“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Yes, you do,” Declan says, joining in as backup. “You did it for us before we became who we are. The hits on those YouTube videos are why we blew up so quickly. They’re still huge. You’re real and raw, and you know us. The real us. We don’t want to bring some fake person in who has no idea who we are.”
“I… I can’t,” Layla says softly. “I appreciate the offer, even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure this is out of pity since Bailey knows I’m jobless. I have Felix, and David—” Her phone rings, cutting her off. She glances down at it, her lips turning down into a frown. “I need to get this.” She answers the call and steps away from us. “Yes, this is Felix’s mom… Is he okay? No, absolutely. I’ll be right there. Okay, thank you.”
She hangs up, pockets her phone, and darts her eyes around at each of us. “That was Felix’s school. He’s not feeling well and has a slight fever. I need to go pick him up.”
“Oh, no,” Mom says. “We can continue this another day.”
“That’s okay,” Layla rasps. “There’s nothing to continue. One day, I would love to work with musicians. I would love to make documentaries and music videos, but that can’t be right now. Being a newly single mom means having to put my son first. Like now… going to pick him up from school because he’s sick.
“My life, my priorities, doesn’t meld with that of a rock star’s.” She looks at me, and I feel the double meaning in her words: our lives, even though she knows I’m here for her, knows I’m in love with her, would never work because we’re two different people. She’s a mom, and I’m a musician. Well, fuck that.
“My mom was a single mom when she met my dad. She was putting herself through college when she got pregnant with me. She got through law school with the help of my dad and my aunt Naomi. She didn’t allow being a mom to stop her from doing what she wanted. She and my dad worked it out. She traveled when she could, stayed home when she had to. They handled it. Everyone in this room is your support system. You don’t want to work at Picture Perfect, taking family portraits all day. That’s not who you are. You’re interviewing there because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do. That’s the safe route.”
“I’m doing what’s best for my family,” she says. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” And with a small, sad smile, she walks out the door.
“Well, that didn’t go as planned,” Bailey says. “I honestly thought she would go for it. She had a blast videoing you guys at the concert. I thought we would offer her the job, she would say okay, and we’d sign the papers.”
Dad laughs. “Nothing with women is ever that easy.” He puts his arm around my mom and kisses her temple. “I had to work hard to get this woman to be with me.” He glances at me. “But the best women are usually the hardest to rein in.”
“This isn’t over,” I tell them. “Not by a long shot. I’m only just getting started.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I stand at Layla’s front door, waiting for her to answer. Bailey said to give her time, but I can’t do it. Every time I give her time, she slips through my fingers. I can’t let that happen again.
“Who is it?” a tiny voice says on the other side of the door—her son.
“Camden.”
“Who?”
I chuckle. “Camden Blackwood. We played Sonic together at your grandma’s.”
A second later, the lock clicks, and the door opens, exposing Felix in his pajamas, his brown hair wet like he just took a bath. “Hey, Cam! Are you here to play with me?”
“Felix!” Layla gasps, running down the stairs… in nothing but a damn towel. “Did you just open the door?”
“It’s Cam, Mom. He’s here to play with me.”
“You know better than to open the door for anyone,” she says, kneeling in front of her son. “Only adults can answer the door.”
“But…” He frowns.
“No buts. It’s different here than in Boston. Anybody can knock on the door. You can’t open it unless I say you can.”
“What if it’s Dad?” he asks.
“You don’t open it for anybody,” she says again. “Now, please go lie down.”
“But I’m not sick anymore. I feel good.”
Layla rolls her eyes. “That’s because you just threw up everywhere, so your belly doesn’t hurt right now. But you’re still sick. Go lie down. You can watch a show.”
“Fine.” He sighs, then glances at me. “Can we play when I’m not sick?”
“Sure, bud,” I tell him. “Feel better.”
“I already do,” he grumbles, dragging his feet over to the couch.
“What are you doing here?” Layla asks. When I glance back at her, I’m able to get a good look at her up close. Her hair is up in a loose bun, and her towel is wrapped around her body, being held together with a tight knot that’s nestled in the middle of her breasts. The towel covers all the important parts but stops short, showing off her tanned, creamy thighs.