’s going to have his hands full with me after surgery. I’d rather he spend the time working the ranch while I’m still capable of taking care of myself.
I haven’t broken the news that I plan on hiring home care. Not sure if he’ll be offended, but that’s a conversation best left for pancakes tomorrow.
Walking toward the security pad in the hallway, I have to laugh at myself for buying such a large house for one person. It was a stupid purchase after Lithos's first album took off. Honestly, I thought it was the next step on the rockstar checklist.
Big ass house?Check.
I’d hoped to fill it with people, but I haven’t been home enough to throw parties or host cookouts, so it feels like a vacant, echoey cave with its bland walls and cold tile floors.
We’re not going to talk about the monthly payments. I’ll look into selling it for real once I deal with the tumor situation. Offloading that debt might relieve the pressure to produce something of quality with my music.
I glance at the camera on the wall system, and my heart stalls.
It can’t be.
Did I have another seizure? Did I hit my head on something? Am I already six feet under and no one’s told me yet?
There’s no other way to explain why Stasi and Liam would be standing outside my privacy gate, suitcases at their sides. Pretty sure I didn’t give them my address, and Phoenix isn’t exactly a small city.
A surge of anxiety rushes through me that my address got leaked somewhere on the internet. I’m not that popular, right?Definitelynot after this last album.
Hitting the button to unlock the gate, I walk to the front door like I’m in some sort of fever dream. When I open it, Stasi runs toward me. The instant she’s in my arms, I’m overcome with relief. My missing pieces aren’t lost. They’re right here. They’re in Phoenix with me.
I haul her off her feet and spin her around in a circle. I fill my lungs with her scent. Then I kiss the soft, warm skin along her neck and shoulder over and over again.
Fuck. This feels right. This is how I should have woken up this morning.
“What are you doing here, sweetheart?” I ask incredulously.
She breaks out of my arms, dropping to her feet. “Talking some sense into you, Beau Whitaker.”
