“Yeah, but I didn’t handle it well.”
“That’s also how that usually works.”
I glance down at the guitar.
“My head got big,” I admit. “My priorities got… messy.”
“Messy is a generous word.”
“I’m being kind to my past self.”
“You shouldn’t.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“Fair.”
Jesse crawls over and climbs into my lap without warning, settling there like he’s always belonged.
Which—
Gods.
That still hits me every time.
I adjust the guitar awkwardly to keep from smacking him with it.
“Careful,” I mutter. “This thing is not child-proof.”
“Strong,” he says, flexing his tiny arms.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
Tilda watches us, something soft flickering in her expression.
“You’re good with him,” she says.
The words catch me off guard.
“I’m trying,” I reply.
“It shows.”
I swallow.
Because that matters more than anything.
More than the music.
More than the fame.
More than?—
Everything.
Jesse taps the guitar.
“Play.”
