Click.

  Bittersweet happiness in his eyes.

  Seven presents—one for each year he missed.

  “If you’re not going to tell me your wish, then what should you do to get them?” Vince asks, the slipped guard he let me see, he let me capture, now firmly back in place, replaced with a grin for Jagger.

  “Tackle hugs,” Jagger says and launches himself at Vince so that he falls backward. They erupt in a tickle fest.

  Click. Vince’s arms wrapped around Jagger. His face buried in the curve of his neck. His eyes welled with tears. His smile, one I think I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

  Cake is followed by opening presents, by then playing with presents (riding his new bike everywhere), and then a quick FaceTime to my mom and dad so Jagger could talk a million miles a minute, telling them all about his presents and that he now knows how to drive a boat.

  It killed me not being able to share his birthday in person with them this year, but they both graciously didn’t tell me how hard it was for them. They both know how important this time is for me, for Jagger, and for the possibility of our future.

  I did catch my dad giving a little look to Vince though, before he ended the session. The kind of look that says don’t fuck this up or you’ll have to answer to me.

  The family FaceTime party was then followed by a campfire and s’mores on the back deck. The last thing Jagger needed was more sugar, but his one wish was a campfire under the stars so a campfire he was going to get.

  The s’mores were Vince’s idea. No doubt he’s never had to wipe heated marshmallow off a squirmy kid’s face and hands, but he handled it like a pro by making a game of it.

  “This has been the best birthday, ever!” Jagger says, the sugar hitting him soundly by the way he can’t sit still.

  “It has?” Vince and I ask in unison.

  Jagger nods emphatically. “Why’d you get me so many presents?” Jagger asks Vince.

  “Jagger,” I admonish. “The words are thank you, not—”

  “It’s cool. He can ask,” Vince says.

  “So why did you? I usually get one or two, but you got me seven. SEVEN.”

  Vince chuckles. “Because you’re seven, buddy, and as your d—” Vince stops himself as my heart skips a beat. He clears his throat and shakes his head, almost as if he can’t believe how easy that was to say. “As your best buddy, I get the right to spoil you. Seven presents for seven years.”

  Buddy. The word sounds so strained. The struggle on Vince’s face real.

  The word he almost spoke, the most real of all.

  He looks up at me over Jagger’s head and smiles. It’s a tentative smile that hides truths I’m desperate to know . . . but at least he’s showing them to me.

  More baby steps.

  Each day that passes, every moment that’s spent, our relationships are building. Vince and Jagger’s. Vince and mine. The three of us together.

  This feels right, Shug.

  It sure as hell does.

  “I’m gonna go put this stuff up in my room,” Jagger says, interrupting our connection.

  “Your bike can stay down here,” I say to which I get a very teenagerish roll of his eyes. I’m definitely not ready for that yet. “Do you need help?”

  “Nope. I got it.” He loads his arms up with a Lego set, a new game to play, and some guitar picks among other things. He hits the house and turns back. “Hey, Momma?”

  “Yeah, bud?”

  “I hope we never leave here,” he says before walking into the house and shutting the door.

  Me too. This bubble away from the outside world is magical. Me-freaking-too.

  I stare at the shut door because it’s so much easier to look there than to meet the weight of Vince’s stare.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. “For making his birthday special.” For this time. For . . . the forgiveness I hope you’ll grace me with.

  “No need to thank me.” In my periphery, I can see him shift in his seat. It moves him a bit closer to me so he can grab another piece of wood to toss on the fire.

  “Yes, there is. You didn’t have to buy him presents.”

  “I have seven years to make up for.”

  His words are there but they don’t feel as cutting as I’d expect. They feel resigned and resolved, if there even is such a thing. “I know, but you didn’t have to make up for anything. The last thing I want is for you to think that I—”

  “Stop talking.” His lips are on mine and his hands cradle my face in that way that I love. The way that has always made me feel like I’m his whole world.

  I should be surprised by the action, but I’m not. It feels so real, so natural, so perfect, so us.

  I don’t let my heart begin to hope, but rather I simply let myself enjoy the moment. Enjoy him and the simplicity of being in front of a fire and under the stars with a man I’ve always loved, regardless of the shitty circumstances life has thrown at us.

  His kiss is soft and tender. A touch of tongues. A few brushes of lips. Short and brief . . . but the meaning behind it is so much more poignant than I have ever felt before.

  When the kiss ends, I reach my hand up to his cheek and meet his eyes. He speaks before I can overthink everything.

  “We’re figuring this out, Shug. At our own pace. In our own way. We’ll figure this out.”

  The quick inhale of breath has the two of us jumping back and looking to meet Jagger’s wide-eyed stare.

  “Jagg?” Shit. What do I say? What do I do?

  “I knew it,” he says and laughs with a carelessness that I’ve rarely heard from him.

  “Knew what?” I ask as Vince chuckles under his breath.

  “That you wanted to be boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  I sputter for a response. A responsible response that won’t get his hopes up for something that might not happen—especially with our history.

  “Vince looks at you like the way people do on Nana’s shows.” He makes a blech sound. “The ones where sometimes she has to cover my eyes so I don’t see things I’m not old enough to see yet.”

  “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. Vince just laughs until he doubles over to hide it. “You’re not helping.” I jab him with my elbow.

  “Sorry. Your face though. That expression is priceless,” he says and then tries to have a stern expression before he turns to Jagger. “You okay with that?”

  “Vince, you just can’t—”

  “Yeah. I’m cool with it,” Jagger says and then fist-bumps Vince like he’s sixteen years old.

  “See?” Vince says. He stands and grins, proud of himself for handling the situation. “You ready for me to show you how to pop a wheely on your bike?”

  “But it’s dark out,” Jagger says, grabbing Vince’s hand like it’s so natural. Like we didn’t just have the conversation we had, and he didn’t just see us kissing.

  “Don’t ever let the dark spoil your fun. That’s what lights are for.”

  I stare after them, a huge grin on my lips, and feel settled for the first time in weeks.

  This just might work out.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Vince

  “Things couldn’t look better,” Greta, my contact at Sony Music, says. “The single is killing it. Rising up the charts. Getting more airtime each day.”

  “Just as we anticipated,” Xavier chimes in on the conference call. “When can we expect you back? You need to be visible right now and escaping off to the wilderness isn’t helping that.”

  Neither does you firing Bristol. But circling back to that hasn’t happened yet, you dick. It will. It will or I might just be heading back to CMG.

  “I’m busy writing the rest of the songs for the album. I’m sure Greta won’t complain about that.”

  “Not in the least,” she says.

  “I’m planning to write a solid fifteen that we can pick from. I also have some others from Steven,” I say, mentioning a well-known songwriter, “if we need something more that I don’t have.”

  She whistles. “You’ve been a busy man.”

  “I’ve gotten my muse back,” I say and look out the studio window to the empty yard below. I rise and stick my head out to see if I can see Bristol and Jagg, but they’re nowhere to be found.

  Is it normal to feel that punch to the gut of worry? To wonder if they’re okay even when you know they are because your property is a freaking fortress of security?

  “Right, Vince?”

  “I’m sorry. What was that?” I ask, forcing myself back to the conversation and out of my own irrational head.

  “I said, music to my ears,” Greta says through a laugh. “Quite literally. But Xavier is right. We do need some face time with you. I’ll be out in Los Angeles next week. Can you arrange to meet up? Even if for a bit?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I say.

  “I need more than that,” Xavier says. “I need to know you’re going to be here so I can plan some additional meetings for you. Press junket. Whatnot.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Fine.” I force myself to pause and remember that Greta had nothing to do with Xavier firing Bristol.

  “I know there has been some . . . upheaval in your life as of late,” Greta says, “but the time is appreciated since we want to hit this hard while your visibility is trending.”

  “Work comes first,” I say, but for the first time in my life, when I hang up the phone, it doesn’t feel that way.

  Normally after a call like that, I’d be buckling down to clean up lyrics and perfect some of the melodies. I’d forget the hours, hell, even forget what day it is, and not surface until what needs to be done is done.

  So why am I tossing my cell on the desk in front of me and walking out of my studio to see what Bristol and Jagger are up to?

  Why does something feel more important than the music for the first time in my life?

  Talk about something different to wrap my head around.

  They’re not in the game room. Not in Jagger’s room. Not in the front yard. I’m just about to call their names when I walk into the great room and find them.

  Bristol is lying on the couch with Jagger spooned in front of her. A book that I assume they were reading is on the floor in front of them.

  My whole world.

  The thought comes into my mind and settles there like there’s always been a place for it. Like it’s completely meant to be.

  But how can I think that? How can I make that one-eighty? I knew the high school version of Bristol inside and out. Her favorite foods. Her pet peeves. Her annoying habits. I loved her till it hurt. I loved her so much I walked away from her.

  But I don’t really know the version of her that’s asleep with our son in her arms. Does she still have the pet peeves and annoying habits she did back when she was seventeen? Is she still afraid of heights but doesn’t mind going on amusement park rides that go upside down? Does she love tomato sauce but hate tomatoes?

  It’s the little things I don’t know, that I haven’t thought much about. The bigger picture has overshadowed everything.

  But do those little things really fucking matter, Vin?

  We’ve loved each other for close to fifteen years. She’s still fighting for me. She still loves me despite every fucking shortcoming—and there are a lot.

  It’s natural to question the whys and the hows, but how about I just accept that it is? That we can be. That we are. And move the fuck forward.

  Funny thing is, I think I already have. These days and nights here have been some of the best of my life outside of my professional highlights. I’m not just getting to know Jagger, but I’m getting to know Bristol too. That doesn’t say shit about the things I’m learning about myself.

  I’m not just growing to love my son, but I’m also falling head over heels in love with Bristol when I already thought I was.

  I’m finding out, I was nowhere close before.

  The love I have for them is so intense that I wake up some nights from the tightness in my chest and move from room to room, simply to watch them sleep.

  Just to make sure they’re not a dream.

  Just to make sure they’re still there.

  Just to make sure I haven’t fucked up this time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Bristol

  “Is this what it’s like to have a daddy?”

  Jagger’s words stay in my head long after sleep catches him, but eludes me.

  Maybe it is.

  Such a lame response for a mom who was completely caught off guard. For a mom who felt the guilt lance through her for robbing him of it. For not being able to tell him the truth when a similar reasoning is what got her in this situation.

  “Can’t sleep?”

  I look over my shoulder to where Vince stands on the opposite side of the room. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, an intense look in his eyes, and nothing else.

  “Not tonight, no. Done working?” I ask. Normally he spends the days with Jagger and me and then works all night while everyone sleeps. A part of me thinks the routine helps him avoid having to talk about the hard stuff with me. The other part of me has stood at that closed studio door, fist raised to knock, needing Vince in more ways than one.

  It’s hard to be content with a few kisses here and there when your body knows what his can do to yours.

  “No work tonight.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  He walks across the room to where I’m sitting and was staring out the window. “There are other things that are way more important. Things I’ve been neglecting. Matches I was figuring out how to stay lit long after they are supposed to burn out.”

  “Vince. I . . .”

  “This feels right. You. Me. Jagger. More right than any part of me feels I deserve to have. But . . . I’m working on it. On me. On realizing that my past doesn’t have to be my future.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t.”

  “I’ve spent my whole life loving the idea of you but have never allowed myself the reality of it. Of there being an us.” He looks down for a beat, and it looks like the weight of the world that has been heavy on his shoulders these past few weeks has lessened. “You’re right, you know.”

  “Be careful,” I tease. “Those four words might come back to bite you in the butt at some point.”

  He offers me a bittersweet smile and nods. “I had every intention of sleeping with you while I was here and then going back to my regularly scheduled life when I left. But what was easy in concept was fucking brutal to actually do. I don’t know if it’s because of the time that’s passed or that we’ve both gotten older, matured, but fuck, letting you go that night—on your porch—was the hardest goddamn thing I’ve ever done. It broke me in a way that I’m more than certain I’ve broken you in the past. It was like I was in a tank of oxygen and yet I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

  I nod, understanding exactly how he felt.

  “But I had to walk away. Because that’s what you wanted. Because that’s the chickenshit I was. Because that’s who my dad tried to persuade me I was . . . so much so that I believed it.”

  “Then Jagger happened,” I whisper, and he nods.

  “Then Jagger happened.” He glances toward the stairs where our son sleeps and gives a subtle head shake. “I struggled with the enormity of the situation. And as much as I hate the fucking press for scaring the two of you, I’m so goddamn grateful they did because it gave us this time here. It forced me to be here when history dictates I might have run the other way.”

  He says the words, makes the confession, but in my heart of hearts, and after seeing him now with Jagger—in hindsight—I know he never would have. How much I would have given to know this before though.

  “I know you want promises and assurances, and you deserve every single one of them . . . but I can’t give them yet. That doesn’t mean they aren’t there, though. They are. They’re beside how I feel about you and how I feel about Jagger. They’re just harder for me to put words to because of me. Because of the shit I need to sort through when it comes to myself. But the fact that I’m working on them when I’ve never cared to before . . . I’m hoping that will tide you over until I can say them.”

  He meets my eyes. The raw honesty in both his words and his guileless expression is like a salve to the wounds I’ve been waiting to heal over the past few weeks. Maybe even the past few years.

  He’s working on his demons so he can be a better man for us. A better father. A better lover. A better partner. A better friend.

  They may not have been the words I thought I needed to hear, but they are most definitely the right ones for this moment in time.

  I rise to my feet and reach my hand out in the space between us. Asking. Inviting. Wanting. He draws in a shaky breath but takes it without hesitation.

  I lead the way to the stairs.

  There’s been enough hesitating.

  We walk up them one at a time.

  Enough questioning.

  We move down the hallway.

  Enough wondering.

  We enter his bedroom.

  Now it’s time to show him how he makes me feel. For me to love him with words I can’t express but desperately want to show.

  For me to love him.

  Our lips meet. It’s the simplest of intimate actions. The soft sighs. The tender touches. The cupping of my face and angling of my head to give him more access.

  Every part of me burns for him. My heart with hope. My skin for his touch. The very sweet ache between the delta of my thighs. My soul with the possibility of a future.

  We move in the darkness of the room. No words needed. There is no show of getting undressed this time. No time needed to pause and admire the other. Our bodies are already known to each other. Our hearts already beating as one.

  I scoot back on the bed, our kisses still intense but softer now. Each one reminding us of our past. Of the present. And of our possible future.

  Vince crawls over me as I spread my legs for him. I reach out to touch him, to help him put the condom on. With one elbow pressed beside me and both of our hands encircling his cock, we both guide him into me.

  There’s an effortlessness to us tonight. A sweet resignation of acceptance when for so long there has only been uncertainty. But our bodies don’t know that. Only our heads and hearts do.