“Are they actually speculating I’m the band’s groupie?”
If someone screams that to my face, I might just strangle them.
Before closing the door, he pops his face around the doorframe. “Yep, not just for Times Three, but also for Triple Threat.”
The door slams shut just before I get to it, yanking on the handle.
“Don’t be mad at me. I didn’t do it!”
My forehead bounces on the door, and a deep groan leaves my throat.
“Lily, can you grab my phone for me? It’s in my backpack. I forgot to post something. I do my best work on the toilet,” he calls through the door.
“Sure.”
Pushing off the wood, I spot his black backpack on the floor. My fingers fumble with the front pocket, and then my hand finds a small rectangular box. Pulling it out, only because I’m curious, I gasp at what I find.
A box full of cancer sticks.
Cigarettes.
With lungs that feel like they’ve shrunk ten times smaller, I stagger to the bathroom, hand almost crushing the stupid box. His face falls when he opens the door to my pounding and realizes what’s in my hand.
“I haven’t touched those in weeks,” he rushes out at the same time as I say, “You smoke?”
Pushing the door so it’s fully open and not hiding an inch of his body, he pleads, “I used to smoke occasionally whenever I was stressed. To be honest, I didn’t even realize I’d stopped.” Seeing my trembling body, he takes them from my hand and tosses them into the garbage bin. “I promise I haven’t touched them since the beginning of the North American leg.”
“If we’re going to be together, I don’t want you smoking.”
“I won’t even look at another one again.” He grabs my chin and promises me, “Mark my words.”
At a young age, I walked through the cancer ward in the hospital, on my way to visit my sick grandfather, and I learned that health is wealth. If you’re healthy, you’re truly blessed. I’ve lost a lot of people in my life, but I refuse to lose him from cigarettes.
“You only have one body. Please take care of it.” I sniff in his neck.
FORTY-TWO
LILY
Stella’s little fingers are every color of the rainbow. “Miss Papas, what color are we going to make next?”
Yesterday, on our way to Dublin, we got a call from Amelia, with screaming in the back from Stella. We thought the worst, but she’d really just lost her first tooth. After a few hours of cuddles from everyone on the tour, she now loves the front gap in her mouth.
“How about we mix red and blue and see what color it makes?”
I nod in encouragement, and her messy hands grip the paintbrush in a fist as she smears both paints together.
“It’s purple!” she yells, hopefully not waking up Elijah from where he sleeps in his bunk.
I looked up the side effects of getting off his medication, and one effect is drowsiness and being tired all the time.
I can definitely see a difference in his energy level. If he’s not working, he’s lying down and demanding me for cuddles.
He says that’s my job.
A loud, obnoxious yawn coming from our beds causes Stella to stir happily in her seat. She darts off to him before I can attempt to hold her back.
Turning around, I watch her open his curtain, and he juts out his muscular arm before giving a come-here motion.
