I think punching her in the stomach would have hurt less than the words I just said, but she takes it on the chin. “I know.”

  “Pack a bag for a few days,” I say as a plan forms in my head. One triggered by the pictures I just looked at. “Till everything dies down some at least. Call McMann. Ask for some time off—”

  “No need to. He fired me this morning for fraternizing with a client,” she says quietly.

  “Christ.” I feel helpless. The fucker fired her because of me. Fired her because of something she didn’t do. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him. I’ll leave the agency so there’s no conflict of interest. I’ll—”

  “Right now, all I care about is getting Jagger out of here. He’s my only priority.”

  “Okay.” That word feels so utterly inadequate.

  “I’ll go pack.” She turns and goes down the short hallway. A part of me wants to follow her, to see where Jagger sleeps, to run a hand over his things, while another part of me questions how I can even think that.

  I turn back to the photos, reaching out instinctively to touch them as if I want to insert myself into the memory.

  “It wasn’t an easy decision for her. You need to know that.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t,” I say to Cathy but don’t turn to face her.

  “She tried for months to get ahold of you. Your road manager tried to pay her off after you blocked her. She was certain of two things. That she was keeping the baby and that he was made out of love.”

  Tears burn and threaten. I clear my throat. “That was the past, Cathy. I can’t change that. But I’ve been here for weeks now. Weeks where Bristol and I’ve spent time together and she still opted not to tell me. I had a right to know.”

  “You did. I told her as much. And then she showed me a few interviews you gave. Rolling Stone was the one I remember the most. You talked about—”

  “Fatherhood.” Fuck. “I said something about how I’d rather be sterile than ever take a chance at being a father.”

  That’s on you, Jennings. One hundred percent on you.

  When I face Cathy, lines of concern and worry are etched in her expression. Did my mom ever care enough about me to have that look on her face?

  “Has it been hard for her?” I ask the question, needing to hear the answer I already know. Needing to be punished for being who I am. For saying the things I said. For being such a chickenshit about how I felt about her that I blocked her number. That I caused this.

  She nods. “She put her dreams on hold for a new dream she never expected to have happen yet. She refuses monetary help. She . . . you know how stubborn she can be.”

  “You worry about her.”

  “Every day.” She smiles softly. “She burns the candle at both ends all the time. She doesn’t want to give up on her dream so she can prove to Jagger that it doesn’t matter how old you are, you can still accomplish it. At the same time, she feels guilty for missing so much time with him because of work, that she tries to be super mom in all other aspects. I wouldn’t be a good momma if I didn’t worry.”

  “I’m going to take them away for a couple of days. Then what? I don’t know. You’re welcome to come. I know if you stay here that you’ll be harassed too.”

  “I’ll be fine. You three need this time to . . . do whatever it is that you decide to do.” She looks down at my hands where I’m holding a picture of Jagger. I didn’t even realize I picked it up. “You’re a good man, Vincent. Your parents don’t make you who you are, but sometimes they can make you think you are who you aren’t.”

  Shuffling down the hall has my complete attention, and when I look, I swear to fucking God, my heart balls up in my chest.

  “Excuse the boots,” Bristol says as Jagger clomps his way down the hall in a pair of oversized cowboy boots. “We’re going through this is my favorite phase.”

  “Hi,” Jagger says, waving the hand of his that’s not holding his mom’s.

  “Cool boots, dude.”

  He looks down at them and then back at me from where he’s hiding partially behind Bristol’s hip. “Momma says we’re going on a little trip with you.”

  “Just for a few days.” I squat so I’m down on his level.

  “She said I can’t bring my guitar. It’s too big.”

  “There are guitars where we’re going. Maybe I can give you that lesson you wanted.”

  He nods, his teeth in his bottom lip, and steps out a little farther. “Mmkay.”

  “How are we going to get through all of that?” Bristol asks and lifts her chin, meaning the paparazzi.

  “I bet you like to play hide and seek, don’t you?” I ask Jagger and get a nod in response. He smiles and it takes me a second to find my voice. “I bet you’re good at it.”

  “Momma can never find me.”

  “So that means you’re really good. So here’s what’s going to happen. We have to go outside to the car, but all of those people are out there.”

  “They’re scary.”

  “They are. That’s why we’re going to play hide and seek.” I look around the room and spot a blanket on the couch. “I’m going to carry you out to the car while you hide under this blanket so no one can see you.”

  “Do you think it will work?” he asks.

  “I know it will. But while you’re under there, I want you to plug your ears because it’s going to get really loud for a few seconds. Can you do that for me?”

  He nods as Cathy grabs the blanket for us.

  “You ready?” I ask as I pick him up without thinking. But the minute he’s in my arms, legs wrapped around my waist, hands clasped together at the back of my neck, I freeze. The enormity of who I am holding hits me. He looks at me, fluttered lashes and rosy cheeks, and I struggle to breathe.

  My son.

  “Blanket?” I ask, my voice breaking on the syllables, as I turn my face from his so he doesn’t see the tears in my eyes. But Bristol does. She just holds my gaze, a well of emotion in her eyes that I don’t have time to unravel.

  But I know one thing—I’ll never forget the look in her eyes or the expression on her face for as long as I live.

  Jagger giggles as Cathy puts the blanket over his head, and he rests his head on my shoulder, his arms holding tighter.

  “Cover your ears, buddy,” Cathy says as she rubs a hand over his blanket clad back.

  “Ready?” I ask Bristol. When I see her nod, I open the door and step out into the chaotic abyss. Shouts, requests, and flashes rain down on us as I push through them to get to the SUV. Instinct has me reaching back for Bristol’s hand to make sure she’s okay.

  We fight our way to the SUV. To open the door. To get both Jagger and Bristol in the back seat before I make my way to the driver’s side.

  I know once I start driving that some will give chase. I know others have already called coworkers to tell them we’re on the move.

  All questions are ignored. I just keep my head down until I have the car started and am pulling out of the neighborhood.

  “Good job, Jenzo,” Bristol says, ruffling his hair after she makes sure his seatbelt is fastened.

  “Jenzo?” I ask.

  Her eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Jagger Enzo Matthews.”

  Vincent.

  Vincenzo.

  Enzo.

  Jagger Enzo.

  Another piece of me she gave our son. Something else I may have never known.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Bristol

  The reflection of the sun off the lake causes prisms to dance all over the kitchen.

  Sun kisses.

  Isn’t that what Jagger called them yesterday when he sat here and tried to count them before erupting into a fit of giggles when I shifted and one landed squarely on my face?

  Memories.

  We’re making memories here. The kind of memories that come when you’re removed from your everyday norm and have the chance to be mindful of every minute of your time. Memories that Jagger is no worse for wear from but that feel so very bittersweet to me since I’m on the outside looking in.

  It’s been three days since we left my house, hopped on a private plane, and arrived here at Lake Chelan in Washington.

  Vince’s house here is overwhelming in size. A huge great room is the main focal point and from it, halls branch out on either side with every room a wall of windows so as not to miss the lake’s crystal-blue water. It’s a mixture of modern and minimalist that somehow fits together.

  Then there’s the property itself with its massive lawn, a sizeable pool, and a deck out over the water.

  Add to that it’s completely private with a gated entrance and state-of-the-art security system . . . and so far, no paparazzi sitting in trees with telephoto lenses.

  The privacy and space have given me nothing but time to think. It doesn’t help that Simone’s texts are still coming fast and furious. About me holding out on her when it came to Vince. About what utter bullshit it is that McMann fired me. About everything I kept secret from her.

  But at least I can now confide in her, even if it’s just to know that someone else is there for me in this time of absolute chaos.

  I’m out of a job. Isn’t that what I feared happening all along? And now that it really has, there’s not much I can do from where I’m sitting, hiding out in the Washington wilderness.

  So I’ve had to put my job hunt on the backburner—the worry, the anger, the confusion—because all that matters right now is making sure that Jagger is okay. That he thinks this little vacation is simply that—a trip with Mommy’s new friend, instead of an escape from all the crazy people who were at our house.

  And I’ve yet to even be able to explain that to him. But I need to figure it out because no doubt the question will come again.

  In the meantime, Jagger is having the time of his life. He’s never had a yard this large to roam free around, to stage imaginary battles on, and a pool to swim in whenever he wants.

  For him this is heaven. He gets me without work or school. He gets the outdoors and some freedom. And he gets to play with his newfound friend.

  And that newfound friend of Jagger’s, Vince, has caused nothing but complete and utter misery for me.

  Not because of what he has done, but more because of what he hasn’t—which is essentially disregard me unless he has to interact with me.

  Three days is a long time to live with the silent treatment. To try and act like everything is normal for your six-year-old, while hoping your next interaction with Vince will be the catalyst to finally open the lines of communication.

  Because we do need to talk. Correction, I need to talk. To explain. To justify my reasons and everything else in between. This waiting is killing me, and the few times I’ve caught Vince looking at me, hurt radiates like an aura around him.

  The studio on the second floor is where he goes when he’s not spending time with Jagger. When he’s there, avoiding me, a mixture of sounds will escape the open windows and float down to us where we sit in the yard. But it’s the lyrics I can’t make out, and they are what I want to hear the most. I have a feeling they might be my only window into what Vince is feeling inside.

  A sun kiss hits my face again, much like yesterday, and snaps me from my thoughts and back to the matter at hand—getting the snacks Jagger requested for our picnic.

  With hands full, I head back outside to where he’s building a Lego set at an outdoor table. But when I turn the corner, my feet stop working and my heart flips in my chest. Vince and Jagger are sitting side by side on the outdoor wicker couch with matching acoustic guitars resting across their laps.

  Vince is patiently explaining hand positioning and helping put Jagger’s little hands in the right place.

  “Like this,” Vince says and plays a few chords. Jagger looks down and tries the same, then makes a sound when he can’t get it right. “Don’t get frustrated. There are a lot of moving parts. I’m here to help you.”

  Jagger looks up at Vince, at his dad, and the absolute trust in his eyes, his unjaded innocence, has tears welling in my eyes.

  “Come here. Let me show you.” Vince sets down his guitar, and then picks up Jagger and moves him onto his lap. From there, he wraps his arms around Jagger’s arms and hands so he can help him.

  Even from here, I can see that Vince is doing all the work as a few chords are played, but the gasped shock and grin of pride on Jagger’s face owns every part of my soul.

  And if that didn’t get me in the feels, after they’re done, when Vince sets Jagger back beside him and asks him to play with him—and they both hold their heads at the same angle and purse their lips in the same way—that would have.

  What I’d do to have a photo of this. To be able to capture this moment and put it in a frame to place among all the others I have at home.

  But I don’t want to move and chance ruining the moment. Nor do I think I’d be able to walk away and risk seeing it with my own eyes.

  As they play, as Jagger looks down, concentrating like I’ve never seen him concentrate before, Vince happens to look up and meet my stare.

  There are a host of emotions in his eyes—all of which would be conjecture for me to guess. But one thing is clear, my decisions have robbed much from both the men in my life that I love.

  Time.

  Memories.

  Moments.

  Mentorship.

  Love.

  The question is, if I had to do it all over again, would I have done it differently knowing what I know now?

  I don’t know.

  I just don’t know.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Bristol

  I head toward Jagger’s room, uncertain what the sound I just heard was. Did he have a bad dream? Did he have to go potty but is scared of the boogeyman under the bed who might grab his feet when he jumps down?

  He’s in this big, unfamiliar house with different shadows and creaks than he’s used to. It’s normal for any kid to be a little skittish at that.

  But when I reach his room, see his door ajar, and peek in, I find Vince there. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, hand on Jagger’s back and eyes fixed there.

  How many times had I dreamt to have a moment like this? To see Vince with our son? To watch them interact? To realize what mirror images they are of each other and be a little jealous of it at the same time?

  To see the love he has for our son even if he can’t or won’t acknowledge it himself?

  Oh, Vince. What are you thinking? What are you feeling? Please talk to me. Please yell at me. Please do whatever you have to do—write a song telling me what a piece of shit I am—just to get it all out so we can start somewhere and figure out the next foot forward.

  I take a step backward to leave him be, but my movement must catch his attention. He looks up to me before rising and heading out of the room. I stand there, hoping maybe this will be the time to talk to him. The time for healing to start somehow.

  But he closes the door softly and says, “I’m going to work in the studio.”

  “Vince . . .” His name is a plea, but it’s met with a dead stare before he turns on his heels and heads down the hall to his studio without another word.

  I scramble after him and follow him into the studio, blocking the door with my hand when he shuts it as if I’m not there. “You have to talk to me at some point. You have to—”

  “I don’t have to do shit,” he says as he starts messing with the small soundboard he has in there, his back to me, his ability to ignore me frustrating as fucking hell.

  “Yes. You do,” I say and glance over my shoulder to the open door, worried about Jagger hearing this. “At some point, we need to get it all out.”

  “You want to fight?” he shouts and then stalks over to the door and shuts it soundly. “Let’s fucking fight. You’re in a soundproof studio, Bristol. Jagger can’t hear us, so let’s get it all out. Maybe it’ll make you feel better, but I think it’ll take a long fucking time for me to get there.”

  “We have to talk. We have a son together—”

  “You’re goddamn right we do,” he thunders as he turns on me and gets in my face. “We have a son.” The words are gritted out. The tendons in his neck taut. The hurt he feels almost palpable. “A son you neglected to tell me about, so don’t you tell me what we do or don’t have to do because you lost every right the minute you fucking lied to me.”

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “Uh-huh. Not telling me is the same in my book.”

  “But I tried. I fucking tried. I called you. I texted you. And I called you again and again. You’re the one who blocked me. You’re the one who checked out—”

  “Because it hurt too goddamn much, Bristol. Don’t you get that?” He hangs his head and shakes it. The pain in those words rips into me. “It hurt so fucking much to see you, to get a fucking taste of what could have been, and to know I couldn’t have it.”

  “That’s on you, Vincent. Not on me. You’re the one who walked away every fucking time. Not me.”

  “So it’s my fault?” He throws his arms out and chuckles. “You want to blame me? Blame me. You want to hate me? Hate me. But don’t throw stones in fucking glass houses if you don’t like picking up shattered pieces of glass that you helped break. You made decisions that had everything to do with me, so don’t act like you fucking didn’t.”

  “You’re right. I did.” I step into him, my finger jabbing him in the chest. “And I’d do the same damn fucking thing again if I had to. I’d pick Jagger over you every day of every week because he’s there. He’s mine. And no one can ever take him from me.” I turn my back to him and walk to the window. I meet his eyes through the reflection, my own courage not strong enough to say these next words to him face-to-face. “He was the only part of you I had left, Vince. The only part of the only man I’ve ever loved who didn’t think he was enough to love me himself.” My voice breaks and the first tears fall, but I don’t care. All I care about is the years of hurt and worry and second-guessing finally being over.