So, any story that ran was half-truths or straight-up lies because journalists don’t always write the truth.
The truth is boring.
The truth doesn’t sell like salacious scandals and fights within a band that was once labeled as close as family.
“Just give me some time, and if I do reach out to them and they say no, then I think it’s for the best that I don’t perform,” he says, and now it’s me nodding in agreement.
“I’ll tell Lisa to hold off.”
“But we can still use my name to bring customers to the bakery,” Miles jokes, rolling me over so he’s now straddling my hips.“Might as well get some use out of it, right?”
He leans down, kissing me and letting his forehead rest against mine.We let the silence pass between us, comforting and calming.
“Thanks for helping me navigate this,” he now says.“I do want to play.I miss the fuck out of it, but it’s also super fucked up because of all the bullshit.”
“You’re always welcome to play for an audience of one,” I reply.“And I won’t even ask you to playThe Simple Truth.”
This comment makes Miles let out a chuckle.Pinning my arms above my head, he buries his face in my neck, biting and sucking till I’m squirming around and laughing.
“I don’t think I’ll ever play that song again,” he admits, pulling back from where I’m sure he’s left a mark on my neck.Rolling his eyes, he laughs again.“That fucking song.You know I forgot the lyrics one night, and the audience was legit like, what the fuck?”
“I can’t believe anyone could forget the lyrics.It was played so often that even I got sick of hearing it.”
“Oh,” Miles says, a hand resting over his heart, a pained expression on his face, all exaggerated and over the top.“That hurts, Daze.It really hurts.”
“Stop it,” I quip, swatting at his ass as he climbs off me.“I’m going to take a shower and then head over to the bakery.”
“Sounds good.I’ll meet you over there in a bit.Just need to…” Trailing off, he slowly nods his head.
The floral garland is hanging outside the window of the bakery, all perfectly placed daisies among greenery and pinks and golds.It matches the painted wooden shaker siding and the gold trim, and then there are the words “Coming Soon” painted on the window by Nate’s expert hand.
“Do you think people will get the play on words?”I ask Miles, and he lets out a hearty laugh.
“Seriously, Daze?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“What?You think people will think it’s a garden center?If they don’t know what a homophone is, then they probably don’t know that cupcakes are delicious,” Miles chides, giving my side a pinch.
“A homophone, huh?Guess that island public school education wasn’t so bad,” I reply, both of us beaming.
It’s so fucking crazy that this dream is about to come true.It was made even more real when Nate came by with a gorgeous hand-painted A-frame sign for out front.Something he did as a surprise, taking Sloane’s design, replicating it and adding our opening date to it.
“Wanna get started on those last little details inside?”Miles asks, and just as we’re about to walk in, his phone starts to ring.
Freezing instantly, his eyes go wide.No one calls around here.We are all so close that walking over or shooting off a quick text works.
Miles didn’t tell me whether or not he reached out to the band members when he met me out front to hang the garland.
But his ringing phone and the look on his face say it all.
“I gotta take this,” he tells me, disappearing around the corner, heading toward our house.
Fuck.
“Hello?”
I can hear the question, the hesitation in my voice, even though I know exactly who’s calling and why.I hadn’t expected a phone call—not when I’d been too gutless to make one myself.
