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That last little bit causes me to smile as I pick up my guitar.
“Wicked White. You’re up,” the stage manager for Summerfest tells the three of us. “Go ahead and take the stage.”
I turn back to where we left Jane Ann and Ace. Jane Ann is throwing her hands around wildly, and Ace is leaning forward, pointing his finger at her. Looks like things aren’t so rosy on the other side of the fence right now.
Tyler is the first to walk out on stage, and the crowd goes insane while Luke and I follow.
We stand on stage with the fans chanting “Wicked White,” and I glance back at the other two guys and shrug. It’s not like Ace to keep fans waiting. He knows that’s bad for business, and Jane Ann certainly does, but from the looks of it, Ace is having second thoughts about performing. It appears that he doesn’t want to come on stage, and Jane Ann is physically shoving him in our direction.
Ace’s jaw hangs open like he’s shocked that Jane Ann just forced him out here. He continues to stare at her as if he’s trying to process exactly what has just gone down.
I nod at Tyler and Luke, and we all begin to play, hoping to get this show on the road so we don’t look clueless in front of the crowd. Tyler taps out the opening song—which is the same one we opened with last night, just like Ace wants. The three of us look to one another because Ace misses his cue to start singing. The fucker hasn’t even picked up the mic yet.
What in the hell is he doing? Is he tr
ying to make us all look like dumbasses who don’t know what we’re doing? I think he’s doing this shit on purpose over the little exchange we had only moments ago.
Finally, Ace turns to face us. He takes the time to stare at each one of us individually with an unreadable face. I knew the guy was an asshole, but now we can add certifiably insane after this show. No wonder Jane Ann gives him his way most of the time.
When he points his gaze on me, his brow furrows like he’s trying to figure me out, and then he jams his fingers into his bronze hair.
I stand still on the stage but continue to play, hoping that whatever it is he’s going through, he figures this shit out fast. In front of a sold-out festival isn’t the time or place to have a breakdown of some sort.
He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them to stare at us while we wait on him to sing. Ace raises both of his hands and flips his middle finger in our direction before he turns on his heel and storms off stage without uttering a single word.
Jane Ann’s jaw drops as he stalks past her, completely ignoring her orders to get back on stage.
With wide eyes I watch as our band’s front man walks away from everything he’s worked for, and in an odd way, I relate to him.
NOW
LONDON
I stare, lost in thought, at the box of chocolates from Julie’s shop, which sits next to a dozen roses on my desk. Today was exhausting, and all I want to do is go home and put my feet up. A glass of wine thrown in there wouldn’t hurt. The kids were really hyper in class today for some reason, and it makes me wonder if tonight will be a full moon or something.
Peyton’s little voice singing “The Wheels on the Bus” while he draws a picture with crayons pulls me out of the trance.
I push myself up from my desk and walk around behind him. He’s drawn a picture of himself holding hands with his mom and dad while baby Brody stands in front of him. Stick people drawings by children are the best. They speak volumes about what the child is feeling.
“That’s really good, Peyton,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he replies as he begins adding another stick figure to the picture.
“Who are you adding in there?” I ask, curious as to who else he pictures in his family.
“You,” he tells me but stays hard at work.
“Me?” I ask, completely surprised. “Why are you adding me to your family picture?”
He stares up at me with his hazel eyes. “Mommy says you don’t have your own family, so I’m making you a part of ours because you and Mommy are friends.”
Warmth envelops my heart and I smile. The sweet words from this small boy truly touch me. Sam is certainly raising this little guy right by teaching him to care about others.
I pull out the chair next to him and sit down as we wait for Sam to show up. “That’s very nice of you, Peyton. I really appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome,” he says as he draws a purple dress on the stick figure that’s supposed to represent me. He grows quiet for a minute, but then he looks up at me. “Mrs. Kraft, will you always be sad?”
I chew on the inside of my lower lip. “Who said I was sad?”
